( PDF ) The Psychopathology of Everyday Life

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Sigmund Freud (1901)

Translation by A. A. Brill (1914)

Originally published in London by T. Fisher Unwin.

INTRODUCTION

Professor Freud developed his system of psychoanalysis while studying the so-called

borderline cases of mental diseases, such as hysteria and compulsionneurosis. By

discarding the old methods of treatment and strictly applying himself to a study of the

patient's life he discovered that the hitherto puzzling symptoms had a definite meaning,

and that there was nothing arbitrary in any morbid manifestation. Psychoanalysis always

showed that they referred to some definite problem or conflict of the person concerned. It

was while tracing back the abnormal to the normal state that Professor Freud found how

faint the line of demarcation was between the normal and neurotic person,and that the

psychopathologic mechanisms so glaringly observed in the psychoneuroses and

psychoses could usually be demonstrated in a lesser degree in normal persons. This led

to a study of the faulty actions of everyday life and later to the publication of the

Psychopathology of Everyday Life, a book which passed through four editions in Germany

and is considered the author's most popular work. With great ingenuity and penetration the

author throws much light on the complex problems of human behavior, and clearly

demonstrates that the hitherto considered impassable gap between normal and abnormal

mental states is more apparent than real.

This translation is made of the fourth German edition, and while the original text was

strictly followed, linguistic difficulties often madeit necessary to modify or substitute some

of the author's cases by examples comprehensible to the English-speaking reader.

New York.

A. A. Brill.

CHAPTER 1

Forgetting of Proper Names

During the year 1898 I published a short essay On the Psychic Mechanism of

Forgetfulness.[1] I shall now repeat its contents and take it as a starting-point for further

discussion. I have there undertaken a psychologic analysis of a common case of

temporary forgetfulness of proper names, and from a pregnant example of my own

observation I have reached the conclusion that this frequent and practically unimportant

occurrence of a failure of a psychic function -- of memory -- admits an explanation which

goes beyond the customary utilization of this phenomenon.

If an average psychologist should be asked to explain how it happens that we often fail to

recall a name which we are sure we know, he would probably content himself with the

answer that proper names are more apt to be forgotten than any other content of memory.

He might give plausible reasons for this "forgetting pre- [p. 4] ference" for proper names,

but he would not assume any deep determinant for the process.

I was led to examine exhaustively the phenomenon of temporary forgetfulness through the

observation of certain peculiarities, which, although not general, can, nevertheless, be

seen clearly in some cases. In these there is not only forgetfulness, but also false

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recollection: he who strives for the escaped name brings to consciousness others --

substitutive names -- which, although immediately recognized as false, nevertheless

obtrude themselves with great tenacity. The process which should lead to the reproduction

of the lost name is, as it were, displaced, and thus brings one to an incorrect substitute.

Now it is my assumption that the displacement is not left to psychic arbitrariness, but that it

follows lawful and rational paths. In other words, I assume that the substitutive name (or

names) stands in direct relation to the lost name, and I hope, if I succeed in demonstrating

this connection, to throw light on the origin of the forgetting of names.

In the example which I selected for analysis in 1898 I vainly strove to recall the name of

the master who made the imposing frescoes of the "Last Judgment" in the dome of

Orvieto. Instead of the lost name -- Signorelli -- two other names of artists -- Botticelli and

Boltraffio -- obtruded themselves, names which my judg- [p. 5] ment immediately and

definitely rejected as being incorrect. When the correct name was imparted to me by an

outsider I recognized it at once without any hesitation. The examination of the influence

and association paths which caused the displacement from Signorelli to Botticelli and

Boltraffio led to the following results:--

(a) The reason for the escape of the name Signorelli is neither to be sought in the

strangeness in itself of this name nor in the psychologic character of the connection in

which it was inserted. The forgotten name was just as familiar to me as one of the

substitutive names -- Botticelli -- and somewhat more familiar than the other substitute --

Boltraffio -- of the possessor of which I could hardly say more than that he belonged to the

Milanese School. The connection, too, in which the forgetting of the name took place

appeared to me harmless, and led to no further explanation. I journeyed by carriage with a

stranger from Ragusa, Dalmatia, to a station in Herzegovina. Our conversation drifted to

travelling in Italy, and I asked my companion whether he had been in Orvieto and had

seen there the famous frescoes of --

(b) The forgetting of the name could not be explained until after I had recalled the theme

discussed immediately before this conversation. This forgetting then made itself known as

a [p. 6] disturbance of the newly emerging theme caused by the theme preceding it. In

brief, before I asked my travelling companion if he had been in Orvieto we had been

discussing the customs of the Turks living in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I had related what I

heard from a colleague who was practising medicine among them, namely, that they show

full confidence in the physician and complete submission to fate. When one is compelled

to inform them that there is no help for the patient, they answer: "Sir (Herr), what can I

say? I know that if he could be saved you would save him." In these sentences alone we

can find the words and names: Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Herr (sir), which may be inserted

in an association series between Signorelli, Botticelli, and Boltraffio.

etc., was able to disturb the next thought, because I withdrew my attention from it before it

came to an end. For I recalled that I wished to relate a second anecdote which was next to

the first in my memory. These Turks value the sexual pleasure above all else, and at

sexual disturbances merge into an utter despair which strangely contrasts with their

resignation at the peril of losing their lives. One of my colleague's patients once told him:

"For you know, sir (Herr), if that ceases, life no longer has any charm."

[p. 7] I refrained from imparting this characteristic feature because I did not wish to touch

upon such a delicate theme in conversation with a stranger. But I went still further; I also

deflected my attention from the continuation of the thought which might have associated

itself in me with the theme "Death and Sexuality." I was at that time under the after-effects

of a message which I had received a few weeks before, during a brief sojourn in Trafoi. A

patient on whom I had spent much effort had ended his life on account of an incurable

sexual disturbance. I know positively that this sad event, and everything connected with it,

ads:

did not come to my conscious recollection on that trip in Herzegovina. However, the

agreement between Trafoi and Boltraffio forces me to assume that this reminiscence was

at that time brought to activity despite all the intentional deviation of my attention.

(d) I can no longer conceive the forgetting of the name Signorelli as an accidental

occurrence. I must recognize in this process the influence of a motive. There were motives

which actuated the interruption in the communication of my thoughts (concerning the

customs of the Turks, etc.), and which later influenced me to exclude from my

consciousness the thought connected with them, and which might have led to the

message concerning the incident in [p. 8] Trafoi -- that is, I wanted to forget something, I

repressed something. To be sure, I wished to forget something other than the name of the

master of Orvieto; but this other thought brought about an associative connection between

itself and this name, so that my act of volition missed the aim, and I forgot the one against

my will, while I intentionally wished to forget the other. The disinclination to recall directed

itself against the one content; the inability to remember appeared in another. The case

would have been obviously simpler if this disinclination and the inability to remember had

concerned the same content. The substitutive names no longer seem so thoroughly

justified as they were before this explanation. They remind me (after the form of a

compromise) as much of what I wished to forget as of what I wished to remember, and

show me that my object to forget something was neither a perfect success nor a failure.

(e) The nature of the association formed between the lost name and the repressed theme

(death and sexuality, etc.), containing the names of Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Trafoi, is

also very strange. In the scheme inserted here, which originally appeared in 1898, an

attempt is made to graphically represent these associations.

The name Signorelli was thus divided into two parts. One pair of syllables (elli) returned [p.

[p. 10] unchanged in one of the substitutions, while the other had gained, through the

translation of signor (sir, Herr), many and diverse relations to the name contained in the

repressed theme, but was lost through it in the reproduction. Its substitution was formed in

a way to suggest that a displacement took place along the same associations --

"Herzegovina and Bosnia" -- regardless of the sense and acoustic demarcation. The

names were therefore treated in this process like the written pictures of a sentence which

is to be transformed into a picture-puzzle (rebus). No information was given to

consciousness concerning the whole process, which, instead of the name Signorelli, was

thus changed to the substitutive names. At first sight no relation is apparent between the

theme that contained the name Signorelli and the repressed one which immediately

preceded it.

Perhaps it is not superfluous to remark that the given explanation does not contradict the

conditions of memory reproduction and forgetting assumed by other psychologists, which

they seek in certain relations and dispositions. Only in certain cases have we added

another motive to the factors long recognized as causative in forgetting names, and have

thus laid bare the mechanism of faulty memory. The assumed dispositions are

indispensable also in our case, in order to make it possible for the repressed [p. 11]

element to associatively gain control over the desired name and take it along into the

repression. Perhaps this would not have occurred in another name having more

favourable conditions of reproduction. For it is quite probable that a suppressed element

continually strives to assert itself in some other way, but attains this success only where it

meets with suitable conditions. At other times the suppression succeeds without

disturbance of function, or, as we may justly say, without symptoms.

When we recapitulate the conditions for forgetting a name with faulty recollection we find:

(1) a certain disposition to forget the same; (2) a process of suppression which has taken

place shortly before; and (3) the possibility of establishing an outer association between

the concerned name and the element previously suppressed. The last condition will

probably not have to be much overrated, for the slightest claim on the association is apt in

most cases to bring it about. But it is a different and farther-reaching question whether

such outer association can really furnish the proper condition to enable the suppressed

element to disturb the reproduction of the desired name, or whether after all a more

intimate connection between the two themes is not necessarily required. On superficial

consideration one may be willing to reject the latter requirement and consider the [p. 12]

temporal meeting in perfectly dissimilar contents as sufficient. But on more thorough

examination one finds more and more frequently that the two elements (the repressed and

the new one) connected by an outer association, possess besides a connection in content,

and this can also be demonstrated in the example Signorelli.

The value of the understanding gained through the analysis of the example Signorelli

naturally depends on whether we must explain this case as a typical or as an isolated

process. I must now maintain that the forgetting of a name associated with faulty

recollection uncommonly often follows the same process as was demonstrated in the case

of Signorelli. Almost every time that I observed this phenomenon in myself I was able to

explain it in the manner indicated above as being motivated by repression.

I must mention still another view-point in favour of the typical nature of our analysis. I

believe that one is not justified in separating the cases of name-forgetting with faulty

recollection from those in which incorrect substitutive names have not obtruded

themselves. These substitutive names occur spontaneously in a number of cases; in other

cases, where they do not come spontaneously, they can be brought to the surface by

concentration of attention, and they then show the same relation to the repressed element

and the lost name as those that come [p. 13] spontaneously. Two factors seem to play a

part in bringing to consciousness the substitutive names: first, the effort of attention, and

second, and inner determinant which adheres to the psychic material. I could find the latter

in the greater or lesser facility which forms the required outer associations between the

two elements. A great many of the cases of name-forgetting without faulty recollection

therefore belong to the cases with substitutive name formation, the mechanism of which

corresponds to the one in the example Signorelli. But I surely shall not venture to assert

that all cases of name-forgetting belong to the same group. There is no doubt that there

are cases of name-forgetting that proceed in a much simpler way. We shall represent this

state of affairs carefully enough if we assert that besides the simple forgetting of proper

names there is another forgetting which is motivated by repression.

CHAPTER 2

Forgetting of Foreign Words

The ordinary vocabulary of our own language seems to be protected against forgetting

within the limits of normal function, but it is quite different with words from a foreign

language. The tendency to forget such words extends to all parts of speech. In fact,

depending on our own general state and the degree of fatigue, the first manifestation of

functional disturbance evinces itself in the irregularity of our control over foreign

vocabulary. In a series of cases this forgetting follows the same mechanism as the one

revealed in the example Signorelli. As a demonstration of this I shall report a single

analysis, characterized, however, by valuable features, concerning the forgetting of a

word, not a noun, from a Latin quotation. Before proceeding, allow me to give a full and

clear account of this little episode.

Last summer, while journeying on my vacation, I renewed the acquaintance of a young

man of academic education, who, as I soon noticed, was conversant with some of my

works. In our con- [p. 18] versation we drifted -- I no longer remember how -- to the social

position of the race to which we both belonged. He, being ambitious, bemoaned the fact

that his generation, as he expressed it, was destined to grow crippled, that it was

prevented from developing its talents and from gratifying its desires. He concluded his

passionately felt speech with the familiar verse from Virgil: Exoriare. . . in which the

unhappy Dido leaves her vengeance upon Æneasto posterity. Instead of "concluded," I

should have said "wished to conclude," for he could not bring the quotation to an end, and

attempted to conceal the open gap in his memory by transposing the words: --

"Exoriar(e) ex nostris ossibus ultor!"

He finally became piqued and said: "Please don't make such a mocking face, as if you

were gloating over my embarrassment, but help me. There is something missing in this

verse. How does it read in its complete form?"

"With pleasure," I answered, and cited it correctly: --

"Exoriar(e) aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor!"

"It is too stupid to forget such a word," he said. "By the way, I understand you claim that

forgetting is not without its reasons; I should be very curious to find out how I came to

forget this indefinite pronoun 'aliquis.'"

[p. 19] I gladly accepted the challenge, as I hoped to get an addition to my collection, and

said, "We can easily do this, but I must ask you to tell me frankly and without any criticism

everything that occurs to your mind after you focus your attention, without any particular

intention, on the forgotten word."[1]

"Very well, the ridiculous idea comes to me to divide the word in the following way: a and

liquis."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"What else does that recall to you?"

"The thought goes on to reliques -- liquidation --liquidity -- fluid."

"Does that mean anything to you now?"

"No, not by a long shot."

"Just go ahead."

"I now think," he said, laughing sarcastically, "of Simon of Trent, whose relics I saw two

years ago in a church in Trent. I think of the old accusation which has been brought

against the Jews again, and of the work of Kleinpaul, who sees in these supposed

sacrifices reincarnations or revivals, so to speak, of the Saviour."

"This stream of thoughts has some connection [p. 20] with the theme which we discussed

before the Latin word escaped you."

"You are right. I now think of an article in an Italian journal which I have recently read. I

believe it was entitled: 'What St. Augustine said Concerning Women.' What can you do

with this?"

I waited.

"Now I think of something which surely has no connection with the theme."

"Oh, please abstain from all criticism, and -- "

"Oh, I know! I recall a handsome old gentleman whom I met on my journey last week. He

was really an original type. He looked like a big bird of prey. His name, if you care to know,

is Benedict."

"Well, at least you give a grouping of saints and Church fathers: St. Simon, St. Augustine,

and St. Benedict. I believe that there was a Church father named Origines. Three of these,

moreover, are Christian names, like Paul in the name Kleinpaul."

"Now I think of St. Januarius and his blood miracle -- I find that the thoughts are running

mechanically."

"Just stop a moment; both St. Januarius and St. Augustine have something to do with the

calendar. Will you recall to me the blood miracle?"

[p. 21] "Don't you know about it? The blood of St. Januarius is preserved in a phial in a

church in Naples, and on a certain holiday a miracle takes place causing it to liquefy. The

people think a great deal of this miracle, and become very excited if the liquefying process

is retarded, as happened once during the French occupation. The General in command --

or Garibaldi, if I am not mistaken -- then took the priest aside, and with a very significant

gesture pointed out to him the soldiers arrayed without, and expressed his hope that the

miracle would soon take place. And it actually took place.. . ."

"Well, what else comes to your mind? Why do you hesitate?"

"Something really occurred to me . . . but it is too intimate a matter to impart . . . besides, I

see no connection and no necessity for telling it."

"I will take care of the connection. Of course I cannot compel you to reveal what is

disagreeable to you, but then you should not have demanded that I tell you why you forgot

the word 'aliquis.'"

"Really? Do you think so? Well, I suddenly thought of a woman from whom I could easily

get a message that would be very annoying to us both."

"That she missed her courses?"

"How could you guess such a thing?"

[p. 22] "That was not very difficult. You prepared me for it long enough. Just think of the

saints of the calendar, the liquefying of the blood on a certain day, the excitement if the

event does not take place, and the distinct threat that the miracle must take place. . . .

Indeed, you have elaborated the miracle of St. Januarius into a clever allusion to the

courses of the woman."

"It was surely without my knowledge. And do you really believe that my inability to

reproduce the word 'aliquis' was due to this anxious expectation?"

"That appears to me absolutely certain. Don't you recall dividing it into a-liquis and the

associations: reliques, liquidation, fluid? Shall I also add to this connection the fact that St.

Simon, to whom you got by way of the reliques, was sacrificed as a child?"

"Please stop. I hope you do not take these thoughts -- if I really entertained them --

seriously. I will, however, confess to you that the lady is Italian, and that I visited Naples in

her company. But may not all this be coincidental?"

"I must leave to your own judgment whether you can explain all these connections through

the assumption of coincidence. I will tell you, however, that every similar case that you

analyze will lead you to just such remarkable 'coincidences!'"

I have more than one reason for valuing this [p. 23] little analysis, for which I am indebted

to my traveling companion. First, because in this case I was able to make use of a source

which is otherwise inaccessible to me. Most of the examples of psychic disturbances of

daily life that I have here compiled I was obliged to take from observation of myself. I

endeavoured to evade the far richer material furnished me by my neurotic patients,

because I had to preclude the objection that the phenomena in question were only the

result and manifestation of the neurosis. It was therefore of special value for my purpose to

have a stranger free from a neurosis offer himself as a subject for such examination. This

analysis is also important in other respects, inasmuch as it elucidates a case of word-

forgetting without substitutive recollection, and thus confirms the principle formulated

above, namely, that the appearance or nonappearance of incorrect substitutive

recollections does not constitute an essential distinction.[2]

[p. 24] But the principal value of the example aliquis lies in another of its distinctions from

the case Signorelli. In the latter example the reproduction of the name becomes disturbed

through the after-effects of a stream of thought which began shortly before and was

interrupted, but whose content had no distinct relation to the new theme which contained

the name Signorelli. Between the repression and the theme of the forgotten name there

existed only the relation of temporal contiguity, which reached the other in order that the

two should be able to form a connection [p.25] through an outer association.[3] On the

other hand, in the example aliquis one can note no trace of such an independent

repressed theme which could occupy conscious thought immediately before and then re-

echo as a disturbance. The disturbance of the reproduction proceeded here from the inner

part of the theme touched upon, and was brought about by the fact that unconsciously a

contradiction arose against the wish-idea represented in the quotation.

The origin must be construed in the following manner: The speaker deplored the fact that

the present generation of his people was being deprived of its rights, and like Dido he

presaged that a new generation would take upon itself vengeance against the oppressors.

He therefore expressed the wish for posterity. In this moment he was interrupted by the

contradictory thought: "Do you really wish so much for posterity? That is not true. Just

think in what a predicament you would be if you should now receive the information that

you must expect posterity from the quarter you have in mind! No, you want no posterity --

as much as you need it for your venge-[p. 26] ance." This contradiction asserts itself, just

as in the example Signorelli, by forming an outer association between one of his ideation

elements and an element of the repressed wish, but here it is brought about in a most

strained manner through what seems an artificial detour of associations. Another important

agreement with the example Signorelli results from the fact that the contradiction

originates from repressed sources and emanates from thoughts which would cause a

deviation of attention.

So much for the diversity and the inner relationship of both paradigms of the forgetting of

names. We have learned to know a second mechanism of forgetting, namely, the

disturbance of thought through an inner contradiction emanating from the repression. In

the course of this discussion we shall repeatedly meet with this process, which seems to

me to be the more easily understood.

Footnotes

[1] This is the usual way of bringing to consciousness hidden ideas. Cf. The Interpretation of

Dreams, pp. 83-4, translated by A. A. Brill, The Macmillan Company, New York, and Allen, London.

[2] Finer observation reduces somewhat the contrast between the analyses of Signorelli and

aliquis as far as the substitutive recollections are concerned. Here, too, the forgetting seems to be

accompanied by substitutive formations. When I later asked my companion whether in his effort to

recall the forgotten word he did not think of some substitution, he informed me that he was at first

tempted to put an ab into the verse: nostris ab ossibus (perhaps the disjointed part of a-liquis) and

that later the word exoriare obtruded itself with particular distinctness and persistency. Being

sceptical, he added that it was apparently due to the fact that it was the first word of the verse. But

when I asked him to focus his attention on the associations to exoriare he gave me the word

exorcism. This makes me think that the reinforcement of exoriare in the reproduction has really the

value of such substitution. It probably came through the association exorcism from the names of

the saints. However, those are refinements upon which no value need be laid. It seems now quite

possible that the appearance of any kind of substitutive recollection is a constant sign -- perhaps

only characteristic and misleading -- of the purposive forgetting motivated by repression. This

substitution might also existing the reinforcement of an element akin to the thing forgotten, even

where incorrect substitutive names fail to appear. Thus, in the example Signorelli, as long as the

name of the painter remained inaccessible to me, I had more than a clear visual memory of the

cycle of his frescoes, and of the picture of himself in the corner; at least it was more intensive than

any of my other visual memory traces. In another case, also reported in my essay of 1898, I had

hopelessly forgotten the street name and address connected with a disagreeable visit in a strange

city, but -- as if to mock me --the house number appeared especially vivid, whereas the memory of

numbers usually causes me the greatest difficulty.

[3] I am not fully convinced of the lack of an inner connection between the two streams of thought

in the case of Signorelli. In carefully following the repressed thought concerning the theme of death

and sexual life, one does strike an idea which shows a near relation to the theme of the frescoes of

Orvieto.

CHAPTER 3

Forgetting of Names and Order of Words

Experiences like those mentioned concerning the process of forgetting apart of the order

of words from a foreign language may cause one to wonderwhether the forgetting of the

order of words in one's own language requiresan essentially different explanation. To be

sure, one is not wont to besurprised if after awhile a formula or poem learned by heart can

only bereproduced imperfectly, with variations and gaps. Still, as this forgettingdoes not

affect equally all the things learned together, but seems to pickout therefrom definite parts,

it may be worth our effort to investigateanalytically some examples of such faulty

reproductions.

Brill reports the following example: --

"While conversing one day with a very brilliant young woman she hadoccasion to quote

from Keats. The poem was entitled 'Ode to Apollo,' andshe recited the following lines: --

"'In thy western house of gold

Where thou livest inthy state,

Bards, that once sublimely told

Prosaic truths that came too late.”

[p. 30] She hesitated many times during the recitation, being sure thatthere was something

wrong with the last line. To her great surprise, onreferring to the book she found that not

only was the last line misquotedbut that there were many other mistakes. The correct lines

read as follows:--

ODE TO APOLLO

"'In thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state,

Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds and sang of fate.”

The words italicized are those that have been forgotten and replacedby others during the

recitation.

"She was astonished at her many mistakes, and attributed them to a failureof memory. I

could readily convince her, however, that there was no qualitativeor quantitative

disturbance of memory in her case, and recalled to herour conversation immediately

before quoting these lines.

"We were discussing the over-estimation of personality among lovers,and she thought it

was Victor Hugo who said that love is the greatest thingin the world because it makes an

angel or a god out of a grocery clerk.She continued: "Only when we are in love have we

blind faith in humanity;everything is perfect, everything [p. 31] is beautiful, and . . .

everythingis so poetically unreal. Still, it is a wonderful experience; worth goingthrough,

notwithstanding the terrible disappointments that usually follow.It puts us on a level with

the gods and incites us to all sorts of artisticactivities. We become real poets; we not only

memorize and quote poetry,but we often become Apollos ourselves.' She then quoted the

lines givenabove.

"When I asked on what occasion she memorized the lines she could notrecall. As a

teacher of elocution she was wont to memorize so much andso often that it was difficult to

tell just when she had memorized theselines. 'Judging by the conversation,' I suggested, 'it

would seem thatthis poem is intimately associated with the idea of over-estimation

ofpersonality of one in love. Have you perhaps memorized this poem when youwere in

such a state?' She became thoughtful for a while and soon recalledthe following facts:

Twelve years before, when she was eighteen years old,she fell in love. She met the young

man while participating in an amateurtheatrical performance. He was at the time studying

for the stage, andit was predicated that some day he would be a matinée idol. He

wasendowed with all the attributes needed for such a calling. He was wellbuilt, fascinating,

impulsive, very clever, and . . . very fickle-minded.She was warned against him, but she [p.

32] paid no heed, attributing itall to the envy of her counsellors. Everything went well for a

few months,when she suddenly received word that her Apollo, for whom she had

memorizedthese lines, had eloped with and married a very wealthy young woman. Afew

years later she heard that he was living in a Western city, where hewas taking care of his

father-in-law's interests.

"The misquoted lines are now quite plain. The discussion about the over-estimationof

personality among lovers unconsciously recalled to her a disagreeableexperience, when

she herself over-estimated the personality of the manshe loved. She thought he was a

god, but he turned out to be even worsethan the average mortal. The episode could not

come to the surface becauseit was determined by very disagreeable and painful thoughts,

but the unconsciousvariations in the poem plainly showed her present mental state. The

poeticexpressions were not only changed to prosaic ones, but they clearly alludedto the

whole episode."

Another example of forgetting the order of words of a poem well knownto the person I shall

cite from Dr. C. G. Jung,[1] quotingthe words of the author: --

"A man wished to recite the familiar poem, [p. 33] 'A Pine-tree StandsAlone,' etc. In the line

'He felt drowsy' he became hopelessly stuck atthe words 'with the white sheet.' This

forgetting of such a well-knownverse seemed to me rather peculiar, and I therefore asked

him to reproducewhat came to his mind when he thought of the words 'with the white

sheet.'He gave the following series of associations 'The white sheet makes onethink of a

white sheet on a corpse -- a linen sheet with which one coversa dead body -- [pause] --

now I think of a near friend -- his brother diedquite recently -- he is supposed to have died

of heart disease -- he wasalso very corpulent -- my friend is corpulent, too, and I thought

thathe might meet the same fate -- probably he doesn't exercise enough -- whenI heard of

this death I suddenly became frightened: the same thing mighthappen to me, as my own

family is predisposed to obesity -- my grandfatherdied of heart disease -- I, also, am

somewhat too corpulent, and for thatreason I began an obesity cure a few days ago.'"

Jung remarks: "The man had unconsciously immediately identified himselfwith the pine-

tree which was covered with a white sheet."

For the following example of forgetting the order of words I am indebtedto my friend Dr.

Ferenczi, of Budapest. Unlike the former examples, itdoes not refer to a verse taken from

[p. 34] poetry, but to a self-coinedsaying. It may also demonstrate to us the rather unusual

case where theforgetting places itself at the disposal of discretion when the latteris in

danger of yielding to a momentary desire. The mistake thus advancesto a useful function.

After we have sobered down we justify that innerstriving which at first could manifest itself

only by way of inability,as in forgetting or psychic impotence.

"At a social gathering some one quoted, Tout comprendre c'est toutpardonner, to which I

remarked that the first part of the sentenceshould suffice, as 'pardoning' is an exemption

which must be left to Godand the priest. One of the guests thought this observation very

good, whichin turn emboldened me to remark -- probably to ensure myself of the

goodopinion of the well-disposed critic -- that some time ago I thought ofsomething still

better. But when I was about to repeat this clever ideaI was unable to recall it. Thereupon I

immediately withdrew from the companyand wrote my concealing thoughts. I first recalled

the name of the friendwho had witnessed the birth of this (desired) thought, and of the

streetin Budapest where it took place, and then the name of another friend, whosename

was Max, whom we usually called Maxie. That led me to the word 'maxim,'and to the

thought that at that time, as in the present case, it was aquestion [p. 35] of varying a well-

known maxim. Strangely enough, I didnot recall any maxim but the following sentence:

'God created man inHis own image,' and its changed conception, 'Man created God inhis

own image. Immediately I recalled the sought-for recollection.

"My friend said to me at that time in Andrassy Street, 'Nothing humanis foreign to me.' To

which I remarked, basing it on psychoanalyticexperience, "You should go further and

acknowledge that nothing animalis foreign to you."

"But after I had finally found the desired recollection I was even thenprevented from telling

it in this social gathering. The young wife of thefriend whom I had reminded of the

animality of the unconscious was alsoamong those present, and I was perforce reminded

that she was not at allprepared for the reception of such unsympathetic views. The

forgettingspared me a number of unpleasant questions from her and a hopeless

discussion,and just that must have been the motive of the 'temporary amnesia.'

"It is interesting to note that as a concealing thought there emergeda sentence in which

the deity is degraded to a human invention, while inthe sought-for sentence there was an

allusion to the animal in the man.The capitis diminutio is therefore common to both. The

whole matter[p. 36] was apparently only a continuation of the stream of thought

concerningunderstanding and forgiving which was stimulated by the discussion.

"That the desired thought so rapidly appeared may be also due to thefact that I withdrew

into a vacant room, away from the society in whichit was censored."

I have since then analysed a large number of cases of forgetting orfaulty reproduction of

the order of words, and the consistent result ofthese investigations led me to assume that

the mechanisms of forgettingas demonstrated in the examples "aliquis" and "Ode to

Apollo,"are almost of universal validity. It is not always very convenient to reportsuch

analyses, for, just as those cited, they usually lead to intimateand painful things in the

person analysed; I shall therefore add no moreto the number of such examples. What is

common to all these cases, regardlessof the material, is the fact that the forgotten or

distorted material becomesconnected through some associative road with an unconscious

stream of thought,which gives rise to the influence that comes to light as forgetting.

I am now returning to the forgetting of names, concerning which we haveso far considered

exhaustively neither the casuistic elements nor the motives.As this form of faulty acts can

at times be abundantly observed in myself,I am not at a loss for examples. The slight

attacks [p. 37] of migraine,from which I am still suffering, are wont to announce themselves

hoursbefore through the forgetting of names, and at the height of the attack,during which I

am not forced, however, to give up my work, I am often unableto recall all proper names.

Still, just such cases as mine may furnish the cause for a strong objectionto our analytic

efforts. Should not one be forced to conclude from suchobservations that the causation of

the forgetfulness, especially the forgettingof names, is to be sought in circulatory or

functional disturbances ofthe brain, and spare himself the trouble of searching for

psychologic explanationsfor these phenomena? Not at all; that would mean to interchange

the mechanismof a process, which is the same in all cases, with its variations. Butinstead

of an analysis I shall cite a comparison which will settle theargument.

Let us assume that I was so reckless as to take a walk at night in anuninhabited

neighbourhood of a big city, and was attacked and robbed ofmy watch and purse. At the

nearest police-station I report the matter inthe following words: "I was in this or that street,

and was there robbedof my watch and purse by lonesomeness and darkness."

Althoughthese words would not express anything that is incorrect, I would,

nevertheless,run the danger [p. 38] of being considered -- judging from the wordingof this

report -- as not quite right in the head. To be correct, the stateof affairs could only be

described by saying that, favoured by thelonesomeness of the place and under cover of

darkness, I was robbedof my valuables by unknown malefactors.

Now, then, the state of affairs in forgetting names need not be different.Favoured by

exhaustion, circulatory disturbances, and intoxication, I amrobbed by an unknown psychic

force of the disposal over the proper namesbelonging to my memory; it is the same force

which in other cases may bringabout the same failure of memory during perfect health and

mental capacity.

When I analyse those cases of name-forgetting occurring in myself, Ifind almost regularly

that the name withheld shows some relation to a themewhich concerns my own person,

and is apt to provoke in me strong and oftenpainful emotions. Following the convenient

and commendable practice ofthe Zurich School (Bleuler, Jung, Riklin), I might express the

same thingin the following form: The name withheld has touched a "personal complex"in

me. The relation of the name to my person is an unexpected one, andis mostly brought

about through superficial associations (words of doublemeaning and of [p. 39] similar

sounds); it may generally be designatedas a side association. A few simple examples will

best illustrate the natureof the same: --

(a) A patient requested me to recommend to him a sanatorium inthe Riviera. I knew of

such a place very near Genoa, I also recalled thename of the German colleague who was

in charge of the place, but the placeitself I could not name, well as I believed I knew it.

There was nothingleft to do but ask the patient to wait, and to appeal quickly to the

womenof the family.

"Just what is the name of the place near Genoa where Dr. X. has hissmall institution in

which Mrs. So-and-so remained so long under treatment?"

"Of course you would forget a name of that sort. The name is Nervi."

To be sure, I have enough to do with nerves.

(b) Another patient spoke about a neighbouring summer resort,and maintained that

besides the two familiar inns there was a third. Idisputed the existence of any third inn, and

referred to the fact thatI had spent seven summers in the vicinity and therefore knew more

aboutthe place than he. Instigated by my contradiction, he recalled the name.The name of

the third inn was "The Hochwartner." Of course, I had to admitit; indeed, I was forced to

confess that for seven summers I had lived

[p. 40] near this very inn whose existence I had so strenuously denied.But why should I

have forgotten the name and the object? I believe becausethe name sounded very much

like that of a Vienna colleague who practisedthe same specialty as my own. It touched in

me the "professional complex."

could not recall the very familiar name ofthe next big railroad station which I had so often

passed. I was forcedto look it up in the time-table. The name was Rosehome

(Rosenheim). I soondiscovered through what associations I lost it. An hour earlier I had

visitedmy sister in her home near Reichenhall; my sister's name is Rose, hencealso a

Rosehome. This name was taken away by my "family complex."

(d) This predatory influence of the "family complex" I can demonstratein a whole series of

complexes.

One day I was consulted by a young man, younger brother of one of myfemale patients,

whom I saw any number of times, and whom I used to callby his fist name. Later, while

wishing to talk about his visit, I forgothis first name, in no way an unusual one, and could

not recall it in anyway. I walked into the street to read the business signs and

recognizedthe name as soon as it met my eyes.

[p. 41] The analysis showed that I had formed a parallel between thevisitor and my own

brother which centred in the question: "Would my brother,in a similar case, have behaved

like him or even more contrarily?" Theouter connection between the thoughts concerning

the stranger and my ownfamily was rendered possible through the accident that the name

of themothers in each case was the same, Amelia. Subsequently I also understoodthe

substitutive names, Daniel and Frank, which obtruded themselves withoutany explanation.

These names, as well as Amelia, belong to Schiller's playThe Robbers; they are all

connected with a joke of the Vienna pedestrian,Daniel Spitzer.

(e) On another occasion I was unable to find a patient's namewhich had a certain

reference to my early life. The analysis had to befollowed over a long devious road before

the desired name was discovered.The patient expressed his apprehension lest he should

lose his eyesight;this recalled a young man who became blind from a gunshot, and this

againled to a picture of another youth who shot himself, and the latter borethe same name

as my first patient, though not at all related to him. Thename became known to me,

however, only after the anxious apprehension fromthese two juvenile cases was

transferred to a person of my own family.

Thus an incessant stream of "self-reference" [p. 42] flows through mythoughts concerning

which I usually have no inkling, but which betraysitself through such name-forgetting. It

seems as if I were forced to comparewith my own person all that I hear about strangers, as

if my personal complexesbecame stirred up at every information from others. It seems

impossiblethat this should be an individual peculiarity of my own person; it must,on the

contrary, point to the way we grasp outside matters in general.I have reasons to assume

that other individuals meet with experiences quitesimilar to mine.

The best example of this kind was reported to me by a gentleman namedLederer as a

personal experience. While on his wedding trip in Venice hecame across a man with whom

he was but slightly acquainted, and whom hewas obliged to introduce to his wife. As he

forgot the name of the strangerhe got himself out of the embarrassment the first time by

mumbling thename unintelligibly. But when he met the man a second time, as is

inevitablein Venice, he took him aside and begged him to help him out of the difficultyby

telling him his name, which he unfortunately had forgotten. The answerof the stranger

pointed to a superior knowledge of human nature: "I readilybelieve that you did not grasp

my name. My name is like yours -- Lederer!"

One cannot suppress a slight feeling of unpleasantness on discoveringhis own name in a

[p. 43] stranger. I had recently felt it very plainlywhen I was consulted during my office

hours by a man named S. Freud. However,I am assured by one of my own critics that in

this respect he behaves inquite the opposite manner.

(f) The effect of personal relation can be recognized also inthe following examples

reported by Jung.[2]

"Mr. Y. falls in love with a lady who soon thereafter marries Mr. X.In spite of the fact that

Mr. Y. was an old acquaintance of Mr. X., andhad business relations with him, he

repeatedly forgot the name, and ona number of occasions, when wishing to correspond

with X., he was obligedto ask other people for his name."

However, the motivation for the forgetting is more evident in this casethan in the preceding

ones, which were under the constellation of the personalreference. Here the forgetting is

manifestly a direct result of the dislikeof Y. for the happy rival; he does not wish to know

anything about him.

(g) The following case, reported by Ferenczi, the analysis ofwhich is especially instructive

through the explanation of the substitutivethoughts (like 'Botticelli-Boltraffio to Signorelli),

showsin a somewhat different way how self-reference leads to the forgettingof a name: --

"A lady who heard something about psycho- [p. 44] analysis could notrecall the name of

the psychiatrist, Young (Jung).

"Instead, the following names occurred to her: K1. (a name) -- Wilde-- Nietzsche --

Hauptmann.

"I did not tell her the name, and requested her to repeat her free associationsto every

thought.

"To K1. she at once thought of Mrs. K1., that she was an embellishedand affected person

who looked very well for her age. 'She does not age.'As a general and principal conception

of Wilde and Nietzsche, she gavethe association 'mental disease.' She then added

jocosely: 'The Freudianswill continue looking for the causes of mental diseases until they

themselvesbecome insane.' She continued: 'I cannot bear Wilde and Nietzsche. I donot

understand them. I hear that they were both homosexual. Wilde has occupiedhimself with

young people' (although she uttered in this sentencethe correct name she still could not

remember it).

"To Hauptmann she associated the words half and youth,and only after I called her

attention to the word youth did shebecome aware that she was looking for the name Young

(Jung)."

It is clear that this lady, who had lost her husband at the age of thirty-nine,and had no

prospect of marrying a second time, had cause enough to avoidreminiscences recalling

youth or old age. The remarkable thing is thatthe concealing thoughts of the desired name

came to the surface [p. 45]as simple associations of content without any sound-

associations.

(h) Still different and very finely motivated is an example ofname-forgetting which the

person concerned has himself explained.

"While taking an examination in philosophy as a minor subject I wasquestioned by the

examiner about the teachings of Epicurus, and was askedwhether I knew who took up his

teachings centuries later. I answered thatit was Pierre Gassendi, whom two days before

while in a café I hadhappened to hear spoken of as a follower of Epicurus. To the question

howI knew this I boldly replied that I had taken an interest in Gassendi fora long time. This

resulted in a certificate with a magna cum laude,but later, unfortunately, also in a persistent

tendency to forget the nameGassendi. I believe that it is due to my guilty conscience that

even nowI cannot retain this name despite all efforts. I had no business knowingit at that

time."

To have a proper appreciation of the intense repugnance entertainedby our narrator

against the recollection of this examination episode, onemust have realized how highly he

prizes his doctor's degree, and for howmany other things this substitute must stand.

I add here another example of forgetting the name of a city, an instancewhich is perhaps

not as simple as those given before, but which will [p.46] appear credible and valuable to

those more familiar with such investigations.The name of an Italian city withdrew itself from

memory on account of itsfar-reaching sound-similarity to a woman's first name, which was

in turnconnected with various emotional reminiscences which were surely not

exhaustivelytreated in this report. Dr. S. Ferenczi, who observed this case of forgettingin

himself, treated it -- quite justly -- as an analysis of a dream oran erotic idea.

"To-day I visited some old friends, and the conversation turned to citiesof Northern Italy.

Some one remarked that they still showed the Austrianinfluence. A few of these cities were

cited. I, too, wished to mentionone, but the name did not come to me, although I knew that

I had spenttwo very pleasant days there; this, of course, does not quite concur withFreud's

theory of forgetting. Instead of the desired name of the city thereobtruded themselves the

following thoughts: 'Capua -- Brescia -- the lionof Brescia.' This lion I saw objectively

before me in the form of a marblestatue, but I soon noticed that he resembled less the lion

of the statueof liberty in Brescia (which I saw only in a picture) than the other marblelion

which I saw in Lucerne on the monument in honour of the Swiss Guardfallen in the

Tuileries. I finally thought of the desired name: it wasVerona.

"I knew at once the cause of this amnesia. [p. 47] No other than a formerservant of the

family whom I visited at the time. Her name was Veronica;in Hungarian Verona. I felt a

great antipathy for her on account of herrepulsive physiognomy, as well as her hoarse,

shrill voice and her unbearableself-assertion (to which she thought herself entitled on

account of herlong service). Also the tyrannical way in which she treated the childrenof the

family was insufferable to me. Now I knew the significance of thesubstitutive thoughts.

"To Capua I immediately associated caput mortuum. I had oftencompared Veronica's head

to a skull. The Hungarian word kapzoi (greedafter money) surely furnished a determinant

for the displacement. NaturallyI also found those more direct associations which

connected Capua and Veronaas geographical ideas and as Italian words of the same

rhythm.

"The same held true for Brescia; here, too, I found concealed side-tracksof associations of

ideas.

"My antipathy at that time was so violent that I thought Veronica veryugly, and have often

expressed my astonishment at the fact that any oneshould love her: 'Why, to kiss her,' I

said, 'must provoke nausea.'

"Brescia, at least in Hungary, is very often mentioned not in connectionwith the lion but

with another wild beast. The most hated name [p. 48]in this country, as well as in North

Italy, is that of General Haynau,who is briefly referred to as the hyena of Brescia. From the

hated tyrantHaynau one stream of thought leads over Brescia to the city of Verona,and the

other over the idea of the grave-digging animal with the hoarsevoice (which corresponds to

the thought of a monument to the dead),to the skull, and to the disagreeable organ of

Veronica, which was so cruellyinsulted in my unconscious mind. Veronica in her time ruled

as tyranicallyas did the Austrian General after the Hungarian and Italian struggles

forliberty.

"Lucerne is associated with the idea of the summer which Veronica spentwith her

employers in a place near Lucerne. The Swiss Guard again recallsthat she tyrannized not

only the children but also the adult members ofthe family, and thus played the part of the

'Garde-Dame.'

"I expressly observe that this antipathy of mine against V. consciouslybelongs to things

long overcome. Since that time she has changed in herappearance and manner, very

much to her advantage, so that I am able tomeet her with sincere regard (to be sure I

hardly find such occasion).As usual, however, my unconscious sticks more tenaciously to

those impressions;it is old in its resentment.

"The Tuileries represent an allusion to a second personality, an oldFrench lady who [p. 49]

actually 'guarded' the women of the house, andwho was in high regard and somewhat

feared by everybody. For a long timeI was her élève in French conversation. The word

élèverecalls that when I visited the brother-in-law of my present host in northernBohemia I

had to laugh a great deal because the rural population referredto the élèves (pupils) of the

school of forestry aslöwen (lions). Also this jocose recollection might have takenpart in the

displacement of the hyena by the lion."

(i) The following example can also show how a personal complexswaying the person at

the time being may by devious ways bring about theforgetting of a name.[3]

Two men, an elder and a younger, who had travelled together in Sicilysix months before,

exchanged reminiscences of those pleasant and interestingdays.

"Let's see, what was the name of that place," asked the younger, "wherewe passed the

night before taking the trip to Selinunt? Calatafini,was it not?"

The elder rejected this by saying: "Certainly not; but I have forgottenthe name, too,

although I can recall perfectly all the details of the place.Whenever I hear some one forget

a name it immediately produces forgetfulnessin me. Let us look for the name. I cannot

think of any other [p. 50] nameexcept Caltanisetta, which is surely not correct."

"No," said the younger, "the name begins with, or contains, a w."

"But the Italian language contains no w," retorted the elder.

"I really meant a v, and I said w because I am accustomedto interchange them in my

mother tongue."

The elder, however, objected to the v. He added: "I believe thatI have already forgotten

many of the Sicilian names. Suppose we try tofind out. For example, what is the name of

the place situated on a heightwhich was called Enna in antiquity?"

"Oh, I know that: Castrogiovanni." In the next moment the youngerman discovered the lost

name. He cried out 'Castelvetrano,' andwas pleased to be able to demonstrate the

supposed v.

For a moment the elder still lacked the feeling of recognition, butafter he accepted the

name he was able to state why it had escaped him.He thought: "Obviously because the

second half, vetrano, suggestsveteran. I am aware that I am not quite anxious to think of

ageing,and react peculiarly when I am reminded of it. Thus, e.g.,I had recently reminded a

very esteemed friend in most unmistakable termsthat he had 'long ago passed the years of

youth,' because before this heonce remarked in the most flattering manner, [p. 51] 'I am no

longer ayoung man.' That my resistance was directed against the second half ofthe name

Castelvetrano is shown by the fact that the initial soundof the same returned in the

substitutive name Caltanisetta."

"What about the name Caltanisetta itself?" asked the younger.

"That always seemed to me like a pet name of a young woman," admittedthe elder.

Somewhat later he added: "The name for Enna was also only a substitutivename. And

now it occurs to me that the name Castrogiovanni, whichobtruded itself with the aid of a

rationalization, alludes as expresslyto giovane, young, as the last name, Castelvetrano, to

veteran."

The older man believed that he had thus accounted for his forgettingthe name. What the

motive was that led the young man to this memory failurewas not investigated.

In some cases one must have recourse to all the fineness of psychoanalytictechnique in

order to explain the forgetting of a name. Those who wishto read an example of such work

I refer to a communication by ProfessorE. Jones.[4]

I could multiply the examples of name-forgetting and prolong the discussionvery much

further if I did not wish to avoid elucidating here almost allthe view-points which will be

considered in [p. 52] later themes. I shall,however, take the liberty of comprehending in a

few sentences the resultsof the analyses reported here.

The mechanism of forgetting, or rather of losing or temporary forgettingof a name, consists

in the disturbance of the intended reproduction ofthe name through a strange stream of

thought unconscious at the time. Betweenthe disturbed name and the disturbing complex

there exists a connectioneither from the beginning or such a connection has been formed

-- perhapsby artificial means - through superficial (outer) associations.

The self-reference complex (personal, family or professional) provesto be the most

effective of the disturbing complexes.

A name which by virtue of its many meanings belongs to a number of thoughtassociations

(complexes) is frequently disturbed in its connection to oneseries of thoughts through a

stronger complex belonging to the other associations.

To avoid the awakening of pain through memory is one of the objectsamong the motives of

these disturbances.

In general one may distinguish two principal cases of name-forgetting;when the name itself

touches something unpleasant, or when it is broughtinto connection with other

associations which are influenced by such effects.So that names can be disturbed on their

own account or [p. 53] on accountof their nearer or more remote associative relations in

the reproduction.

A review of these general principles readily convinces us that the temporaryforgetting of a

name is observed as the most frequent faulty action ofour mental functions.

However, we are far from having described all the peculiarities of thisphenomenon. I also

wish to call attention to the fact that name-forgettingis extremely contagious. In a

conversation between two persons the meremention of having forgotten this or that name

by one often suffices toinduce the same memory slip in the other. But whenever the

forgetting isinduced, the sought for name easily comes to the surface.

There is also a continuous forgetting of names in which whole chainsof names are

withdrawn from memory. If in the course of endeavouring todiscover an escaped name

one finds others with which the latter is intimatelyconnected, it often happens that these

new names also escape. The forgettingthus jumps from one name to another, as if to

demonstrate the existenceof a hindrance not to be easily removed.

Footnotes

[1] The Psychology of Dementia Prœcox, translatedby F. Peterson and A. A. Brill.

[2] The Psychology of Dementia Prœcox, p. 45.

[3] Zentralb. t. Psychoanalyse, I. 9, 1911.

[4] "Analyse eines Falles von Namenvergessen," Zentralb.f. Psychoanalyse, Jahrg. II, Heft 2, 1911.

CHAPTER 4

Childhood and Concealing Memories

In a second essay, [1] I was able to demonstrate the purposive nature of our memories in

an unexpected field. I started with the remarkable fact that the earliest recollections of a

person often seemed to preserve the unimportant and accidental, whereas (frequently

though not universally !) not a trace is found in the adult memory of the weighty and

affective impressions of this period. As it is known that the memory exercises a certain

selection among the impressions at its disposal, it would seem logical to suppose that this

selection follows entirely different principles in childhood than at the time of intellectual

maturity. However, close investigation points to the fact that such an assumption is

superfluous. The indifferent childhood memories owe their existence to a process of

displacement. It be shown by psychoanalysis that in the reproduction they represent the

substitute for [p. 27] other really significant impressions, whose reproduction is hindered by

some resistance they do not owe their existence to their contents, but to an associative

relation of contents to another repressed thought, deserve the title of "concealing

memories" which I have designated them.

In the aforementioned essay I only touched upon, but in no way exhausted, the varieties in

the relations and meanings of concealed memories. In the given example fully analysed I

particularly emphasized a peculiarity in temporal relation between the concealing and the

contents of the memory concealed by it. The content of the concealing memory in that

example belonged to one of the first of childhood, while the thoughts represents it which

remained practically unconscious, belonged to a later period of the individual question. I

called this form of displacement a retroactive or regressive one. Perhaps more often one

finds the reversed relation -- that is, an indifferent impression of the most remote period

becomes a concealing memory in consciousness, which simply owes its existence to an

association with an earlier experience, against whose direct reproduction there are

resistances. We would call these encroaching or interposing concealing memories. What

most concerns memory lies here chronologically beyond [p. 59] concealing memory.

Finally, there may be a third possible case, namely, the concealing memory may be

connected with the impression it conceals, not only through its contents, just through

contiguity of time; this is the contemporaneous, or contiguous concealing memory.

How large a portion of the sum total of our memory belongs to the category of concealing

memories, and what part it plays in various neurotic hidden processes, these are problems

into the value of which I have neither inquired nor shall I enter here. I am concerned only

with emphasizing the sameness between the forgetting of proper names with faulty

recollection and the formation of concealing memories.

At first sight it would seem that the diversities of both phenomena are far more striking

than their exact analogies. There we deal with proper names, here with complete

impressions experienced either in reality or in thought; there we deal with a manifest

failure of the memory function, here with a memory act which appears strange to us.

Again, there we are concerned with a momentary disturbance -- for the name just forgotten

could have been reproduced correctly a hundred times before, and will be so again from

tomorrow on; here we deal with lasting possesion without a failure, for the indifferent child-

[p. 60] hood memories seem to be able to accompany us through a great part of life. In

both these cases the riddle seems to be solved in an entirely different way. There it is the

forgetting, while here it is the remembering which excites our scientific curiosity.

After deeper reflection one realizes that though there is a diversity in the psychic material

and in the duration of time of the two phenomena, yet these are by far outweighed by the

conformities between the two. In both cases we deal with the failure of remember what

should be correctly reproduced by memory fails to appear, and instead something else

comes as a substitute. In the case of getting a name there is no lack of memory function in

the form of name substitution. The formation of a concealing memory depends on the

forgetting of other important impressions. In both cases we are reminded by an intellectual

feeling of the intervention of a disturbance, which in each case takes a different form. In

the case of forgetting of names we are aware that the substitutive names are incorrect, in

concealing memories we are surprised that we have them at all. Hence, if psychological

analysis demonstrates that the substitutive formation in each case is brought about in the

same manner -- that is, through displacement of a superficial association -- we are justified

in saying [p. 61] that the diversities in material, in duration of time, and in the centring of

both phenomena serve to enhance our expectation, that we have discovered something

that is important and of general value. This generality purports that the stopping and

straying of the reproducing function indicates more often than we suppose that there is an

intervention of a tendency which favours one memory and at the same time works against

another. The subject of childhood memories appears to me so important and interesting

that I would like to devote to it a few additional remarks which go beyond the views

expressed so far.

How far back into childhood do our memories reach? I am familiar with some

investigations on this question by V. and C. Henri [2] and Potwin. [3] They assert that such

examinations show wide individual variations, inasmuch as some trace their first

reminiscences to the sixth month of life, while others can recall nothing of their lives before

the end of the sixth or even the eighth year. But what connection is there between these

variations in the behaviour of childhood reminiscences, and what signification may be

ascribed to them? It seems that it is not enough to procure the material for this [p. 62]

question by simple inquiry, but it must be subjected to a study in which the person

furnishing the information must participate.

I believe we accept too indifferently the fact of infantile amnesia -- that is, the failure of

memory for the first years of our lives -- and fail to find in it a strange riddle. We forget of

what great intellectual accomplishments and of what complicated emotions a child of four

years is capable. We really ought to wonder why the memory of later years has, as a rule,

retained so little of these psychic processes, especially as we have every reason for

assume that these same forgotten childhood activities have not glided off without leaving a

trace in the development of the person, but that they have left a definite influence for all

future time. Yet in spite of this unparalleled effectiveness were forgotten! This would

suggest that there are particularly formed conditions of memory (in the sense of conscious

reproduction) have thus far eluded our knowledge. It is possible that the forgetting of

childhood give us the key to the understanding of amnesias which, according to our newer

studies, lie at the basis of the formation of all neurotic symptoms.

Of these retained childhood reminisces, some appear to us readily comprehensible, while

others seem strange or unintelligible. It is not [p. 63] difficult to correct certain errors in

regard to both kinds. If the retained reminiscences of a person are subjected to an analytic

test, it can be readily ascertained that a guarantee for their correctness does not exist.

Some of the memory pictures are surely falsified and incomplete, or displaced in point of

time and place. The assertions of persons examined that their first memories reach back

perhaps to their second year are evidently unreliable. Motives can soon be discovered

which explain the disfigurement and the displacement of these experiences, but they also

demonstrate that these memory lapses are not the result of a mere unreliable memory.

Powerful forces from a later period have moulded the memory capacity of our infantile

experiences, and it is probably due to these same forces that the understanding of our

childhood is generally so very strange to us.

The recollection of adults, as is known, proceeds through different psychic material. Some

recall by means of visual pictures -- their memories are of a visual character; other

individuals can scarcely reproduce in memory the most paltry sketch of an experience we

call such persons "auditifs" and "moteurs" in contrast to the to "visuels," terms proposed by

Charcot. These differences vanish in dreams; all our dreams are preponderatingly visual.

But this development is also found in the childhood memories; [p. 64] the latter are plastic

and visual, even in those people whose later memory lacks the visual element. The visual

memory, therefore preserves the type of the infantile recollections. Only my earliest

childhood memories are visual character; they represent plastic depicted scenes,

comparable only to stage settings.

In these scenes of childhood, whether they prove true or false, one usually sees his

childish person both in contour and dress. This circumstance must excite our wonder, for

adults do not see their own persons in their reflections of later experiences. [4] It is,

moreover, against our experiences to assume that the child's attention during his

experiences is centred on himself rather than exclusively on outside impressions. Various

sources force us to assume the so-called earliest childhood recollections are not true

memory traces but later elaborate of the same, elaborations which might have been

subjected to the influences of many later psychic forces. Thus the, "childhood

reminiscences" of individuals altogether advance to the signification of "concealing

memories," and thereby form a noteworthy analogy to the childhood remberences as laid

down in the legends and of nations. [p. 65]

Whoever has examined mentally a number of persons by the method of psychoanalysis

must have gathered in this work numerous examples of concealing memories of every

description. However, owing to the previously discussed nature of the relations of the

childhood reminiscences to later life, it becomes extraordinarily difficult to report such

examples. For, in order to attach the value of the concealing memory to an infantile

reminiscence, it would be often necessary to present the entire life-history of the person

concerned. Only seldom is it possible, as in the following good example, to take out from

its context and report a single childhood memory.

A twenty-four-year-old man preserved the following picture from the fifth year of his life: In

the garden of a summer-house he sat on a stool next to his aunt, who was engaged in

teaching him the alphabet. He found difficulty in distinguishing the letter m from n, and he

begged his aunt to tell him how to tell one from the other. His aunt called his attention to

the fact that the letter m had one whole portion (a stroke) more than the letter n. There was

no reason to dispute the reliability of this childhood recollection; its meaning, however, was

discovered only later, when it showed itself to be the symbolic representation of another

boyish inquisitiveness. For just as he wanted to know [p. 66] the difference between m and

n at that time so he concerned himself later about the difference between boy and girl, and

he would have willing that just this aunt should be his teacher. He also discovered that the

difference similar one; that the boy again had one portion more than the girl, and at the

time of this recognition his memory awoke to the responding childish inquisitiveness.

I would like to show by one more example the sense that may be gained by a childhood

reminiscence through analytic work, although it may seem to contain no sense before. In

my forty-third year, when I began to interest myself in what remained in my memory of my

own childhood, a scene struck me which for a long time, as I afterwards believed, had

repeatedly come to consciousness, and which through reliable identification could be

traced to a period before the completion of my third year. I saw myself in front of a chest,

the door of which was held open by my half-brother, twenty years my senior. I stood there

demanding something and screaming; my mother, pretty and slender then suddenly

entered the room, as if returning from the street.

In these words I formulated this scene so vividly seen, which, however, furnished no other

clue. Whether my brother wished to open or lock the chest (in the first explanation it was

[p. 67] a "cupboard"), why I cried, and what bearing,the arrival of my mother had, all these

questions were dim to me; I was tempted to explain to myself that it dealt with the memory

of a hoax by my older brother, which was interrupted by my mother. Such

misunderstandings of childhood scenes retained in memory are not uncommon; we recall

a situation, but it is not centralized; we do not know on which of the elements to place the

psychic accent. Analytic effort led me to an entirely unexpected solution of the picture. I

missed my mother and began to suspect that she was locked in this cupboard or chest,

and therefore demanded that my brother should unlock it. As he obliged me, and I became

convinced that she was not in the chest, I began to cry; this is the moment firmly retained

in the memory, which was directly followed by the appearance of my mother, who

appeased my worry and anxiety.

But how did the child get the idea of looking for the absent mother in the chest? Dreams

which occurred at the same time pointed dimly to a nurse, concerning whom other

reminiscences were retained; as, for example, that she conscientiously urged me to deliver

to her the small coins which I received as gifts, a detail which in itself may lay claim to the

value of a concealing memory for later things. I then concluded to facilitate for myself this

time the [p. 68] task of interpretation, and asked my now mother about that nurse. I found

out all of things, among others the fact that this shrewd but dishonest person had

committed extensive robberies during the confinement of my mother and that my half-

brother was instrumental bringing her to justice. This information gave me the key to the

from childhood, as through a sort of inspiration. The sudden disappearance of the nurse

was a matter of indifference to me; I had just asked this brother where she was, probably

because I had noticed that he had played a part in disappearance, and he, evasive and

witty as he is to this day, answered that she was "boxed in." I understood this answer in

the childish way, but asked no more, as there was nothing else to be discovered. When my

mother left shortly thereafter I suspected that the naughty brother had treated her in the

same way as he did the nurse, and therefore pressed him the chest.

I also understand now why in the translation of the visual childhood scene my mothers

slenderness was accentuated; she must struck me as being newly restored. I am and a

half years older than the sister born that time, and when I was three years of I was

separated from my half-brother.

[1] Published in the Monatschrift f. Psychiatrie u. Neurologie. 1899.

[2] "Enquête sur les premiers souvenirs de l'enfance." L'Annêe psychologique, iii., 1897.

[3] "Study of Early Memories,"' Psychological Review, 1901.

[4] I assert this as a result of certain investigations made by myself.

CHAPTER 5

Mistakes in Speech

ALTHOUGH the ordinary material of speech of our mother-tongue seems to be guarded

against forgetting, its application, however, more often succumbs to another disturbance

which is familiar to us as "slips of the tongue." What we observe in normal persons as slips

of the tongue gives the gives same impression as the first step of the so-called

"paraphasias" which manifest themselves under pathologic conditions.

I am in the exceptional position of being about to refer to a previous work on the subject. In

the year 1895 Meringer and C. Mayer published a study on Mistakes in Speech and

Reading, with whose view-points I do not agree. One of the authors, who is the

spokesman in the text, is a philologist actuated by a linguistic interest to examine the rules

governing those slips. He hoped to deduce from these rules the existence "of a definite

psychic mechanism," "whereby the Sounds of a word, of a sentence, and even the words

themselves, would be associated and con- [p. 72] nected with one another in a quite

peculiar manner" (p. 10).

The authors grouped the examples of speech mistakes collected by them first "accord

purely descriptive view-points, such as interchangings (e.g., the Milo of Venus instead of

the Venus of Milo), as anticipations (e.g., the shoes made her sorft . . . the shoes made her

feet sore), echoes and post positions, as contaminations (e.g., "I will soon him home,"

instead of I will soon go home and I will see him"), and substitutions (e.g., " he entrusted

his money to a "savings crank," instead of "a savings bank.") [1] Besides these principal

categories there are so others of lesser importance (or of lesser significance for our

purpose). In this grouping makes no difference whether the transposition disfigurement,

fusion, etc., affects single sounds of the word or syllables, or whole words of the

concerned sentence.

To explain the various forms of mist speech, Meringer assumes a varied psychic value of

phonetics. As soon as the innervation the first syllable of a word, or the first word of a

sentence, the stimulating process immediately strikes the succeeding sounds, and the

following words, and in so far as these innervations are synchronous they may effect some

changes in one another. The stimulus of the psychically [p. 73] intensive sound "rings"

before or continues echoing, and thus disturbs the less important process of innervation. It

is necessary therefore to determine which are the most important sounds of a word.

Meringer states: "If one wishes to know which sound of a word possesses the greatest

intensity he should examine himself while searching for a forgotten word, for example, a

name. That which first returns to consciousness invariably had the greatest intensity prior

to the forgetting (p. 160). Thus the most important sounds are the initial sound of the root-

syllable and the initial sound of the word itself, as well as one or another of the

accentuated vowels (p. 162).

Here I cannot help voicing a contradiction. Whether or not the initial sound of the name

belongs to the most important elements of the word, it is surely not true that in the case of

the forgetting of the word it first returns to consciousness; the above rule is therefore of no

use. When we observe ourselves during the search for a forgotten name we are

comparatively often forced to express the opinion that it begins with a certain letter. This

conviction proves to be as often unfounded as founded. Indeed, I would even go so far as

to assert that in the majority of cases one reproduces a false initial sound. Also in our

example Signorelli the substitutive name lacked the initial sound, and the principal syl- [p.

74]lables were lost; on the other hand, the important pair of syllables elli returned to

consciousness in the substitutive name Botticelli.

How little substitutive names respect the sound of the lost names may be learned from

following case. One day I found it impossible to recall the name of the small country whose

capital is Monte Carlo. The substitutive names follows: Piedmont, Albania, Montevideo,

Colico. In place of Albania Montenegro soon appeared and then it struck me that the

syllable Mont (pronounced Mon) occurred in all but the last of the substitutive names. It

thus became easy for me to find from the name of Prince Albert the forgotten name

Monaco. Colico practically imitates the syllabic sequence and rhythm of the forgotten

name.

If we admit the conjecture that a mechanism similar to that pointed out in the forgetting

names may also play a part in the phenomena speech-blunders, we are then led to a

better founded judgment of cases of speech-blunders. The speech disturbance which

manifests a speech-blunder may in the first place be caused by the influence of another

component of same speech that is, through a fore-sound or echo, or through another

meaning within the sentence or context which differs from that the speaker wishes to utter.

In the second place, however, the disturbance could be brought about [p. 75] analogously

to the process in the case Signorelli, through influences outside this word, sentence or

context, from elements which we did not intend to express, and of whose incitement we

became conscious only through the disturbance. In both modes of origin of the mistake in

speech the common element lies in the simultaneity of the stimulus, while the

differentiating elements lie in the arrangement within or without the same sentence or

context.

The difference does not at first appear as wide as when it is taken into consideration in

certain conclusions drawn from the symptomatology of speech-mistakes. It is clear,

however, that only in the first case is there a prospect of drawing conclusions from the

manifestations of speech-blunders concerning a mechanism which connects together

sounds and words for the reciprocal influence of their articulation; that is, conclusions such

as the philologist hopes to gain from the study of speech-blunders. In the case of

disturbance through influence outside of the same sentence or context, it would before all

be a question of becoming acquainted with the disturbing elements, and then the question

would arise whether the mechanism of this disturbance cannot also suggest the probable

laws of the formation of speech.

We cannot maintain that Meringer and Mayer have overlooked the possibility of speech

dis- [p. 76] turbance through "complicated psychic influences," that is, through elements

outside of the same word or sentence or the same sequence of words. Indeed, they must

have observed that the theory of the psychic variation of sounds applies, strictly speaking,

only to the explanation of disturbances as well as to fore-sounds and sounds. Where the

word disturbances cannot reduced to sound disturbances, as, for example, the

substitutions and contaminations of words they, too, have without hesitation sought the

cause of the mistake in speech outside of intended context, and proved this state of affairs

by means of fitting examples. [2] According to the author's own understanding it is some

similarity between a certain word in the intended sentence and some other not intended,

which allows the latter to assert itself in consciousness by causing a disfigurement, a

composition, or a compromise formation (contamination).

Now, in my work on the Interpretation of Dreams I have shown the part played by process

of condensation in the origin of the called manifest contents of the dream from latent

thoughts of the dream. Any similarity of objects or of word-presentations between elements

of the unconscious material is taken as a cause for the formation of a third, which is a

com- [p. 77] posite or compromise formation. This element represents both components in

the dream content, and in view of this origin it is frequently endowed with numerous

contradictory individual determinants. The formation of solutions and contaminations in

speech-mistakes is, therefore, the beginning of that work of condensation which we find

taking a most active part in the construction of the dream.

In a small essay destined for the general reader, [3] Meringer advanced a theory of very

practical significance for certain cases of interchanging of words, especially for such cases

where one word is substituted by another of opposite meaning. He says: "We may still

recall the manner in which the President of the Austrian House of Deputies opened the

session some time ago: ' Honoured Sirs! I announce the presence of so and so many

gentlemen, and therefore declare the session as "closed" ' ! " The general merriment first

attracted his attention and he corrected his mistake. In the present case the probable

explanation is that the President wished himself in a position to close this session, from

which he had little good to expect, and the thought broke through at least partially -- a

frequent manifestation -- resulting in his use of "closed" in place of 'opened," that is, the

opposite of the statement [p. 78] intended. Numerous observations have taught me,

however, that we frequently interchange contrasting words; they are already associated in

our speech consciousness; they lie very close together and are easily incorrectly evoked.

Still, not in all cases of contrast substitution it so simple as in the example of the President

as to appear plausible that the speech-mistake occurs merely as a contradiction which

arises in the inner thought of the speaker opposing the sentence uttered. We have found

the analogous mechanism in the analysis of the example aliquis; the inner contradiction

asserts itself in the form of forgetting a word instead of a substitution through its opposite.

But in order to adjust the difference we may remark that the little word aliquis is incapable

of a contrast similar to "closing" and "opening," and that the word "opening" cannot be

subject to forgetting on account of its being a common component of speech.

Having been shown by the last examples of Merinzer and May that speech disturbance

may be caused through the influence of fore-sounds, after-sounds, words from the same

sentence that were intended for expression, as well as through the effect of words outside

the sentence intended, the stimulus of which would otherwise not have been suspected,

we shall next wish to discover whether we can definitely separate the two classes of

mistakes in speech, and how we can distinguish [p. 79] the example of the one from a

case of the other class.

But at this stage of the discussion we must also think of the assertions of Wundt, who

deals with the manifestations of speech-mistakes in his recent work on the development of

language. [4] Psychic influences, according to Wundt, never lack in these as well as in

other phenomena related to them. The uninhibited stream of sound and word associations

stimulated by spoken sounds belongs here in the first place as a positive determinant. This

is supported as a negative factor by the relaxation or suppression of the influences of the

will which inhibit this stream, and by the active attention which is here a function of volition.

Whether that play of association manifests itself in the fact that a coming sound is

anticipated or a preceding sound reproduced, or whether a familiar practised sound

becomes intercalated between others, or finally, whether it manifests itself in the fact that

altogether different sounds associatively related to the spoken sounds act upon these -- all

these questions designate only differences in the direction, and at most in the play of the

occurring associations but not in the general nature of the same. In some cases it may be

also doubtful to which form a certain disturbance may be attributed, or whether it would not

be more correct to refer [p. 80] such disturbance to a concurrence of motives, following the

principle of the complication of causes [5] (cf . pp. 380 - 81)."

I consider these observations of Wundt as absolutely justified and very instructive.

Perhaps we could emphasize with even greater firmness than Wundt that the positive

factor favouring mistakes in speech (the uninhibited stream of associations, and its

negative, the relaxation of the inhibiting attention) regularly attain synchronous action, so

that both factors only different determinants of the same process. With the relaxation, or,

more unequivocal pressed, through this relaxation, of the uninhibited attention the

uninhibited stream of associations becomes active.

Among the examples of the mistakes in collected by me I can scarcely find one in I would

be obliged to attribute the speech disturbance simply and solely to what Wundt calls

"contact effect of sound." Almost invariably I discover besides this a disturbing influence

something outside of the intended speech. The disturbing element is either a single

unconscious thought, which comes to light through the special blunder, and can only be

brought to consciousness through a searching analysis, or it is a general psychic motive,

which directs against the entire speech. [p. 81]

(Example a) Seeing my daughter make an unpleasant face while biting into an apple, I

wished to quote the following couplet: --

"The ape he is a funny sight,

When in the apple he takes a bite."

But I began: " The apel . . ." This seems to be a contamination of "ape" and "apple"

(compromise formation), or it may be also conceived as an anticipation of the prepared

"apple." The true state of affairs, however, was this: I began the quotation once before, and

made no mistake the first time. I made the mistake only during the repetition, which was

necessary because my daughter, having been distracted from another side, did not listen

to me. This repetition with the added impatience to disburden myself of the sentence I

must include in the motivation of the speech-blunder, which represented itself as a function

of condensation.

(b) My daughter said, "I wrote to Mrs. Schresinger." The woman's name was Schlesinger.

This speech-blunder may depend on the tendency to facilitate articulation. I must state,

however, that this mistake was made by my daughter a few moments after I had said apel,

instead of ape. Mistakes in speech are in a great measure contagious; a similar peculiarity

was noticed by Meringer and Mayer in the forgetting [p. 82] of names. I know of no reason

for this contagiousness.

suggests a difficulty of articulation which may serve as an excuse for interchanging of

sounds. When her attention was called to the speech-blunder, she promptly replied, "Yes,

that happened because you said 'earnesht' instead of 'earnest.' " As a of fact I received her

with the remark, "To-day we shall be in earnest" (because it was the last hour before her

discharge from treatment), jokingly changed the word into earnesht. In the course of the

hour she repeatedly made in mistakes speech, and I finally observed that it only because

she imitated me but because she had a special reason in her unconscious to linger on the

word earnest (Ernst) as a name. [6]

(d) A woman, speaking about a game invented by her children and called by them "the

man in the box," said "the manx in the boc." I could [p. 83] readily understand her mistake.

It was while analysing her dream, in which her husband is depicted as very generous in

money matters -- just the reverse of reality -- that she made this speech-blunder. The day

before she had asked for a new set of furs, which her husband denied her, claiming that he

could not afford to spend so much money. She upbraided him for his stinginess, "for

putting away so much into the strongbox," and mentioned a friend whose husband has not

nearly his income, and yet he presented his wife with a mink coat for her birthday. The

mistake is now comprehensible. The word manx (manks) reduces itself to the "minks"

which she longs for, and the box refers to her husband's stinginess.

(e) A similar mechanism is shown in the mistake of another patient whose memory

deserted her in the midst of a long-forgotten childish reminiscence. Her memory failed to

inform her on what part of the body the prying and lustful hand of another had touched her.

Soon thereafter she Visited one of her friends, with whom she discussed summer homes.

Asked where her cottage in M. was located, she answered, "Near the mountain loin"

instead of "mountain lane."

(f) Another patient, whom I asked at the end of her visit how her uncle was, answered: "I

don't know, I only see him now in flagranti."

The following day she said, "I am really [p. 84] ashamed of myself for having given you

yesterday such a stupid answer. Naturally you must have thought me a very uneducated

person always mistakes the meaning of foreign words I wished to say en passant." We did

not know at the time where she got the incorrectly used foreign words, but during the same

session she reproduced a reminiscence as a continuation the theme from the previous

day, in which being caught in flagranti played the principal part. The mistake of the

previous day had therefore anticipated the recollection, which at that had not yet become

conscious.

(g) In discussing her summer plans, a patient said, "I shall remain most of the summer in

Elberlon." She noted her mistake, and asked me to analyse it. The associations to

Elberton elicited: seashore on the Jersey coast -- summer resort -- vacation travelling. This

recalled travelling in Europe with her cousin, a topic which we had discussed the day

before during the analysis of a dream. The dream dealt with her dislike for this cousin, and

she admitted that it was due to the fact that the latter was the favourite of the man whom

they met together while travelling abroad. During the dream analysis she not recall the

name of the city in which they met this man, and I did not make any effort time to bring it to

her consciousness, as we were then engrossed in a totally different problem. When [p. 85]

asked to focus her attention again on Elberton and reproduce her associations, she said,

"It brings to mind Elberlawn-lawn-field-and-Elberfield."Elberleld" was the lost name of the

city in Germany. Here the mistake served to bring to consciousness in a concealed

manner a memory which was connected with a painful feeling.

(h) A woman said to me, " If you wish to buy a carpet, go to Merchant (Kaufmann) in

Matthew Street (Mathdusgasse)." I repeated, " Then at Matthew's -- I mean at Merchant's

--" It would seem that my repeating of one name in place of the other was simply the result

of distraction. The woman's remark really did distract me, as she turned my attention to

something else much more vital to me than carpet. In Matthew Street stands the house in

which my wife lived as a bride, The entrance to the house was in another street, and now I

noticed that I had forgotten its name and could only recall it through a roundabout method.

The name Matthew, which kept only attention, is thus a substitutive name for the forgotten

name of the street. It is more suitable than the name Merchant, for Matthew is exclusively

the name of a person, while Merchant is lot. The forgotten street, too, bears the name of a

person: Radetzky.

(i) A patient consulted me for the first time, and from her history it became apparent that [p.

86] the cause of her nervousness was largely happy married life. Without any

encouragement she went into details about her marital troubles. She had not lived with her

husband for about six months, and she saw him last at the theatre when she saw the play

Officer 606. I her attention to the mistake, and she immediately corrected herself, saying

that she to say Officer 666 (the name of a recent popular play). I decided to find out the

reason for the mistake, and as the patient came for analytic treatment, I discovered that

immediate cause of the rupture between herself and husband was the disease which is

treated by "606." [7]

(k) Before calling on me a patient telephone for an appointment, and also wished to be

informed about my consultation fee. He was told that the first consultation was ten dollars;

after the examination was over he again as what he was to pay, and added: " I don't like to

owe money to any one, especially to doctors; I prefer to pay right away." Instead of he said

play. His last voluntary remarks and his mistake put me on my guard, but after a few more

uncalled-for remarks he set me at ease by taking money from his pocket. He counted four

paper dollars and was very [p. 87] chagrined and surprised because he had no more

money with him, and promised to send me a cheque for the balance. I was sure that his

mistake betrayed him, that he was only playing with me, but there was nothing to be done.

At the end of a few weeks I sent him a bill for the balance, and the letter was returned to

me by the post-office authorities marked "Not found."

(l) Miss X. spoke very warmly of Mr. Y., which was rather strange, as before this she had

always expressed her indifference, not to say her contempt, for him. On being asked about

this sudden change of heart she said: "I really never had anything against him; he was

always nice to me, but I never gave him the chance to cultivate my acquaintance." She

said "cuptivate." This neologism was a contamination of cultivate and captivate, and

foretold the coming betrothal.

(m) An illustration of the mechanisms of contamination and condensation will be found in

the following lapsus linguæ. Speaking of Miss Z., Miss W. depicted her as a very

"straitlaced" person who was not given to levities, etc. Miss X. thereupon remarked: "Yes,

that is a very characteristic description, she always appealed to me as very 'straicet-

brazed.' " Here the mistake resolved itself into straitlaced and brazen-laced, which

corresponded to Miss W.'s opinion of Miss Z. [p. 88]

(n) I shall quote a number of example a paper by my colleague, Dr. W. Stekel, which

appeared in the Berlin Tageblaltt of January 1904, entitled "Unconscious Confessions".

"An unpleasant trick of my unpleasant thoughts was revealed by the following example: To

begin with, I may state that in my capacity as a physician I never consider my

remuneration: but always keep in view the patient's interest only: this goes without saying.

I was visiting a patient who was convalescing from a serious illness. We had passed

through hard days and nights. I was happy to find her improved, and I portrayed to her the

pleasures of a sojourn in Abbazia, concluding with: 'If, as I hope, you will not soon leave

your bed.' This obviously came from an unconscious selfish motive, to be able to continue

treating wealthy patient, a wish which is entirely foreign to my waking consciousness, and

which I would reject with indignation."

(o) Another example (Dr. W. Stekel): My wife engaged a French governess for the

afternoons, and later, coming to a satisfactory agreement, wished to retain her

testimonials. The governess begged to be allowed to keep them, saying, 'Je cherche

encore pour les après-midis -- pardons, pour les avant-midis.' She appar intended to seek

another place which would perhaps offer more profitable arrangements -- an intention

which she carried out." [p. 89]

(p) I was to give a lecture to a woman. Her husband, upon whose request this was done,

stood behind the door listening. At the end of my sermonizing, which had made a visible

impression, I said: "Good-bye, sir !" To the experienced person I thus betrayed the fact that

the words were directed towards the husband; that I had spoken to oblige him.

(q) Dr. Stekel reports about himself that he had under treatment at the same time two

patients from Triest, each of whom he always addressed incorrectly. "Good morning, Mr.

Peloni!" he would say to Askoli, and to Peloni, " Good morning, Mr. Askoli !" He was at first

inclined to attribute no deeper motive to this mistake, but to explain it through a number of

similarities in both persons. However, he easily convinced himself that here the

interchange of names bespoke a sort of boast -- that is, he was acquainting each of his

Italian patients with the fact that neither was the only resident of Triest who came to

Vienna in search of his medical advice.

(r) Two women stopped in front of a drugstore, and one said to her companion, "If you will

wait a few moments I'll soon be back," but she said movements instead. She was on her

way to buy some castoria for her child.

(s) Mr. L., who is fonder of being called on than of calling, spoke to me through the [p. 90]

telephone from a nearby summer resort. He wanted to know when I would pay him a visit.

I reminded him that it was his turn to visit me, and called his attention to the fact that, as

was the happy possessor of an automobile would be easier for him to call on me. (We

were at different summer resorts, separated about one half-hour's railway trip.) He gladly

promised to call, and asked: "How about Labour Day (September 1st), will it be convenient

for you? "When I answered affirmatively, he said, "Very well, then, put me down for

Election Day" (November). His mistake was quite plain. He likes to visit me, but it was

inconvenient to travel so far. November we would both be in the city. My analysis proved

correct.

(t) A friend described to me a nervous patient, and wished to know whether I could benefit

him. I remarked: "I believe that in time I can remove all his symptoms by psychoanalysis

because it is a durable case" wishing to say "curable"!

(u) I repeatedly addressed my patient as Mrs. Smith, her married daughter's name, when

her real name is Mrs. James. My attention having been called to it, I soon discovered that I

had another patient of the same name who refused to pay for the treatment. Mrs. Smith

was also my patient and paid her bills promptly. [p. 91]

(v) A lapsus linguæ sometimes stands for a particular characteristic. A young woman, who

is the domineering spirit in her home, said of her ailing husband that he had consulted the

doctor about a wholesome diet for himself and then added: "The doctor said that diet has

nothing to do with his ailments, and that he can eat and drink what I want."

(w) I cannot omit this excellent and instructive example, although, according to my

authority, it is about twenty years old. A lady once expressed herself in society -- the very

words show that they were uttered with fervour and under the pressure of a great many

secret emotions: "Yes, a woman must be pretty if she is to please the men. A man is much

better off. As long as he has five straight limbs, he needs no more !"

This example affords us a good insight into the intimate mechanisms of a mistake in

speech by means of condensation and contamination (cf. p. 72). It is quite obvious that we

have here a fusion of two similar modes of expression: --

"As long as he has his four straight limbs."

" As long as he has all his five senses."

Or the term "straight" may be the common element of the two intended expressions: --

"As long as he has his straight limbs."

"All five should be straight." [p. 92]

It may also be assumed that both modes of expression -- viz., those of the five senses and

those of the straight five -- have co-operated to introduce into the sentence about the

straight limbs first a number and then the mysterious five instead of the simple four. But

this fusion surely would not have succeeded if it had not expressed good sense in the form

resulting from the mistake; if it had not expressed a cynical truth which, naturally, could not

be uttered unconcealed, coming as it did from a woman.

Finally, we shall not hesitate to call attention to the fact that the woman's saying, following

wording, could just as well be an excellent witticism as a jocose speech-blunder. It is

simply a question whether she uttered these words with conscious or unconscious

intention. The behaviour of the speaker in this case certainly speaks against the conscious

intention, and thus excludes wit.

(x) Owing to similarity of material, I add here another case of speech-blunder, the

interpretation of which requires less skill. A professor of anatomy strove to explain the

nostril, which, as is known, is a very difficult anatomical structure. To his question whether

his audience grasped his ideas he received an affirmative reply. The professor, known self-

esteem, thereupon remarked: "I can hardly believe this, for the number of people who [p.

93] understand the nostril, even in a city of millions like Vienna, can be counted on a finger

-- pardon me, I meant to say on the fingers of a hand."

(y) I am indebted to Dr. Alf. Robitsek, of Vienna, for calling my attention to two speech-

blunders from an old French author, which I shall reproduce in the original.

Brantôme (1527-1614), Vies des Dames galantries, Discours second: " Si ay-je cogneu

une très belle et honneste dame de par le monde, qui, devisant avec un honneste

gentilhomme de la cour des affaires de la guerre durant ces civiles, elle luy dit: 'J'ay ouy

dire que le roy a faiet rompre tous les c -- de ce pays là.' Elle vouloit dire le ponts. Pensez

que, venant de coucher d'avec son mary, ou songeant à son amant, elle avoit encor ce

nom frais en la bouche; et le gentilhomme s'en eschauffer en amours d'elle pour ce mot.

"Une autre dame que j'ai cogneue, entretenant une autre grand dame plus qu'elle, et luy

louant et exaltant ses beautez, elle luy dit après : 'Non, madame, ce que je vous en dis, ce

n'est point pour vous adultérer; voulant dire adulater, comme elle le rhabilla ainsi : pensez

qu'elle songeoit à adultérer."

In the psychotherapeutic procedure which I employ in the solution and removal of neurotic

symptoms, I am often confronted with the task of discovering from the accidental

utterances and [p. 94] fancies of the patient the thought contents, which, though striving for

concealment, nevertheless intentionally betray themselves. In doing this the mistakes

often perform the most valuable, service, as I can show through most convincing and still

most singular examples.

For example, patients speak of an aunt and later, without noting the mistake, call her "my

mother, or designate a husband as a "brother." In this way they attract my attention to the

fact that they have "identified" these person with each other, that they have placed them

same category, which for their emotional life signifies the recurrence of the same type. Or,

a young man of twenty years presents himself during my office hours with these words: "I

am the father of N. N., whom you have treated -- pardon me, I mean the brother; why, he

is four years older than I." I understand though this mistake that he wishes to express that,

like the brother, he, too, is ill through the fault the father; like his brother, he wishes to be

cured, but that the father is the one most need of treatment. At other times an unusual

arrangement of words, or a forced expression is sufficient to disclose in the speech of the

patient the participation of a repressed thought having a different motive.

Hence, in coarse as well as in finer speech disturbances, which may, nevertheless, be [p.

95] sumed as " speech-blunders," I find that it is not the not the contact effects of the

thoughts outside the intended speech, which determine the origin of the speech-blunder,

and also suffice to explain the newly formed, mistakes in speech. I do not doubt the laws

whereby the sounds produce changes upon one another; but they alone do not appear to

me sufficiently forcible to mar the correct execution of speech. In those cases which I have

studied and investigated more closely they merely represent the preformed mechanism,

which is conveniently utilized by a more remote psychic motive. The latter does not,

however, form a part of the sphere of influence of these sound relations. In a large number

of substitutions caused by mistakes in talking there is an entire absence of such phonetic

laws. In this respect I am in full accord with Wundt, who likewise assumes that the

conditions underlying speech-blunders are complex and go far beyond the contact effect of

the sounds.

If I accept as certain "these more remote psychic influences," following Wundt's

expression, there is still nothing to detain me from conceding also that in accelerated

speech, with a certain amount of diverted attention, the causes of speech-blunder may be

easily limited to the definite law of Meringer and Mayer. However, in a number of examples

gathered by these [p. 96] authors a more complicated solution is apparent.

In some forms of speech-blunders we may assume that the disturbing factor is the of

striking against obscene words and meanings. The purposive disfigurement and distortion

of words and phrases, which is so popular with vulgar persons, aims at nothing else but

the employing of a harmless motive as a reminder of the obscene, and this sport is so

frequent that it would not be at all remarkable if appeared unintentionally and contrary to

the will.

I trust that the readers will not depreciate the value of these interpretations, for which there

no proof, and of these examples which I have myself collected and explained by means of

analysis. But if secretly I still cherish the expectation that even the apparently simple of

speech-blunder will be traced to a disturbance caused by a half-repressed idea cuts the

intended context, I am tempted to it noteworthy observation of Meringer. This author

asserts that it is remarkable that nobody wishes to admit having made a mistake in

speaking. There are many intelligent and honest people who are offended if we tell them

that they made a mistake in speaking. I would not risk making this assertion as general as

Meringer, using the term "nobody." But the emotional trace which clings to the

demonstration [p. 97] of the mistake, which manifestly belongs to the nature of shame, has

its significance. It may be classed with the anger displayed- at the inability to recall a

forgotten name, and with the surprise at the tenaciousness of an apparently indifferent

memory, and it invariably points to the participation of a motive in the formation of the

disturbance.

The distorting of names amounts to an insult when done intentionally, and could have the

same significance in a whole series of cases where it appears as unintentional speech-

blunders. The person who, according to Mayer's report, once said "Freuder" instead of

"Freud," because shortly before he pronounced the name "Breuer (p. 38), and who at

another time spoke of the Freuer-Breudian" method (p. 28), was certainly not particularly

enthusiastic over this method. Later, under the mistakes in writing, I shall report a case of

name disfigurement which certainly admits of no other explanation. [8]

As a disturbing element in these cases there is an intermingling of a criticism which be

omitted, because at the time being it does not correspond to the intention of the speaker.

Or it may be just the reverse; the subsituted name, or the adoption of the strange name,

signifies an appreciation of the same. The identification which is brought about by mistake

is equivalent to a recognition which for the moment must remain in the background. An

experience of this kind from his schooldays is related by Dr. Ferenczi: --

"While in my first year at college I obliged to recite a poem before the whole class. [p. 99] It

was the first experience of the kind in my life, but I was well prepared. As soon as I began

my recitation I was dismayed at being disturbed by an outburst of laughter. The professor

later explained to me this strange reception. I started by giving the title 'From the Distance,'

which was correct, but instead of giving the name of the real author, I mentioned -- my

own. The name of the poet is Alexander Petöfi. The identity of the first name with my own

favoured the interchange of names, but the real reason was surely the fact that I identified

myself at that time with the celebrated poet-hero. Even consciously I entertained for him a

love and respect which verged on adora- [p. 100] tion. The whole ambition-complex hides

it under this faulty action."

A similar identification was reported to me concerning a young physician who timidly and

reverently introduced himself to the celebrated Virchow with the following words: " I am Dr.

Virchow." The surprised professor turned to him and asked, "Is your name also Virchow" I

do not know how the ambitious young man justified his speech-blunder, whether he

thought of the charming excuse that he imagined himself so insignificant next to this big

man that his own name slipped from him, or whether I had the courage to admit that he

hoped that he too would some day be as great a man Virchow, and that the professor

should therefore, not treat him in too disparaging a manner. One or both of these thoughts

may have put young man in an embarrassing position during the introduction.

Owing to very personal motives I must it undecided whether a similar interpretation may

also apply in the case to be cited. At the International Congress in Amsterdam, in 1907 my

theories of hysteria were the subject of a lively discussion. One of my most violent

opponents, in his diatribe against me, repeatedly made mistakes in speech in such a

manner that he put himself in my place and spoke name. He said, for example, "Breuer

and I, [p. 101] as is well known, have demonstrated," etc., when he wished to say "Breuer

and Freud." The name of this opponent does not show the slightest sound similarity to my

own. From this example, as well as from other cases of interchanging names in speech-

blunders, we are reminded of the fact that the speech-blunder can fully forego the facility

afforded to it through similar sounds, and can achieve its purpose if only supported in

content by concealed relations.

In other and more significant cases it is a self-criticism, an internal contradiction against

one's own utterance, which causes the speech-blunder, and even forces a contrasting

substitution for the one intended. We then observe with surprise how the wording of an

assertion removes the purpose of the same, and how the error in speech lays bare the

inner dishonesty. Here the lapsus linguæ becomes a mimicking form of expression, often,

indeed, for the expression of what one does not wish to say. It is, thus a means of self-

betrayal.

Brill, relates: "I had recently been consulted by a woman who showed many paranoid

trends, and as she had no relatives who could co-operate with me, I urged her to enter a

State hospital as a voluntary patient. She was quite willing to do so, but on the following

day she told me that her friends with whom she leased an [p. 102] apartment objected to

her going to a hospital as it would interfere with their plans, and so on. I lost patience and

said: 'There is no use listening to your friends who know nothing about your mental

condition; you are quite incompetent to take care of your own affairs.' I meant to say

'competent.' Here the lapus linguæ expressed my true opinion."

Favoured by chance the speech material often gives origin to examples of speech-

blunders which serve to bring about an overwhelming revelation or a full comic effect, as

shown by the following examples reported by Brill: --

"A wealthy but not very generous host invited his friends for an evening dance. Everything

went well until about 11:30 P.M., when was an intermission, presumably for supper. To the

great disappointment of most of the guests there was no supper; instead, they were

regaled with thin sandwiches and lemonade. As it was close to Election day the

conversation centered on the different candidates; and as the discussion grew warmer,

one of the guests, an ardent admirer of the Progressive Party candidate, marked to the

host: 'You may say what please about Teddy, but there is one thing can always be relied

upon; he always gives you a square meal,' wishing to say square deal. The assembled

guests burst into a roar of laughter to the great embarrassment of the speaker [p. 103] and

the host, who fully understood each other."

"While writing a prescription for a woman who was especially weighed down by the

financial burden of the treatment, I was interested to hear her say suddenly: 'Please do not

give me big bills, because I cannot swallow them.' Of course she meant to say pills."

The following example illustrates a rather serious case of self-betrayal through a mistake

in talking. Some accessory details justify, full reproduction as first printed by Dr. A. A. Brill.

[9]

"While walking one night with Dr. Frink we accidentally met a colleague, Dr. P., whom I had

not seen for years, and of whose private life I knew nothing. We were naturally very

pleased to meet again, and on my invitation he accompanied us to a café, where we spent

about two hours in pleasant conversation. To my question as to whether he was married

he gave a negative answer, and added, 'Why should a man like me marry?'

"On leaving the cafe, he suddenly turned to me and said: 'I should like to know what you

would do in a case like this: I know a nurse [p. 104] who was named as co-respondent in a

divorce case. The wife sued the husband for divorce and named her as co-respondent,

and he got the divorce.' I interrupted him, saying, 'You mean she got the divorce.' He

immediately corrected himself, saying, 'Yes, she got the divorce,' and continued to tell how

the excitement of the trial had affected this nurse to such an extent that she became

nervous and took to drink. He wanted me to advise him how to treat her.

"As soon as I had corrected his mistake I asked him to explain it, but, as is usually the

case he was surprised at my question. He wanted to know whether a person had no right,

to make mistakes in talking. I explained to him that there is a reason for every mistake and

that if he had not told me that he was unmarried, I would say that he was the hero of the

divorce case in question, and that the mistake showed that he wished he had obtained the

divorce instead of his wife, so as not to obliged to pay alimony and to be permitted marry

again in New York State.

"He stoutly denied my interpretation, but his emotional agitation, followed by loud laughter

only strengthened my suspicions. To my appeal that he should tell the truth 'for science'

sake he said, 'Unless you wish me to lie you must believe that I was never married, and

hence your [p. 105] psychoanalytic interpretation is all wrong.' He, however, added that it

was dangerous to be with a person who paid attention to such little things. Then he

suddenly remembered that he had another appointment and left us.

"Both Dr. Frink and I were convinced that my interpretation of his lapsus linguæ was

correct, and I decided to corroborate or disprove it by further investigation. The next day I

found a neighbour and old friend of Dr. P., who confirmed my interpretation in every

particular. The divorce was granted to Dr. P.'s wife a few weeks before, and a nurse was

named as co-respondent. A few weeks later I met Dr. P., and he told me that he was

thoroughly convinced of the Freudian mechanisms."

The self-betrayal is just as plain in the following case reported by Otto Rank: --

A father who was devoid of all patriotic feeling and desirous of educating his children to be

just as free from this superfluous sentiment, reproached his sons for participating in a

patriotic demonstration, and rejected their reference to a similar behaviour of their uncle

with these words: "You are not obliged to imitate him; why, he is an idiot." The astonished

features of the children at their father's unusual tone aroused him to the fact that he had

made a mistake, and he remarked apologetically, "Of course I wished to say patriot." [p.

106] When such a speech-blunder occurs in a serious squabble and reverses the intended

meaning of one of the disputants, it at once puts him at a disadvantage with his adversary

a disadvantage which the latter seldom fails to utilize.

This clearly shows that although people are unwilling to accept the theory of my

conception and are not inclined to forego the convenience that is connected with the

tolerance of a faulty action, they neverthelesss interpret speech-blunders and other faulty

acts in a manner similar to the one presented in this book. The merriment and derision

which are sure to be evoked at the decisive moment through such linguistic mistakes

speak conclusively against the generally accepted convention that such a speech-blunder

is a lapsus lingæ and, psychologically of no importance. It was no less a man than the

German Chancellor, Prince B&uumul;low, who endeavoured to save the situation through

such a protest when the wording of his defence of his Emperor (November 1907) turned

into the opposite through speech-blunder.

"Concerning the present, the new epoch of Emperor Wilhelm II, I can only repeat what I

said a year ago, that it would be unfair and unjust to speak of a coterie of responsible

advisers around our Emperor (loud calls, 'Irresponsible !) -- to speak of irresponsible

advisers. Pardon the lapsus linguæ" (hilarity).

A nice example of speech-blunder, which aims not so much at the betrayal of the speaker

as at the enlightenment of the listener outside the scene, is found in Wallenstein

(Piccolomini, Act I, Scene 5), and shows us that the poet who here uses this means is well

versed in the mechanism and intent of speech-blunders. In the preceding scene Max

Piccolomini was passionately in favour of the ducal party, and was enthusiastic over the

blessings of the peace which became known to him in the course of a journey while

accompanying Wallenstein's daughter to the encampment. He leaves his father and the

Court ambassador, Questenberg, in great consternation. The scene proceeds as follows:

QUESTENBERG. Woe unto us! Are matters thus? Friend, should we allow him to go there

with this false opinion, and not recall him at once in order to open his eyes instantly.

OCTAVIO (rousing himself from profound meditation). He has already opened mine, and I

see more than pleases me.

QUESTENBERG. What is it, friend ?

OCTAVIO. A curse on that journey!

QUESTENBERG. Why? What is it?

OCTAVIO. Come! I must immediately follow the unlucky trail, must see with my own eyes -

come -- (Wishes to lead him away.)

QUESTENBERG. What is the matter? Where ?

OCTAVIO (urging). To her!

QUESTENBERG. To -- ?

OCTAVIO (corrects himself). To the duke! Let us go, etc, [p. 108]

The slight speech-blunder to her in place of to him is meant to betray to us the fact that the

father has seen through his son's motive for espousing the other cause, while the courtier

complains that "he speaks to him altogether in riddles."

Another example wherein a poet makes use of a speech-blunder was discovered by Otto

Rank in Shakespeare. I quote Rank's report from the Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse, I. 3."

A poetic speech-blunder, very delicately motivated and technically remarkably utilized,

which, like the one pointed out by Freud in Wallenstein (Zur Psychopathologie des

Alltagslebens, 2nd Edition, p. 48), not only shows that poets knew the mechanism and

sense of this error, but also presupposes an understanding of it on the part of the hearer,

can be found in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice (Act Ill, Scene 2). By the will of her

fathers Portia was bound to select a husband through a lottery. She escaped all her

distasteful suitors by lucky chance. When she finally found in Bassanio the suitor after her

own heart, she had cause to fear lest he, too, should draw the unlucky lottery.' In the scene

she would to tell him that even if he chose the wrong casket, he might, nevertheless, be

sure of love. But she is hampered by her vow. In this mental conflict the poet puts these

words [p. 109] in her mouth, which were directed to the welcome suitor: --

"There is something tells me (but it is not love),

I would not lose you; and you know yourself

Hate counsels not in such a quality.

But lest you should not understand me well

(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought),

I would detain you here some month or two,

Before you venture for me. I could teach you

How to choose right, but then I am forsworn

So will I never be; so may you miss me;

But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

They have overlooked me, and divided me:

One half of me is yours, the other half yours --

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours --

And so all yours."

"Just the very thing which she would like to hint to him gently, because really she should

keep it from him, namely, that even before the choice she is wholly his -- that she loves

him, the poet, with admirable psychologic sensitiveness, allows to come to the surface in

the speech-blunder. It is through this artifice that he manages to allay the intolerable

uncertainty of the lover as well as the like tension of the hearer concerning the outcome of

the choice."

The interest merited by the confirmation of our conception of speech-blunders through the

great poets justifies the citation of a third example which was reported by Dr. E. Jones [10]

"Our great novelist, George Meredith, in his masterpiece, The Egoist, shows an even finer

understanding of the mechanism. The plot of the novel is, shortly, as follows: Sir

Willoughby Patterne, an aristocrat greatly admired by his circle, becomes engaged to a

Miss Constantia Durham. She discovers in him an intense egoism, which he skilfully

conceals from the world, and to escape the marriage she elopes with a Captain Oxford.

Some years later Patterne becomes engaged to a Miss Middleton, and most of the book is

taken up with a detailed description of the conflict that arises in her mind on also

discovering his egotism. External circumstances and her conception of honour hold her to

her pledge, while he becomes more and more distasteful in her eyes. She partly confided

in his cousin and secretary, Vernon Whitford, the man whom she ultimately marries, but

from a mixture of motives stands aloof.

"In the soliloquy Clara speaks as follows: 'If some noble gentleman could see me as I am

and not disdain to aid me! Oh I to be caught out of this prison of thorns and brambles I

cannot tear my own way out. I am a coward. A beckoning of a finger would change me, I

believe. I could fly bleeding and through hootings to a comrade. . . . Constantia met a

soldier. Perhaps she prayed and her prayer was [p. 111] answered. She did ill. But, oh,

how I love her for it! His name was Harry Oxford. . . . She did not waver, she cut the links,

she signed herself over. Oh, brave girl, what do you think of me? But I have no Harry

Whitford; I am alone. . . .' The sudden consciousness that she had put another name for

Oxford struck her a buffet, drowning her in crimson.

"The fact that both men's names end in 'ford' evidently renders the confounding of them

more easy, and would by many be regarded as an adequate cause for this, but the real

underlying motive for it is plainly indicated by the author. In another passage the same

lapsus occurs, and is followed by the hesitation and change of subject that one is familiar

with in psychoanalysis when a half-conscious complex is touched. Sir Willoughby

patronizingly says of Whitford: 'False alarm. The resolution to do anything unaccustomed

is quite beyond poor old Vernon.' Clara replies: 'But if Mr. Oxford -- Whitford . . . your

swans, coming sailing up the lake; how beautiful they look when they are indignant! I was

going to ask you, surely men witnessing a marked admiration for some one else will

naturally be discouraged? ' Sir Willoughby stiffened with sudden enlightenment.

In still another passage Clara, by another lapsus, betrays her secret wish that she was on

[p. 112] a more intimate footing with Vernon Whitford. Speaking to a boy friend, she says,

'Tell Mr. Vernon -- tell Mr. Whitford.' "

The conception of speech-blunders here defended can be readily verified in the smallest

details. I have been able to demonstrate repeatedly that the most insignificant and most

natural cases of speech-blunders have their good sense, and admit of the same

interpretation as the more striking examples. A patient who, contrary to my wishes but with

firm personal motives, decided upon a short trip to Budapest justified herself by saying that

she was for only three days, but she blundered said for only three weeks. She, betrayed

her secret feeling that, to spite me, she preferred spending three weeks to three days in

that society which I considered unfit for her.

One evening, wishing to excuse myself for not having called for my wife at the theatre, I

said: "I was at the theatre at ten minutes after ten." I was corrected: "You meant to say ten

o'clock." Naturally I wanted to say before ten. After ten would certainly be no excuse. I had

been told that the theatre programme read, "Finished before ten o'clock." We arrived at the

theatre I found the foyer dark and the theatre empty. Evidently the performance was over

earlier and my wife did not wait me. When I looked at the clock it still wanted [p. 113] five

minutes to ten. I determined to make my case more favourable at home, and say that it

was ten minutes to ten. Unfortunately, the speech-blunder spoiled the intent and laid bare

my dishonesty, in which I acknowledged more than there really was to confess.

This leads us to those speech disturbances which can no longer be described as speech-

blunders, for they do not injure the individual word., but affect the rhythm and execution of

the entire speech, as, for example, the stammering and stuttering of embarrassment. But

here, as in the former cases, it is the inner conflict that is betrayed to us through the

disturbance in speech. I really do not believe that any one will make mistakes in talking in

an audience with His Majesty, in a serious love declaration, or in defending one's name

and honour before a jury; in short, people make no mistakes where they are all there as

the saying goes. Even in criticizing an author's style we are allowed and accustomed to

follow the principle of explanation, which we cannot miss in the origin of a single speech-

blunder. A clear and unequivocal manner of writing shows us that here the author is in

harmony with himself, but where we find a forced and involved expression aiming at more

target, as appropriately expressed, we can thereby recognize the participation of an

unfinished and complicated [p. 114] thought, or we can hear through it the stifle voice of

the author's self-criticism. [11]

[1] These examples are given by the editor.

[2] Those who are interested are referred to pp. 62-97 of the author's work.

[3] Neue Freie Presse, August 23, 1900: "Wie man sich versprechen kann."

[4] Völker psychologie, vol. I., pt. I., p. 371, ect., 1900

[5] Italics are mine.

[6] It turned out that she was under the influence conscious thoughts concerning pregnancy and

prevention of conception. With the words "shut up like a knife," which she uttered consciously as a

complaint, she meant to describe the position of the child in the womb. The word "earnest" in my

remark recalled to her the name (S. Ernst) of the well-known Vienna business firm in Ka¨rthner

Strasse, which used to advertise the sale of articles for the prevention of conception.

[7] Similar mistakes dealing with Officer 666 were reported to me by other psycho-analysts.

[8] It may be observed that aristocrats in particular very frequently distort the names of the

physicians they consult, from which we may conclude that inwardly they slight them, in spite of the

politeness with which they are wont to greet them. I shall cite here some excellent observations

concerning the forgetting of names from the works of Professor E. Jones, of Toronto : Papers on

Psycho-analysis, chap. iii. p. 49 : --

"Few people can avoid feeling a twinge of resentment when they find that their name has been

forgotten, particularly if it is by some one with whom they had hoped or expected it would be

remembered. They instinctively realize if they had made a greater impression on the person's mind

he would certainly have remembered them again, for the name is an integral part of the

personality. Similarly, few things are more flattering to most people than to find themselves

addressed by name by a great person where they could hardly have anticipated it. Napoleon, like

most leaders of men, was a master of this art. In the midst of the disastrous campaign of France in

1814, he gave a proof of his memory in this direction. When in a town near Craonne, he

recollected that he had met the mayor, De Bussy, over twenty years ago in the La Fère Regiment.

The delighted De Bussy at once threw himself into his service with extraordinary zeal. Conversely,

there is no surer of affronting some one than by pretending to forget his name; the insinuation is

thus conveyed that the person is so unimportant in our eyes that we cannot be bothered to

remember his name. This device is often exploited in literature. In Turgentev's Smoke (p. 255) the

following passage occurs: " 'So you still find Baden entertaining, M'sieur -- Litvinov.' Ratmirov

always uttered Litvinov's surname with hesitation, every time, as though he had forgotten it, and

could not at once recall it. In this way, as well as by the lofty flourish of his hat in saluting him, he

meant to insult his pride." The same author, in his Fathers and Children (p. 107), writes : "The

Governor invited Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and within a few minutes invited them a second

time, regarding them as brothers, and calling them Kisarov." Here the forgetting that he had

spoken to them, the mistake in the names, and the inability to distinguish between the two young

men, constitute a culmination of disparagement. Falsification of a name has the same signification

as forgetting it; it is only a step towards complete amnesia."

[9] Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse, ii., Jahrg. I. Cf. also Brill's Psychanalysis: Its Theories and Practical

Application, p. 202. Saunders, Philadelphia and London.

[10] Jones, Papers on Psycho-analysis, p. 60.

[11] "Ce qu'on conçoit bien

Sénonce clairement,

Et les mots pour le dire

Arrivent aisément."

Boileau, Art Poétique.

CHAPTER 6

Mistakes in Reading and Writing

That the same view-points and observation should hold true for mistakesin reading and

writing as for lapses in speech is not at all surprisingwhen one remembers the inner

relation of these functions. I shall hereconfine myself to the reports of several carefully

analysed examples andshall make no attempt to include all of the phenomena.

A. LAPSES IN READING.

(a) While looking over a number of the Leipziger Illustrierten,which I was holding obliquely,

I read as the title of the front-page picture,"A Wedding Celebration in the Odyssey."

Astonished and with my attentionaroused, I moved the page into the proper position only

to read correctly,"A Wedding Celebration in the Ostsee (Baltic Sea)." How did this

senselessmistake in reading come about?

Immediately my thoughts turned to a book by Ruth, Experimental Investigationsof "Music

Phantoms," etc., with which I had recently been [p.118] much occupied, as it closely

touched the psychologic problems thatare of interest to me. The author promised a work in

the near future tobe called Analysis and Principles of Dream Phenomena. No wonderthat I,

having just published an Interpretation of Dreams, awaitedthe appearance of this book

with the most intense interest. In Ruth's workconcerning music phantoms I found an

announcement in the beginning of thetable of contents of the detailed inductive proof that

the old Hellenicmyths and traditions originated mainly from slumber and music

phantoms,from dream phenomena and from deliria. Thereupon I had immediately

plungedinto the text in order to find out whether he was also aware that the scenewhere

Odysseus appears before Nausicaa was based upon the common dreamof nakedness.

One of my friends called my attention to the clever passagein G. Keller's Grünem Heinrich,

which explains this episodein the Odyssey as an objective representation of the dream of

the marinerstraying far from home. I added to it the reference to the exhibition dreamof

nakedness.[1]

(b) A woman who is very anxious to get children always readsstorks instead of stocks.

my wife and informed her that poor Mrs. [p.119] Wm. H. was seriously ill and was given up

by the doctors. There musthave been a false ring to the words in which I expressed my

sympathy, asmy wife grew suspicious, asked to see the letter, and expressed her

opinionthat it could not read as stated by me, because no one calls the wife bythe

husband's name. Moreover, the correspondent was well acquainted withthe Christian

name of the woman concerned. I defended my assertion obstinatelyand referred to the

customary visiting-cards, on which a woman designatesherself by the Christian name of

her husband. I was finally compelled totake up the letter, and, as a matter of fact, we read

therein "Poor W.M." What is more, I had even overlooked "Poor Dr. W. M." My mistake

inreading signified a spasmodic effort, so to speak, to turn the sad newsfrom the man

towards the woman. The title between the adjective and thename did not go well with my

claim that the woman must have been meant.That is why it was omitted in the reading.

The motive for this falsifyingwas not that the woman was less an object of my sympathy

than the man,but the fate of this poor man had excited my fears regarding another

andnearer person who, I was aware, had the same disease.

(d) Both irritating and laughable is a lapse in reading to whichI am frequently subject when

I walk through the streets of a strange cityduring [p. 120] my vacation. I then read

antiquities on every shopsign that shows the slightest resemblance to the word; this

displays thequesting spirit of the collector.

(e) In his important work[2] Bleuler relates:"While reading I once had the intellectual feeling

of seeing my name twolines below. To my astonishment I found only the words blood

corpuscles.Of the many thousands of lapses in reading in the peripheral as well asin the

central field of vision that I have analysed, this was the moststriking case. Whenever I

imagined that I saw my name, the word that inducedthis illusion usually showed a greater

resemblance to my name than theword bloodcorpuscles. In most cases all the letters of

my name hadto be close together before I could commit such an error. In this

case,however, I could readily explain the delusion of reference and the illusion.What I had

just read was the end of a statement concerning a form of badstyle in scientific works, a

tendency from which I am not entirely free."

B. LAPSES IN WRITING.

(a) On a sheet of paper containing principally short daily notesof business interest, I found,

to my surprise, the incorrect date, "Thursday,[p. 121] October 20th," bracketed under the

correct date of the month ofSeptember. It was not difficult to explain this anticipation as the

expressionof a wish. A few days before I had returned fresh from my vacation andfelt

ready for any amount of professional work, but as yet there were fewpatients. On my

arrival I had found a letter from a patient announcingher arrival on the 20th of October. As I

wrote the same date in SeptemberI may certainly have thought "X. ought to be here

already; what a pityabout that whole month!" and with this thought I pushed the current

datea month ahead. In this case the disturbing thought can scarcely be calledunpleasant;

therefore after noticing this lapse in writing, I immediatelyknew the solution. In the fall of

the following year I experienced an entirelyanalogous and similarly motivated lapse in

writing. E. Jones has made astudy of similar cases, and found that most mistakes in

writing dates aremotivated.

(b) I received the proof sheets of my contribution to the annualreport on neurology and

psychiatry, and I was naturally obliged to reviewwith special care the names of authors,

which, because of the many differentnationalities represented, offer the greatest difficulties

to the compositor.As a matter of fact, I found some strange-sounding names still in needof

correction; but, oddly enough, the compositor had [p. 122] correctedone single name in my

manuscript, and with very good reason. I had writtenBuckrhard, which the compositor

guessed to be Burckhard.I had praised the treatise of this obstetrician entitled The

Influenceof Birth on the Origin of Infantile Paralysis, and I was not consciousof the least

enmity toward him. But an author in Vienna, who had angeredme by an adverse criticism

of my Traumdeutung, bears the same name.It was as if in writing the name Burckhard,

meaning the obstetrician, awicked thought concerning the other B. had obtruded itself. The

twistingof the name, as I have already stated in regard to lapses in speech, oftensignifies a

depreciation.[3]

correct to describe as an erroneously carriedout action. I intended to withdraw from the

postal savings bank the sumof 300 crowns, which I wished to send to an absent relative to

enable himto take treatment at a watering-place. I noted that my account was

4,380crowns, and I decided to bring it down to the round sum of 4,000 crowns,[p. 123]

which was not to be touched in the near future. After making outthe regular cheque I

suddenly noticed that I had written not 380 crowns,as I had intended, but exactly 438

crowns. I was frightened at the untrustworthinessof my action. I soon realized that my fear

was groundless, as I had notgrown poorer than I was before. But I had to reflect for quite a

whilein order to discover what influence diverted me from my first intentionwithout making

itself known to my consciousness.

First I got on a wrong track: I subtracted 380 from 438, but after thatI did not know what to

do with the difference. Finally an idea occurredto me which showed me the true

connection. 438 is exactly 10 per cent.of the entire account of 4,380 crowns! But the

bookseller, too, gives a10 per cent. discount! I recalled that a few days before I had

selectedseveral books, in which I was no longer interested, in order to offer themto the

bookseller for 300 crowns. He thought the price demanded too high,but promised to give

me a final answer within the next few days. If heshould accept my first offer he would

replace the exact sum that I wasto spend on the sufferer. There is no doubt that I was

sorry about thisexpenditure. The emotion at the realization of my mistakes can be

moreeasily understood as a fear of growing poor through such outlays. But both[p. 124]

the sorrow over this expense and the fear of poverty connectedwith it were entirely foreign

to my consciousness; I did not regret thisexpense when I promised the sum, and would

have laughed at the idea ofany such underlying motive. I should probably not have

assigned such feelingsto myself had not my psychoanalytic practice made me quite

familiar withthe repressed elements of psychic life, and if I had not had a dream afew days

before which brought forth the same solution.

(d) Although it is usually difficult to find the person responsiblefor printers' errors, the

psychologic mechanisms underlying them are thesame as in other mistakes.

Typographical errors also well demonstrate thefact that people are not at all indifferent to

such trivialities as "mistakes,"and, judging by the indignant reactions of the parties

concerned, one isforced to the conclusion that mistakes are not treated by the public

atlarge as mere accidents. This state of affairs is very well summed up inthe following

editorial from the New York Times of April 14, 1913.Not the least interesting are the

comments of the keen-witted editor, whoseems to share our views: --

"A BLUNDER TRULY UNFORTUNATE.

"Typographical errors come only too frequently from even the best-regulatednewspaper [p.

125] presses. They are always humiliating, often a causeof anger, and occasionally

dangerous, but now and then they are distinctlyamusing. This latter quality they are most

apt to have when they are madein the office of a journalistic neighbour, a fact that probably

explainswhy we can read with smiling composure an elaborate editorial apology

whichappears in the Hartford Courant.

"Its able political commentator tried the other day to say that, unfortunatelyfor Connecticut,

'J. H. is no longer a Member of Congress. Printerand proof-reader combined to deprive the

adverb of its negative particle.'At least, the able political commentator so declares, and we

wouldn't questionhis veracity for the world; but sorrowful experience has taught most ofus

that it's safer to get that sort of editorial disclaimer of responsibilityinto print before looking

up the copy, and perhaps -- just perhaps -- theworld-enlightener, who knows that he wrote

unfortunate, becausethat is what he intended to write, didn't rashly chance the discovery

ofhis own guilt before he convicted the composing-room of it.

"Be that as it may, the meaning of the sentence was cruelly changed,and a friend was

grieved or offended. Not so long ago a more astonishingerror than this one crept into a

book review of ours -- a very solemn andscientific [p. 126] book. It consisted of the

substitution of the word'caribou' for the word 'carbon' in a paragraph dealing with the

chemicalcomposition of the stars. In that case the writer's fierce self-exculpationis at least

highly plausible, as it seems hardly possible that he wrote'caribou' when he intended to

write 'carbon,' but even he was cautiousenough to make no deep inquiry into the matter."

(e) I cite the following case contributed by Dr. W. Stekel, forthe authenticity of which I can

vouch: "An almost unbelievable exampleof miswriting and misreading occurred in the

editing of a widely circulatedweekly. It concerned an article of defence and vindication

which was writtenwith much warmth and great pathos. The editor-in-chief of the paper

readthe article, while the author himself naturally read it from the manuscriptand proof-

sheets more than once. Everybody was satisfied, when the printer'sreader suddenly

noticed a slight error which had escaped the attentionof all. There it was, plainly enough:

'Our readers will bear witness tothe fact that we have always acted in a selfish manner for

the goodof the community.' It is quite evident that it was meant to read unselfish.The real

thoughts, however, broke through the pathetic speech with elementalforce."

[p. 127] (f) The following example of misprinting is taken froma Western gazette: The

teacher was giving an instruction paper on mathematicalmethods, and spoke of a plan "for

the instruction of youth that might becarried out ad libidinem."

(g) Even the Bible did not escape misprints. Thus we have the"Wicked Bible," so called

from the fact that the negative was left outof the seventh commandment. This authorized

edition of the Bible was publishedin London in 1631, and it is said that the printer had to

pay a fine oftwo thousand pounds for the omission.

Another biblical misprint dates back to the year 1580, and is foundin the Bible of the

famous library of Wolfenbuttel, in Hesse. In the passagein Genesis where God tells Eve

that Adam shall be her master and shallrule over her, the German translation is "Und er

soll dein Herr sein."The word Herr (master) was substituted by Narr, which meansfool.

Newly discovered evidence seems to show that the error was a consciousmachination of

the printer's suffragette wife, who refused to be ruledby her husband.

(h) Dr. Ernest Jones reports the following case concerning A.A. Brill: "Although by custom

almost a teetotaler, he yielded to a friend'simportunity one evening, in order to avoid

offending him, and took a littlewine. During the next morning an exacerbation of an eye-

strain headachegave him cause to regret [p. 128] this slight indulgence, and his

reflectionon the subject found expression in the following slip of the pen. Havingoccasion

to write the name of a girl mentioned by a patient, he wrote notEthel but Ethyl.[4] It

happened that the girl in questionwas rather too fond of drink, and in Dr. Brill's mood at the

time thischaracteristic of hers stood out with conspicuous significance."[5]

(i) A woman wrote to her sister, felicitating her on the occasionof taking possession of a

new and spacious residence. A friend who waspresent noticed that the writer put the

wrong address on the letter, andwhat was still more remarkable was the fact that she did

not address itto the previous residence, but to one long ago given up, but which hersister

had occupied when she first married. When the friend called herattention to it the writer

remarked, "You are right; but what in the worldmade me do this?" to which her friend

replied: "Perhaps you begrudge herthe nice big apartment into which she has just moved

because you yourselfare cramped for space, and for that reason you put her back into her

firstresidence, where she was no better off than yourself." "Of course I begrudgeher the

new apartment," she honestly admitted. As an afterthought she added,"It is a pity that one

is so mean in such matters."

[p. 129] (k) Ernest Jones reports the following example givento him by Dr. A. A. Brill. In a

letter to Dr. Brill a patient tried toattribute his nervousness to business worries and

excitement during thecotton crisis. He went on to say: "My trouble is all due to that d --

frigidwave; there isn't even any seed to be obtained for new crops." He referredto a cold

wave which had destroyed the cotton crops, but instead of writing"wave" he wrote "wife."

In the bottom of his heart he entertained reproachesagainst his wife on account of her

marital frigidity and childlessness,and he was not far from the cognition that the enforced

abstinence playedno little part in the causation of his malady.

Omissions in writing are naturally explained in the same manner as mistakesin writing. A

remarkable example of omission which is of historic importancewas reported by Dr. B.

Dattner.[6] In one of the legalarticles dealing with the financial obligations of both

countries, whichwas drawn up in the year 1867 during the readjustment between Austria

andHungary, the word "effective" was accidentally omitted in the Hungariantranslation.

Dattner thinks it probable that the unconscious desire ofthe Hungarian law-makers to grant

Austria the least possible advantageshad something to do with this omission.

[p. 130] Another example of omission is the following related by Brill:"A prospective patient,

who had corresponded with me relative to treatment,finally wrote for an appointment for a

certain day. Instead of keepinghis appointment he sent regrets which began as follows:

'Owing to foreseencircumstances I am unable to keep my appointment.' He naturally

meant towrite unforeseen. He finally came to me months later, and in thecourse of the

analysis I discovered that my suspicions at the time werejustified; there were no

unforeseen circumstances to prevent his comingat that time; he was advised not to come

to me. The unconscious does notlie."

Wundt gives a most noteworthy proof for the easily ascertained factthat we more easily

make mistakes in writing than in speaking (loc.cit., p. 374). He states: "In the course of

normal conversationthe inhibiting function of the will is constantly directed toward

bringinginto harmony the course of ideation with the movement of articulation.If the

articulation following the ideas becomes retarded through mechanicalcauses, as in writing,

such anticipations then readily make their appearance."

Observation of the determinants which favour lapses in reading givesrise to doubt, which I

do not like to leave unmentioned, because I am ofthe opinion that it may become the start-

[p. 131] ing-point of a fruitfulinvestigation. It is a familiar fact that in reading aloud the

attentionof the reader often wanders from the text and is directed toward his ownthoughts.

The results of this deviation of attention are often such thatwhen interrupted and

questioned he cannot even state what he had read.In other words, he has read

automatically, although the reading was nearlyalways correct. I do not think that such

conditions favour any noticeableincrease in the mistakes. We are accustomed to assume

concerning a wholeseries of functions that they are most precisely performed when done

automatically,with scarcely any conscious attention. This argues that the

conditionsgoverning attention in mistakes in speaking, writing, and reading mustbe

differently determined than assumed by Wundt (cessation or diminutionof attention). The

examples which we have subjected to analysis have reallynot given us the right to take for

granted a quantitative diminution ofattention. We found what is probably not exactly the

same thing, a disturbanceof the attention through a strange obtruding thought.

Footnotes

[1] The Interpretation of Dreams, p. 208.

[2] Bleuler, Affektivität Suggestibilität,Paranoia, p. 121, Halle. Marhold, 1906.

[3] A similar situation occurs in Julius Cæsar,iii. 3:

"CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna.

"BURGHER. Tear him to pieces! he is a conspirator.

"CINNA. I am Cinna the poet! not Cinna the conspirator.

"BURGHER. No matter; his name is Cinna; tear the name out of his heartand let him go."

[4] Ethyl alcohol is, of course, the chemical namefor ordinary alcohol.

[5] Jones, Psycho-analysis, p. 66.

[6] Zentralbl. f. Psychoanalyse,i. 12.

CHAPTER 7

Forgetting of Impressions and Resolutions

If any one should be inclined to overrate the state of our present knowledge of mental life,

all that would be needed to force him to assume a modest attitude would be to remind him

of the function of memory. No psychologic theory has yet been able to account for the

connection between the fundamental phenomena of remembering and forgetting; indeed,

even the complete analysis of that which one can actually observe has as yet scarcely

been grasped. To-day forgetting has perhaps grown more puzzling than remembering,

especially since we have learned from the study of dreams and pathologic states that even

what for a long time we believed forgotten may suddenly return to consciousness.

To be sure, we are in possession of some view-points which we hope will receive general

recognition. Thus we assume that forgetting is a spontaneous process to which we may

ascribe a certain temporal discharge. We emphasize [p. 136] the fact that, just as among

the units of every impression or experience, in forgetting, too, a certain selection takes

place among the existing impressions. We are acquainted with some of the conditions that

underlie the tenaciousness of memory and the awakening of that which would otherwise

remain forgotten. Nevertheless, we can observe in innumerable cases of daily life how

unreliable and unsatisfactory our knowledge of the mechanism is. Thus we may listen to

two persons exchanging reminiscences concerning the same outward impressions, say of

a journey that they have taken together some time before. What remains most firmly in the

memory of the one is often forgotten by the other, as if it had never occurred, even when

there is not the slightest reason to assume that this impression is of greater psychic

importance for the one than for the other. A great many of those factors which determine

the selective power of memory are obviously still beyond our ken.

With the purpose of adding some small contribution to the knowledge of the conditions of

forgetting, I was wont to subject to a psychologic analysis those cases in which forgetting

concerned me personally. As a rule I took up only a certain group of those cases, namely,

those in which the forgetting astonished me, because, in my opinion, I should have

remem- [p. 137] bered the experience in question. I wish further to remark that I am

generally not inclined to forgetfulness (of things experienced, not of things learned), and

that for a short period of my youth I was able to perform extraordinary feats of memory.

When I was a schoolboy it was quite natural for me to be able to repeat from memory the

page of a book which I had read; and shortly before I entered the University I could write

down practically verbatim the popular lectures on scientific subjects directly after hearing

them. In the tension before the final medical examination I must have made use of the

remnant of this ability, for in certain subjects I gave the examiners apparently automatic

answers, which proved to be exact reproductions of the text-book, which I had skimmed

through but once and then in greatest haste.

Since those days I have steadily lost control over my memory; of late, however, I became

convinced that with the aid of a certain artifice I can recall far more than I would otherwise

credit myself with remembering. For example, when, during my office hours, a patient

states that I have seen him before and I cannot recall either the fact or the time, then I help

myself by guessing -- that is, I allow a number of years, beginning from the present time, to

come to my mind quickly. Whenever this could be controlled by records of definite

information from [p. 138] the patient, it was always shown that in over ten years[1] I have

seldom missed it by more than six months. The same thing happens when I meet a casual

acquaintance and, from politeness, inquire about his small child. When he tells of its

progress I try to fancy how old the child now is. I control my estimate by the information

given by the father, and at most I make a mistake of a month, and in older children of three

months. I cannot state, however, what basis I have for this estimate. Of late I have grown

so bold that I always offer my estimate spontaneously, and still run no risk of grieving the

father by displaying my ignorance in regard to his offspring. Thus I extend my conscious

memory by invoking my larger unconscious memory.

I shall report some striking examples of forgetting which for the most part I have observed

in myself. I distinguish forgetting of impressions and experiences, that is, the forgetting of

knowledge, from forgetting of resolutions, that is, the forgetting of omissions. The uniform

result of the entire series of observations I can formulate as follows: The forgetting in all

cases is proved to be founded on a motive of displeasure.

[p. 139] A. FORGETTING OF IMPRESSIONS AND KNOWLEDGE.

(a) During the summer my wife once made me very angry, although the cause in itself was

trifling. We sat in a restaurant opposite a gentleman from Vienna whom I knew, and who

had cause to know me, and whose acquaintance I had reasons for not wishing to renew.

My wife, who had heard nothing to the disrepute of the man opposite her, showed by her

actions that she was listening to his conversation with his neighbours, for from time to time

she asked me questions which took up the thread of their discussion. I became impatient

and finally irritated. A few weeks later I complained to a relative about this behaviour on the

part of my wife, but I was not able to recall even a single word of the conversation of the

gentleman in the case. As I am usually rather resentful and cannot forget a single incident

of an episode that has annoyed me, my amnesia in this case was undoubtedly determined

by respect for my wife.

A short time ago I had a similar experience. I wished to make merry with an intimate friend

over a statement made by my wife only a few hours earlier, but I found myself hindered by

the noteworthy fact that I had entirely forgotten the statement. I had first to beg my wife to

[p. 140] recall it to me. It is easy to understand that my forgetting in this case may be

analogous to the typical disturbance of judgment which dominates us when it concerns

those nearest to us.

(b) To oblige a woman who was a stranger in Vienna I had undertaken to procure a small

iron safe for the preservation of documents and money. When I offered my services, the

image of an establishment in the heart of the city where I was sure I had seen such safes

floated before me with extraordinary visual vividness. To be sure, I could not recall the

name of the street, but I felt certain that I would discover the store in a walk through the

city, for my memory told me that I had passed it countless times. To my chagrin I could not

find this establishment with the safes, though I walked through the inner part of the city in

every direction. I concluded that the only thing left to do was to search through a business

directory, and if that failed, to try to identify the establishment in a second round of the city.

It did not, however, require so much effort; among the addresses in the directory I found

one which immediately presented itself as that which had been forgotten. It was true that I

had passed the show window countless times, each time, however, when I had gone to

visit the M. family, who have lived a great many years in this identical building. After [p.

141] this intimate friendship had turned to an absolute estrangement, I had taken care to

avoid the neighbourhood as well as the house, though without ever thinking of the reason

for my action. In my walk through the city searching for the safe in the show window I had

traversed every street in the neighbourhood but the right one, and I had avoided this as if it

were forbidden ground.

The motive of displeasure which was at the bottom of my disorientation is thus

comprehensible. But the mechanism of forgetting is no longer so simple as in the former

example. Here my aversion naturally does not extend to the vendor of safes, but to

another person, concerning whom I wish to know nothing, and later transfers itself from the

latter to this incident where it brings about the forgetting. Similarly, in the case of

Burckhard mentioned above, the grudge against the one brought about the error in writing

the name of the other. The similarity of names which here established a connection

between two essentially different streams of thought was accomplished in the showcase

window instance by the contiguity of space and the inseparable environment. Moreover,

this latter case was more closely knit together, for money played a great part in the

causation of the estrangement from the family living in this house.

[p. 142] (c) The B. and R. Company requested me to pay a professional call on one of their

officers. On my way to him I was engrossed in the thought that I must already have been

in the building occupied by the firm. It seemed as if I used to see their signboard in a lower

story while my professional visit was taking me to a higher story. I could not recall,

however, which house it was nor when I had called there. Although the entire matter was

indifferent and of no consequence, I nevertheless occupied myself with it, and at last

learned in the usual roundabout way, by collecting the thoughts that occurred to me in this

connection, that one story above the floor occupied by the firm B. and R. was the Pension

Fischer, where I had frequently visited patients. Then I remembered the building which

sheltered both the company and the pension.

I was still puzzled, however, as to the motive that entered into play in this forgetting. I

found nothing disagreeable in my memory concerning the firm itself or the Pension

Fischer, or the patients living there. I was also aware that it could not deal with anything

very painful, otherwise I hardly would have been successful in tracing the thing forgotten in

a roundabout way without resorting to external aid, as happened in the preceding

example. Finally it occurred to me that a little before, while starting on my [p. 143] way to a

new patient, a gentleman whom I had difficulty in recalling greeted me in the street. Some

months previously I had seen this man in an apparently serious condition and had made

the diagnosis of general paresis, but later I had learned of his recovery, consequently my

judgment had been incorrect. Was it not possible that we had in this case a remission,

which one usually finds in dementia paralytica? In that contingency my diagnosis would

still be justified. The influence emanating from this meeting caused me to forget the

neighbourhood of the B. and R. Company, and my interest to discover the thing forgotten

was transferred from this case of disputed diagnosis. But the associative connection in this

loose inner relation was effected by means of a similarity of names: the man who

recovered, contrary to expectation, was also an officer of a large company that

recommends patients to me. And the physician with whom I had seen the supposed

paretic bore the name of Fischer, the name of the pension in the house which I had

forgotten.

(d) Mislaying a thing really has the same significance as forgetting where we have placed

it. Like most people delving in pamphlets and books, I am well oriented about my desk,

and can produce what I want with one lunge. What appears to others as disorder has

become for me perfect order. Why, then, did I mislay a [p. 144] catalogue which was sent

to me not long ago so that it could not be found? What is more, it had been my intention to

order a book which I found announced therein, entitled Ueber die Sprache, because it was

written by an author whose spirited, vivacious style I like, whose insight into psychology

and whose knowledge of the cultural world I have learned to appreciate. I believe that was

just why I mislaid the catalogue. It was my habit to lend the books of this author among my

friends for their enlightenment, and a few days before, on returning one, somebody had

said: "His style reminds me altogether of yours, and his way of thinking is identical." The

speaker did not know what he was stirring up with this remark. Years ago, when I was

younger and in greater need of forming alliances, I was told practically the same thing by

an older colleague, to whom I had recommended the writings of a familiar medical author.

To put it in his words, "It is absolutely your style and manner." I was so influenced by these

remarks that I wrote a letter to this author with the object of bringing about a closer

relation, but a rather cool answer put me back "in my place." Perhaps still earlier

discouraging experiences conceal themselves behind this last one, for I did not find the

mislaid catalogue. Through this premonition I was actually prevented from ordering the

advertised [p. 145] book, although the disappearance of the catalogue formed no real

hindrance, as I remembered well both the name of the book and the author.

(e) Another case of mislaying merits our interest on account of the conditions under which

the mislaid object was rediscovered. A younger man narrates as follows: "Several years

ago there were some misunderstandings between me and my wife. I found her too cold,

and though I fully appreciated her excellent qualities, we lived together without evincing

any tenderness for each other. One day on her return from a walk she gave me a book

which she had bought because she thought it would interest me. I thanked her for this

mark of 'attention,' promised to read the book, put it away, and did not find it again. So

months passed, during which I occasionally remembered the lost book, and also tried in

vain to find it.

"About six months later my beloved mother, who was not living with us, became ill. My wife

left home to nurse her mother-in-law. The patient's condition became serious and gave my

wife the opportunity to show the best side of herself. One evening I returned home full of

enthusiasm over what my wife had accomplished, and felt very grateful to her. I stepped to

my desk and, without definite intention but with the certainty of a somnambulist, I opened a

certain [p. 146] drawer, and in the very top of it I found the long-missing, mislaid book."

The following example of "misplacing" belongs to a type well known to every

psychoanalyst. I must add that the patient who experienced this misplacing has himself

found the solution of it.

This patient, whose psychoanalytic treatment had to be interrupted through the summer

vacation when he was in a state of resistance and ill-health, put away his keys in the

evening in their usual place, or so he thought. He then remembered that he wished to take

some things from his desk, where he also had put the money which he needed on the

journey. He was to depart the next day, which was the last day of treatment and the date

when the doctor's fee was due. But the keys had disappeared.

He began a thorough and systematic search through his small apartment. He became

more and more excited over it, but his search was unsuccessful. As he recognized this

"misplacement" as a symptomatic act -- that is, as being intentional -- he aroused his

servant in order to continue his search with the help of an " unprejudiced" person. After

another hour he gave up the search and feared that he had lost the keys. The next

morning he ordered new keys from the desk factory, which were hurriedly made for him.

Two acquaintances who had [p. 147] been with him in a cab even recalled hearing

something fall to the ground as he stepped out of the cab, and he was therefore convinced

that the keys had slipped from his pocket. They were found lying between a thick book and

a thin pamphlet, the latter a work of one of my pupils, which he wished to take along as

reading matter for his vacation; and they were so skilfully placed that no one would have

supposed that they were there. He himself was unable to replace the keys in such a

position as to render them invisible. The unconscious skill with which an object is

misplaced on account of secret but strong motives reminds one of "somnambulistic

sureness." The motive was naturally ill-humour over the interruption of the treatment and

the secret rage over the fact that he had to pay such a high fee when he felt so ill.

(g) Brill relates:[2] "A man was urged by his wife to attend a social function in which he

really took no interest. Yielding to his wife's entreaties, he began to take his dress-suit from

the trunk when he suddenly thought of shaving. After accomplishing this he returned to the

trunk and found it locked. Despite a long, earnest search the key could not be found. A

locksmith could not be found on Sunday evening, so that the couple had to send their

regrets. On having [p. 148] the trunk opened the next morning the lost key was found

within. The husband had absentmindedly dropped the key into the trunk and sprung the

lock. He assured me that this was wholly unintentional and unconscious, but we know that

he did not wish to go to this social affair. The mislaying of the key therefore lacked no

motive."

Ernest Jones noticed in himself that he was in the habit of mislaying his pipe whenever he

suffered from the effects of over-smoking. The pipe was then found in some unusual place

where it did not belong and which it normally did not occupy.

If one looks over the cases of mislaying it will be difficult to assume that mislaying is

anything other than the result of an unconscious intention.

(h) In the summer of 1901 I once remarked to a friend with whom I was then actively

engaged in exchanging ideas on scientific questions: "These neurotic problems can be

solved only if we take the position of absolutely accepting an original bi-sexuality in every

individual." To which he replied: "I told you that two and a half years ago while we were

taking an evening walk in Br. At that time you wouldn't listen to it."

It is truly painful to be thus requested to renounce one's originality. I could neither recall [p.

149] such a conversation nor my friend's revelation. One of us must be mistaken; and

according to the principle of the question cui prodest? I must be the one. Indeed, in the

course of the following weeks everything came back to me just as my friend had recalled

it. I myself remembered that at that time I gave the answer: "I have not yet got so far, and I

do not care to discuss it." But since this incident I have grown more tolerant when I miss

any mention of my name in medical literature in connection with ideas for which I deserve

credit.

It is scarcely accidental that the numerous examples of forgetting which have been

collected without any selection should require for their solution the introduction of such

painful themes as exposing of one's wife; a friendship that has turned into the opposite; a

mistake in medical diagnosis; enmity on account of similar pursuits, or the borrowing of

somebody's ideas. I am rather inclined to believe that every person who will undertake an

inquiry into the motives underlying his forgetting will be able to fill up a similar sample card

of vexatious circumstances. The tendency to forget the disagreeable seems to me to be

quite general; the capacity for it is naturally differently developed in different persons.

Certain denials which we encounter in medical practice can probably be ascribed [p. 150]

to forgetting.[3] Our conception of such forgetting confines the distinction between this and

that behaviour to purely psychologic relations, and permits us to see in both forms of

reaction the expression of the same motive. Of the numerous examples of denials of

unpleasant recollection which I have observed in kinsmen of patients, one remains in my

memory as especially singular.

A mother telling me of the childhood of her nervous son, now in his puberty, made the

statement that, like his brothers and sisters, he was subject to bed-wetting throughout his

childhood, [p. 151] a symptom which certainly has some significance in a history of a

neurotic patient. Some weeks later, while seeking information regarding the treatment, I

had occasion to call her attention to signs of a constitutional morbid predisposition in the

young man, and at the same time referred to the bed-wetting recounted in the anamnesis.

To my surprise she contested this fact concerning him, denying it as well for the other

children, and asked me how I could possibly know this. Finally I let her know that she

herself had told me a short time before what she had thus forgotten.[4]

[p. 152] One also finds abundant indications which show that even in healthy, not neurotic,

persons resistances are found against the memory of disagreeable impressions and the

idea of painful thoughts.[5] But the full significance of this fact can be estimated only when

we enter into the psychology of neurotic persons. One is forced to make such elementary

defensive striving [p. 153] against ideas which can awaken painful feelings, a striving

which can be put side by side only with the flight-reflex in painful stimuli, as the main pillar

of the mechanism which carries the hysterical symptoms. One need not offer any objection

to the acceptance of such defensive tendency on the ground that we frequently find it

impossible to rid ourselves of painful memories which cling to us, or to banish such painful

emotions as remorse and reproaches of conscience. No one maintains that this defensive

tendency invariably gains the upper hand, that in the play of psychic forces it may not

strike against factors which stir up the contrary feeling for other purposes and bring it

about in spite of it.

As the architectural principle of the psychic apparatus we may conjecture a certain

stratification or structure of instances deposited in strata. And it is quite possible that this

defensive tendency belongs to a lower psychic instance, and

[p. 154] is inhibited by higher instances. At all events, it speaks for the existence and force

of this defensive tendency, when we can trace it to processes such as those found in our

examples of forgetting. We see then that something is forgotten for its own sake, and

where this is not possible the defensive tendency misses the target and causes something

else to be forgotten -- something less significant, but which has fallen into associative

connection with the disagreeable material.

The views here developed, namely, that painful memories merge into motivated forgetting

with special ease, merits application in many spheres where as yet it has found no, or

scarcely any, recognition. Thus it seems to me that it has not yet been strongly enough

emphasized in the estimation of testimony taken in court,[6] where the putting of a witness

under oath obviously leads us to place too great a trust on the purifying influence of his

psychic play of forces. It is universally admitted that in the origin of the traditions and

folklore of a people care must be taken to eliminate from memory such a motive as would

be painful to the national feeling. Perhaps on closer investigation it may be possible to

form a perfect analogy between the manner of development of national traditions and

infantile reminiscences of the individual. The great Darwin has formulated a "golden rule"

for [p. 155] the scientific worker from his insight into this pain-motive of forgetting.[7]

Almost exactly as in the forgetting of names, faulty recollections can also appear in the

forgetting of impressions, and when finding credence they may be designated as delusions

of memory. The memory disturbance in pathologic cases (in paranoia it actually plays the

rôle of a constituting factor in the formation of delusions) has brought to light an extensive

literature in which there is no reference whatever to its being motivated. As this theme also

belongs to the psychology of the neuroses it goes beyond our present treatment. Instead, I

will give from my own experience a curious example of memory disturbance showing

clearly enough its determination through unconscious repressed material and its

connection with this material.

While writing the latter chapters of my volume on the interpretation of dreams, I happened

to be in a summer resort without access to libraries [p. 155] and reference books, so that I

was compelled to introduce into the manuscript all kinds of references and citations from

memory. These I naturally reserved for future correction. In the chapter on day-dreams I

thought of the distinguished figure of the poor book-keeper in Alphonse Daudet's Nabab,

through whom the author probably described his own day-dreams. I imagined that I

distinctly remembered one fantasy of this man, whom I called Mr. Jocelyn, which he

hatched while walking the streets of Paris, and I began to reproduce it from memory. This

fantasy described how Mr. Jocelyn boldly hurled himself at a runaway horse and brought it

to a standstill; how the carriage door opened and a great personage stepped from the

coupé, pressed Mr. Jocelyn's hand and said: "You are my saviour -- I owe my life to you!

What can I do for you?"

I assured myself that casual inaccuracies in the rendition of this fantasy could readily be

corrected at home on consulting the book. But when I perused Nabab in order to compare

it with my manuscript, I found to my very great shame and consternation that there was

nothing to suggest such a dream by Mr. Jocelyn; indeed, the poor book-keeper did not

even bear this name -- he was called Mr. Joyeuse.

This second error then furnished the key for the solution of the first mistake, the faulty [p.

157] reminiscence. Joyeux, of which Joyeuse is the feminine form, was the only possible

word which would translate my own name Freud into French. Whence, therefore, came

this falsely remembered fantasy which I had attributed to Daudet? It could only be a

product of my own, a day-dream which I myself had spun, and which did not become

conscious, or which was once conscious and had since been absolutely forgotten.

Perhaps I invented it myself in Paris, where frequently enough I walked the streets alone,

and full of longing for a helper and protector, until Charcot took me into his circle. I had

often met the author of Nabab in Charcot's house. But the provoking part of it all is the fact

that there is scarcely anything to which I am so hostile as the thought of being some one's

protégé. What we see of this sort of thing in our country spoils all desire for it, and my

character is little suited to the rôle of a protected child. I have always entertained an

immense desire to "be the strong man myself." And it had to happen that I should be

reminded of such a, to be sure, never fulfilled, day-dream! Besides, this incident is a good

example of how the restraint relation to one's ego, which breaks forth triumphantly in

paranoia, disturbs and entangles us in the objective grasp of things.

Another case of faulty recollection which can be satisfactorily explained resembles the

fausse [p. 158] reconnaissance to be discussed later. I related to one of my patients, an

ambitious and very capable man, that a young student had recently gained admittance into

the circle of my pupils by means of an interesting work, Der Künstler, Versuch einer

Sexualpsychologie. When, a year and a quarter later, this work lay before me in print, my

patient maintained that he remembered with certainty having read somewhere, perhaps in

a bookseller's advertisement, the announcement of the same book even before I first

mentioned it to him. He remembered that this announcement came to his mind at that

time, and he ascertained besides that the author had changed the title, that it no longer

read "Versuch" but "Ansätze zu einer Sexualpsychologie."

Careful inquiry of the author and comparison of all dates showed conclusively that my

patient was trying to recall the impossible. No notice of this work had appeared anywhere

before its publication, certainly not a year and a quarter before it went to print. However, I

neglected to seek a solution for this false recollection until the same man brought about an

equally valuable renewal of it. He thought that he had recently noticed a work on

"agoraphobia" in the show window of a bookshop, and as he was now looking for it in all

available catalogues I was able to explain to him why his effort must remain [p. 159]

fruitless. The work on agoraphobia existed only in his fantasy as an unconscious

resolution to write such a book himself. His ambition to emulate that young man, and

through such a scientific work to become one of my pupils, had led him to the first as well

as to the second false recollection. He also recalled later that the bookseller's

announcement which had occasioned his false reminiscence dealt with a work entitled

Genesis, Das Gesetz der Zeugung ("Genesis, The Law of Generation"). But the change in

the title as mentioned by him was really instigated by me; I recalled that I myself have

perpetrated the same inaccuracy in the repetition of the title by saying "Ansätze" in place

of "Versuch."

B. FORGETTING OF INTENTIONS.

No other group of phenomena is better qualified to demonstrate the thesis that lack of

attention does not in itself suffice to explain faulty acts as the forgetting of intentions. An

intention is an impulse for an action which has already found approbation, but whose

execution is postponed for a suitable occasion. Now, in the interval thus created sufficient

change may take place in the motive to prevent the intention from coming to execution. It

is not, however, forgotten, it is simply revised and omitted.

We are naturally not in the habit of explaining [p. 160] the forgetting of intentions which we

daily experience in every possible situation as being due to a recent change in the

adjustment of motives. We generally leave it unexplained, or we seek a psychologic

explanation in the assumption that at the time of execution the required attention for the

action, which was an indispensable condition for the occurrence of the intention, and was

then at the disposal of the same action, no longer exists. Observation of our normal

behaviour towards intentions urges us to reject this tentative explanation as arbitrary. If I

resolve in the morning to carry out a certain intention in the evening, I may be reminded of

it several times in the course of the day, but it is not at all necessary that it should become

conscious throughout the day. As the time for its execution approaches it suddenly occurs

to me and induces me to make the necessary preparation for the intended action. If I go

walking and take a letter with me to be posted, it is not at all necessary that I, as a normal

not nervous individual, should carry it in my hand and continually look for a letter-box. As a

matter of fact I am accustomed to put it in my pocket and give my thoughts free rein on my

way, feeling confident that the first letter-box will attract my attention and cause me to put

my hand in my pocket and draw out the letter.

This normal behaviour in a formed intention [p. 161] corresponds perfectly with the

experimentally produced conduct of persons who are under a so-called "post-hypnotic

suggestion" to perform something after a certain time.[8] We are accustomed to describe

the phenomenon in the following manner: the suggested intention slumbers in the person

concerned until the time for its execution approaches. Then it awakes and excites the

action.

In two positions of life even the layman is cognizant of the fact that forgetting referring to

intended purposes can in no wise claim consideration as an elementary phenomenon no

further reducible, but realizes that it ultimately depends on unadmitted motives. I refer to

affairs of love and military service. A lover who is late at the appointed place will vainly tell

his sweetheart that unfortunately he has entirely forgotten their rendezvous. She will not

hesitate to answer him: "A year ago you would not have forgotten. Evidently you no longer

care for me" Even if he should grasp the above cited psychologic explanation, and should

wish to excuse his forgetting on the plea of important business, he would only elicit the

answer from the woman, who has become as keen-sighted as the physician in the

psychoanalytic treatment, "How remarkable that such business disturb- [p. 162] ances did

not occur before!" Of course the woman does not wish to deny the possibility of forgetting;

but she believes, and not without reason, that practically the same inference of a certain

unwillingness may be drawn from the unintentional forgetting as from a conscious

subterfuge.

Similarly, in military service no distinction is recognized between an omission resulting

from forgetting and one in consequence of intentional neglect. And rightly so. The soldier

dares forget nothing that military service demands of him. If he forgets in spite of this, even

when he is acquainted with the demands, then it is due to the fact that the motives which

urge the fulfilment of the military exactions are opposed by contrary motives. Thus the one

year's volunteer[9] who at inspection pleads forgetting as an excuse for not having

polished his buttons is sure to be punished. But this punishment is small in comparison to

the one he courts if he admits to his superiors that the motive for his negligence is

because "this miserable menial service is altogether disgusting to me." Owing to this

saving of punishment for economic reasons, as it were, he makes use of forgetting as an

excuse, or it comes about as a compromise.

[p. 163] The service of women (as well as the military service of the State) demands that

nothing relating to that service be subject to forgetting. Thus it but suggests that forgetting

is permissible in unimportant matters, but in weighty matters its occurrence is an indication

that one wishes to treat weighty matters as unimportant: that is, that their importance is

disputed.[10] The view-point of psychic validity is in fact not to be contested here. No

person forgets to carry out actions that seem important to himself without exposing himself

to the suspicion of being a sufferer from mental weakness. Our investigations therefore

can extend only to the forgetting of more or less secondary intentions, for no intention do

we deem absolutely indifferent, otherwise it would certainly never have been formed.

As in the preceding functional disturbances, I have collected the cases of neglect through

forgetting which I have observed in myself, and endeavoured to explain them. I have found

that they could invariably be traced to some interference of unknown and unadmitted

motives -- or, as may be said, they were due to a counter- [p. 164] will. In a number of

these cases I found myself in a position similar to that of being in some distasteful service:

I was under a constraint to which I had not entirely resigned myself, so that I showed my

protest in the form of forgetting. This accounts for the fact that I am particularly prone to

forget to send congratulations on such occasions as birthdays, jubilees, wedding

celebrations, and promotions to higher rank. I continually make new resolutions, but I am

more than ever convinced that I shall not succeed. I am now on the point of giving it up

altogether, and to admit consciously the striving motives. In a period of transition, I told a

friend who asked me to send a congratulatory telegram for him, at a certain time when I

was to send one myself, that I would probably forget both. It was not surprising that the

prophecy came true. It is undoubtedly due to painful experiences in life that I am unable to

manifest sympathy where this manifestation must necessarily appear exaggerated, for the

small amount of my feeling does not admit the corresponding expression. Since I have

learned that I often mistook the pretended sympathy of others for real, I am in rebellion

against the conventions of expressing sympathy, the social expediency of which I naturally

acknowledge. Condolences in cases of death are excepted from this double treatment;

once I determine to send [p. 165] them I do not neglect them. Where my emotional

participation has nothing more to do with social duty, its expression is never inhibited by

forgetting

Cases in which we forget to carry out actions which we have promised to do as a favour

for others can similarly be explained as antagonism to conventional duty and as an

unfavourable inward opinion. Here it regularly proves correct, inasmuch as the only person

appealed to believes in the excusing power of forgetfulness, while the one requesting the

favour has no doubt about the right answer: he has no interest in this matter, otherwise he

would not have forgotten it.

There are some who are noted as generally forgetful, and we excuse their lapses in the

same manner as we excuse those who are short-sighted when they do not greet us in the

street.[11] Such persons forget all small promises which they have made; they leave

unexecuted all orders which they have received; they prove themselves unreliable in little

things; and at the same time

[p. 166] demand that we shall not take these slight offences amiss -- that is, they do not

want us to attribute these failings to personal characteristics but to refer them to an organic

peculiarity.[12] I am not one of these people myself, and have had no opportunity to

analyse the actions of such a person in order to discover from the selection of forgetting

the motive underlying the same. I cannot forego, however, the conjecture per analogiam,

that here the motive is an unusual large amount of unavowed disregard for others which

exploits the constitutional factor for its purpose.[13]

[p. 167] In other cases the motives for forgetting are less easy to discover, and when found

excite greater astonishment. Thus, in former years I observed that of a great number of

professional calls I only forgot those that I was to make on patients whom I treated gratis

or on colleagues. The mortification caused by this discovery led me to the habit of noting

every morning the calls of the day in a form of resolution. I do not know if other physicians

have come to the same practice by a similar road. Thus we get an idea of what causes the

so-called neurasthenic to make a memorandum of the communications he wishes to make

to the doctor. He apparently lacks confidence in the reproductive capacity of his memory.

This is true, but the scene usually proceeds in this manner. The patient has recounted his

various complaints and inquiries at considerable length. After he has finished he pauses

for a moment, then he pulls out the memorandum, and says apologetically, "I have made

some notes because I cannot remember anything." As a rule he finds nothing new on the

memorandum. He repeats each point and answers it himself: "Yes, I have already asked

about that." By means of the memorandum he probably only demonstrates one of his

symptoms, the frequency with which his resolutions are disturbed through the interference

of obscure motives.

[p. 168] I am touching, moreover, on an affliction to which even most of my healthy

acquaintances are subject, when I admit that especially in former years I had the habit of

easily forgetting for a long time to return borrowed books, also that it very often happened

that I deferred payments through forgetfulness. One morning not long ago I left the

tobacco-shop where I make my daily purchase of cigars without paying. It was a most

harmless omission, as I am known there and could therefore expect to be reminded of my

debt the next morning. But this slight neglect, the attempt to contract a debt, was surely

not unconnected with reflections concerning the budget with which I had occupied myself

throughout the preceding day. Even among the so-called respectable people one can

readily demonstrate a double behaviour when it concerns the theme of money and

possession. The primitive greed of the suckling which wishes to seize every object (in

order to put it in its mouth) has generally been only imperfectly subdued through culture

and training.[14]

[p. 169] I fear that in all the examples thus far given I have grown quite commonplace. But

it can be only a pleasure to me if I happen upon familiar matters which every one

understands, for my main object is to collect everyday material and utilize it scientifically. I

cannot conceive why wisdom, which is, so to speak, the sediment of everyday

experiences, should be denied admission among the acquisitions of knowledge. For it is

not the diversity of objects but the stricter method of verification and the striving for far-

reaching connections which make up the essential character of scientific work.

We have invariably found that intentions of some importance are forgotten when obscure

motives arise to disturb them. In still less important intentions we find a second mechanism

[p. 170] of forgetting. Here a counter-will becomes transferred to the resolution from

something else after an external association has been formed between the latter and the

content of the resolution. The following example reported by Brill illustrates this: "A patient

found that she had suddenly became very negligent in her correspondence. She was

naturally punctual and took pleasure in letter-writing, but for the last few weeks she simply

could not bring herself to write a letter without exerting the greatest amount of effort. The

explanation was quite simple. Some weeks before she had received an important letter

calling for a categorical answer. She was undecided what to say, and therefore did not

answer it at all. This indecision in the form of inhibition was unconsciously transferred to

other letters and caused the inhibition against letter-writing in general."

Direct counter-will and more remote motivation are found together in the following example

of delaying: I had written a short treatise on the dream for the series Grenzfragen des

Nerven - und Seelenlebens, in which I gave an abstract of my book, The Interpretation of

Dreams.[15] Bergmann, the publisher, had sent me the proof sheets and asked for a

speedy return of the same as he wished to issue the pamphlet before Christmas. I

corrected the sheets the [p. 171] same night, and placed them on my desk in order to take

them to the post office the next morning. In the morning I forgot all about it, and only

thought of it in the afternoon at the sight of the paper cover on my desk. In the same way I

forgot the proofs that evening and the following morning, and until the afternoon of the

second day, when I quickly took them to a letter-box, wondering what might be the basis of

this procrastination. Obviously I did not want to send them off, although I could find no

explanation for such an attitude.

After posting the letter I entered the shop of my Vienna publisher, who put out my

Interpretation of Dreams. I left a few orders; then, as if impelled by a sudden thought, said,

"You undoubtedly know that I have written the 'Dream' book a second time?" "Ah!" he

exclaimed, "then I must ask you to ----" "Calm yourself," I interposed; "it is only a short

treatise for the Löwenfeld-Kurella collection." But still he was not satisfied; he feared that

the abstract would hurt the sale of the book. I disagreed with him, and finally asked: "If I

had come to you before, would you have objected to the publication?" "No; under no

circumstances," he answered.

Personally I believe I acted within my full rights and did nothing contrary to the general

practice; still it seems certain to me that a [p. 172] thought similar to that entertained by the

publisher was the motive for my procrastination in dispatching the proof sheets.

This reflection leads back to a former occasion when another publisher raised some

difficulties because I was obliged to take out several pages of the text from an earlier work

on cerebral infantile paralysis, and put them unchanged into a work on the same theme in

Nothnagel's handbook. There again the reproach received no recognition; that time also I

had loyally informed my first publisher (the same who published The Interpretation of

Dreams) of my intention.

However, if this series of recollections is followed back still farther it brings to light a still

earlier occasion relating to a translation from the French, in which I really violated the

property rights that should be considered in a publication. I had added notes to the text

without asking the author's permission, and some years later I had cause to think that the

author was dissatisfied with this arbitrary action.

There is a proverb which indicates the popular knowledge that the forgetting of intentions

is not accidental. It says: "What one forgets once he will often forget again."

Indeed, we sometimes cannot help feeling that no matter what may be said about

forgetting and faulty actions, the whole subject is already [p. 173] known to everybody as

something self-evident. It is strange enough that it is still necessary to push before

consciousness such well-known facts. How often I have heard people remark: "Please do

not ask me to do this, I shall surely forget it." The coming true of this prophecy later is

surely nothing mysterious in itself. He who speaks thus perceives the inner resolution not

to carry out the request, and only hesitates to acknowledge it to himself.

Much light is thrown, moreover, on the forgetting of resolutions through something which

could be designated as "forming false resolutions." I had once promised a young author to

write a review of his short work, but on account of inner resistances, not unknown to me, I

promised him that it would be done the same evening. I really had serious intentions of

doing so, but I had forgotten that I had set aside that evening for the preparation of an

expert testimony that could not be deferred. After I thus recognized my resolution as false,

I gave up the struggle against my resistances and refused the author's request.

Footnotes

[1] In the course of the conference the details of the previous first visit return to consciousness.

[2] Brill, loc. cit., p. 197.

[3] If we inquire of a person whether he suffered from luetic infection ten or fifteen years ago, we

are only too apt to forget that psychically the patient has looked upon this disease in an entirely

different manner than on, let us say, an acute attack of rheumatism. In the anamneses which

parents give about their neurotic daughters, it is hardly possible to distinguish with any degree of

certainty the portion forgotten from that hidden, for anything that stands in the way of the girl's

future marriage is systematically set aside by the parents, that is, it becomes repressed. A man

who had recently lost his beloved wife from an affection of the lungs reported to me the following

case of misleading the doctor, which can only be explained by the theory of such forgetting. "As my

poor wife's pleuritis had not disappeared after many weeks, Dr. P. was called in consultation. While

taking the history he asked among others the customary questions whether there were any cases

of lung trouble in my wife's family. My wife denied any such cases, and even I myself could not

remember any. While Dr. P. was taking leave the conversation accidentally turned to excursions,

and my wife said: 'Yes, even to Landgersdorf, where my poor brother lies buried, is a long journey.'

This brother died about fifteen years ago, after having suffered for years from tuberculosis. My wife

was very fond of him, and often spoke about him. Indeed, I recall that when her malady was

diagnosed as pleurisy she was very worried and sadly remarked: 'My brother also died of lung

trouble.' But the memory was so very repressed that even after the above-cited conversation about

the trip to L. she found no occasion to correct her information concerning the diseases in her

family. I myself was struck by this forgetting at the very moment she began to talk about

Landgersdorf." A perfectly analogous experience is related by Ernest Jones in his work. A

physician whose wife suffered from some obscure abdominal malady remarked to her: "It is

comforting to think that there has been no tuberculosis in your family." She turned to him very

astonished and said, " Have you forgotten that my mother died of tuberculosis, and that my sister

recovered from it only after having been given up by the doctors?"

[4] During the days when I was first writing these pages the following almost incredible case of

forgetting happened to me. On the 1st of January I examined my notes so that I could send out my

bills. In the month of June I came across the name M ----l, and could not recall the person to whom

it belonged. My surprise increased when I observed from my books that I treated the case in a

sanatorium, and that for weeks I had called on the patient daily. A patient treated under such

conditions is rarely forgotten by a physician in six months. I asked myself if it could have been a

man -- a paretic -- a case without interest? Finally, the note about the fee received brought to my

memory all the knowledge which strove to elude it. M ----l was a fourteen- year-old girl, the most

remarkable case of my latter years, a case which taught me a lesson I am not likely ever to forget,

a case whose upshot gave me many painful hours. The child became afflicted with an

unmistakable hysteria, which quickly and thoroughly improved under my care. After this

improvement the child was taken away from me by the parents. She still complained of abdominal

pains which had played the part in the hysterical symptoms. Two months later she died of sarcoma

of the abdominal glands. The hysteria, to which she was greatly predisposed, took the tumour-

formation as a provocative agent, and I, fascinated by the tumultuous but harmless manifestations

of hysteria, perhaps overlooked the first sign of the insidious and incurable disease.

[5] A. Pick ("Zur Psychologie des Vergessens bei Geistesund Nervenkranken," Archiv. f. Kriminal-

Anthropologie u. Kriminalistik, von H. Gross) has recently collected a number of authors who

realize the value of the influence of the affective factors on memory, and who more or less clearly

recognize that a defensive striving against pain can lead to forgetting. But none of us has been

able to represent this phenomenon and its psychologic determination as exhaustively, and at the

same time as effectively, as Nietzsche in one of his aphorisms (Fenseits von Gut und Bosen, ii.,

Haupstuck 68) : "'I have done that,' says my Memory. 'I could not have done that,' says my Pride,

and remains inexorable. Finally, my Memory yields."

[6] Cf. Hans Gross, Kriminal Psychologie, 1898.

[7] Darwin on forgetting. In Darwin's autobiography one finds the following passage that does equal

credit to his scientific honesty and his psychologic acumen: "I had during many years followed a

golden rule, namely, that whenever a published fact, a new observation or thought, came across

me which was opposed to my general results, to make a memorandum of it without fail and at

once; for I had found by experience that such facts and thoughts were far more apt to escape from

the memory than favourable ones" (quoted by Jones, loc. cit., p. 38).

[8] Cf. Bernheim, Neue Studien über Hypnotismus, Suggetion und Psychotherapie, 1892.

[9] Young men of education who can pass the examination and pay for their maintenance serve

one instead of two years' compulsory service.

[10] In Bernard Shaw's Cæsar and Cleopatra, Cæsar's indifference to Cleopatra is depicted by his

being vexed on leaving Egypt at having forgotten to do something. He finally recollected what he

had forgotten -- to take leave of Cleopatra -- this, to be sure, is in full accord with historical truth.

How little Cæsar thought of the little Egyptian princess! Cited from Jones, loc. cit., p. 50.

[11] Women, with their fine understanding of unconscious mental processes, are, as a rule, more

apt to take offence when we do not recognize them in the street, and hence do not greet them,

than to accept the most obvious explanation, namely, that the dilatory one is short-sighted or so

engrossed in thought that he did not see them. They conclude that they surely would have been

noticed if they had been considered of any consequence.

[12] Dr. Ferenczi reports that he was a distracted person himself, and was considered peculiar by

his friends on account of the frequency and strangeness of his failing. But the signs of this

inattention have almost all disappeared since he began to practise psychoanalysis with patients,

and was forced to turn his attention to the analysis of his own ego. He believes that one renounces

these failings when one learns to extend by so much one's own responsibilities. He therefore justly

maintains that distractedness is a state which depends on unconscious complexes, and is curable

by psychoanalysis. One day he was reproaching himself for having committed a technical error in

the psychoanalysis of a patient, and on this day all his former distractions reappeared. He

stumbled while walking in the street (a representation of that faux pas in the treatment), he forgot

his pocket-book at home, he was a penny short in his car fare, he did not properly button his

clothes, etc.

[13] E. Jones remarks regarding this: "Often the resistance is of a general order. Thus a busy man

forgets to mail a letter entrusted to him -- to his slight annoyance -- by his wife, just as he may

'forget' to carry out her shopping orders.

[14] For the sake of the unity of the theme I may here digress from the accepted classification, and

add that the human memory evinces a particular partiality in regard to money matters. False

reminiscences of having already paid something are often very obstinate, as I know from personal

experience. When free sway is given to avaricious intent outside of the serious interests of life,

when it is indulged in in the spirit of fun, as in card playing, we then find that the most honourable

men show an inclination to errors, mistakes in memory and accounts, and without realizing how,

they even find themselves involved in small frauds. Such liberties depend in no small part also on

the psychically refreshing character of the play. The saying that in play we can learn a person's

character may be admitted if we can add "the repressed character." If waiters ever make

unintentional mistakes they are apparently due to the same mechanism. Among merchants we can

frequently observe a certain delay in the paying out of sums of money, in payments of bills and the

like, which brings the owner no profit and can be only understood psychologically as the

expression of a counter-will against giving out money. Brill sums it up with epigrammatic keenness:

"We are more apt to mislay letters containing bills than cheques" (Brill, Psychanalysis, its Theories

and Practical Application, p. 197).

[15] Translated by A. A. Brill.

CHAPTER 8

Erroneously Carried-Out Actions

I shall give another passage from the above-mentioned work of Meringer and Mayer (p.

981):

"Lapses in speech do not stand entirely alone. They resemble the errors which often occur

in our other activities and are quite foolishly termed 'forgetfulness.'"

I am therefore in no way the first to presume that there is a sense and purpose behind the

slight functional disturbances of the daily life of healthy people.[1]

If the lapse in speech, which is without doubt a motor function, admits of such a

conception, it is quite natural to transfer to the lapses of our other motor functions the

same expectation. I have here formed two groups of cases; all these cases in which the

faulty effect seems to be the essential element -- that is, the deviation from the intention --

I denote as erroneously carried-out actions (Vergreifen); the others, in which the entire

action appears rather inexpedient, I call [p. 178] "symptomatic and chance actions. But no

distinct line of demarcation can be formed; indeed, we are forced to conclude that all

divisions used in this treatise are or only descriptive significance and contradict the inner

unity of the sphere of manifestation.

The psychologic understanding of erroneous actions apparently gains little in clearness

when we place it under the head of "ataxia," and especially under "cortical ataxia." Let us

rather try to trace the individual examples to their proper determinants. To do this I shall

again resort to personal observations, the opportunities for which I could not very

frequently find in myself .

(a) In former years, when I made more calls at the homes of patients than I do at present,

it often happened, when I stood before a door where I should have knocked or rung the

bell, that I would pull the key of my own house from my pocket, only to replace it, quite

abashed. When I investigated in what patients' homes this occurred, I had to admit that the

faulty action -- taking out my key instead of ringing the bell -- signified paying a certain

tribute to the house where the error occurred. It was equivalent to the thought "Here I feel

at home," as it happened only where I possessed the patient's regard. (Naturally, I never

rang my own bell.) [p. 179]

The faulty action was therefore a symbolic representation of a definite thought which was

not accepted consciously as serious; for in reality the neurologist is well aware that the

patient seeks him only so long as he expects to be benefited by him and that his own

excessively warm interest for his patient is evinced only as a means of psychic treatment.

An almost identical repetition of my experience is described by A. Maeder ("Contrib. à la

psychopathologie de la vie quotidienne," Arch.de Psychol., vi., 1906): " Il est arrivè a

chacun de sortir son trousseau, ·en arrivant à la porte d'un ami particulièrement cher, de

se surprendre pour ainsi dire, en train d'ouvrir avec sa clé comme chez soi. C'est un

retard, puisqu'il faut sonner malgré tout, mais c'est une preuve qu'on se sent -- ou qu'on

voudrait se sentir -- comme chez soi, auprès de cet ami."

Jones speaks as follows about the use of keys [2] "The use of keys is a fertile source of

occurrences of this kind, of which two examples may be given. If I am disturbed in the

midst of some engrossing work at home by having to go to the hospital to carry out some

routine work, I am very apt to find myself trying to open the door of my laboratory there

with the key of my desk at home, although the two keys are quite unlike each other. The

mistake uncon- [p. 180] sciously demonstrates where I would rather be at the moment.

"Some years ago I was acting in a subordinate position at a certain institution, the front

door of which was kept locked, so that it was necessary to ring for admission. On several

occasions I found myself making serious attempts to open the door with my house key.

Each one of the permanent visiting staff, of which I aspired to be a member, was provided

with a key to avoid the trouble of having to wait at the door. My mistake thus expressed the

desire to be on a similar footing and to be quite 'at home' there."

A similar experience is reported by Dr. Hans Sachs of Vienna: "I always carry two keys

with me, one for the door of my office and one for my residence. They are not by any

means easily interchanged, as the office key is at least three times as big as my house

key. Besides, I carry the first in my trouser pocket and the other in my vest pocket. Yet it

often happened that I noticed on reaching the door that while ascending the stairs I had

taken out the wrong key. I decided to undertake a statistical examination; as I was daily in

about the same emotional state when I stood before both doors, I thought that the

interchanging of the two keys must show a regular tendency, if they were differently

determined psychically. Observation of later occur- [p. 181 rences showed that I regularly

took out my house key before the office door. Only on one occasion was this reversed: I

came home tired, knowing that I would find there a guest. I made an attempt to unlock the

door with the, naturally too big, office key."

(b) At a certain time twice a day for six years I was accustomed to wait for admission

before a door in the second story of the same house, and during this long period of time it

happened twice (within a short interval) that I climbed a story higher. On the first of these

occasions I was in an ambitious day-dream, which allowed me to "mount always higher

and higher." In fact, at that time I heard the door in question open as I put my foot on the

first step of the third flight. On the other occasion I again went too far "engrossed in

thought." As soon as I became aware of it, I turned back and sought to snatch the

dominating fantasy; I found that I was irritated over a criticism of my works, in which the

reproach was made that I "always went too far," which I replaced by the less respectful

expression "climbed too high."

day I hurried off at the close of my office hours, as I wished to catch a certain train, and,

despite broad daylight, put the tuning-fork in my coat [p. 182] pocket in place of the reflex

hammer. My attention was called to the mistake through the weight of the object drawing

down my pocket. Any one unaccustomed to reflect on such slight occurrences would

without hesitation explain the faulty action by the hurry of the moment, and excuse it. In

spite of that, I preferred to ask myself why I took the tuning-fork instead of the hammer.

The haste could just as well have been a motive for carrying out the action properly in

order not to waste time over the correction.

"Who last grasped the tuning-fork? " was the question which immediately flashed through

my mind. It happened that only a few days ago an idiotic child, whose attention to sensory

impressions I was testing, had been so fascinated by the tuning-fork that I found it difficult

to tear it away from him. Could it mean, therefore, that I was an idiot? To be sure, so it

would seem, as the next thought which associated itself with the hammer was chamer

(Hebrew for "ass").

But what was the meaning of this abusive language? We must here inquire into the

situation. I hurried to a consultation at a place on the Western railroad to see a patient

who, according to the anamnesis which I received by letter, had fallen from a balcony

some months before, and since then had been unable to walk. The physician w ho invited

me wrote that he was [p. 183] still unable to say whether he was dealing with a spinal

injury or traumatic neurosis -- hysteria. That was what I was to decide. This could therefore

be a reminder to be particularly careful in this delicate differential diagnosis. As it is, my

colleagues think that hysteria is diagnosed far too carelessly where more serious matters

are concerned. But the abuse is not yet justified. Yes, the next association was that the

small railroad station is the same place in which, some years previous, I saw a young man

who, after a certain emotional experience, could not walk properly. At that time I diagnosed

his malady as hysteria, and later put him under psychic treatment; but it afterward turned

out that my diagnosis was neither incorrect nor correct. A large number of the patient's

symptoms were hysterical, and they promptly disappeared in the course of treatment. But

back of these there was a visible remnant that could not be reached by therapy, and could

be referred only to a multiple sclerosis. Those who saw the patient after me had no

difficulty in recognizing the organic affection. I could scarcely have acted or judged

differently, still the impression was that of a serious mistake; the promise of a cure which I

had given him could naturally not be kept.

The mistake in grasping the tuning-fork instead of the hammer could therefore be trans- [p.

184] lated into the following words: "You fool, you ass, get yourself together this time, and

be careful not to diagnose again a case of hysteria where there is an incurable disease, as

you did in this place years ago in the case of the poor man !" And fortunately for this little

analysis, even if unfortunately for my mood, this same man, now having a very spastic

gait, had been to my office a few days before, one day after the examination of the idiotic

child.

We observe that this time it is the voice of self-criticism which makes itself perceptible

through the mistake in grasping. The erroneously carried-out action is specially suited to

express self-reproach. The present mistake attempts to represent the mistake which was

committed elsewhere.

(d) It is quite obvious that grasping the wrong thing may also serve a whole series of other

obscure purposes. Here is a first example: It is very seldom that I break anything. I am not

particularly dexterous, but by virtue of the anatomic integrity of my nervous and muscular

apparatus there are apparently no grounds in me for such awkward movements with

undesirable results. I can recall no object in my home the counterpart of which I have ever

broken. Owing to the narrowness of my study it has often been necessary for me to work

in the most uncomfortable position among my numerous [p. 185] antique clay and stone

objects, of which I have a small collection. So much is this true that onlookers have

expressed fear lest I topple down something and shatter it. But it never happened. Then

why did I brush to the floor the cover of my simple inkwell so that it broke into pieces? My

inkstand is made of a flat piece of marble which is hollowed out for the reception of the

glass inkwell; the inkwell has a marble cover with a knob of the same stone. A circle of

bronze statuettes with small terra-cotta figures is set behind this inkstand. I seated myself

at the desk to write, I made a remarkably awkward outward movement with the hand

holding the pen-holder, and so swept the cover of the ink-stand, which already lay on the

desk, to the floor.

It is not difficult to find the explanation. Some hours before my sister had been in the room

to look at some of my new acquisitions. She found them very pretty, and then remarked:

"Now the desk really looks very well, only the inkstand does not match. You must get a

prettier one." I accompanied my sister out and did not return for several hours. But then,

as it seems, I performed the execution of the condemned inkstand.

Did I perhaps conclude from my sister's words that she intended to present me with a

prettier inkstand on the next festive occasion, and did [p. 186] I shatter the unsightly old

one in order to force her to carry out her signified intention? If that be so, then my swinging

motion was only apparently awkward; in reality it was most skilful and designed, as it

understood how to avoid all the valuable objects located near it.

I actually believe that we must accept this explanation of the whole series of seemingly

accidental awkward movements. It is true that on the surface these seem to show

something violent and irregular, similar to spastic-ataxic movements, but on examination

they seem to be dominated by some intention, and they accomplish their aim with a

certainty that cannot be generally credited to conscious arbitrary motions. In both

characteristics, the force as well as the sure aim, they show besides a resemblance to the

motor manifestations of the hysterical neurosis, and in part also to the motor

accomplishments of somnambulism, which here as well as there point to the same

unfamiliar modification of the functions of innervation.

In latter years, since I have been collecting such observations, it has happened several

times that I have shattered and broken objects of some value, but the examination of these

cases convinced me that it was never the result of accident or of my unintentional

awkwardness. Thus, one morning while in my bath-robe and straw slippers I followed a

sudden impulse as I passed a room, [p. 187] and hurled a slipper from my foot against the

wall so that it brought down a beautiful little marble Venus from its bracket. As it fell to

pieces I recited quite unmoved the following verse from Busch:--

"Ach ! Die Venus ist perdü -- [3]

Klickeradoms! -- von Medici!"

This crazy action and my calmness at the sight of the damage is explained in the then

existing situation. We had a very sick person in the family, of whose recovery I had

personally despaired. That morning I had been informed that there was a great

improvement; I know that I had said to myself, "After all she will live." My attack of

destructive madness served therefore as the expression of a grateful feeling toward fate,

and afforded me the opportunity of performing an "act of sacrifice," just as if I had vowed,

"If she gets well I will give this or that as a sacrifice," That I chose the Venus of Medici as

this sacrifice was only gallant homage to the convalescent. But even to-day it is still

incomprehensible to me that I decided so quickly, aimed so accurately, and struck no other

object in close proximity.

Another breaking, in which I utilized a penholder falling from my hand, also signified a

sacrifice, but this time it was a pious offering [p. 188] to avert some evil. I had once

allowed myself to reproach a true and worthy friend for no other reason than certain

manifestations which I interpreted from his unconscious activity. He took it amiss and

wrote me a letter in which he bade me not to treat my friends by psychoanalysis. I had to

admit that he was right and appeased him with my answer. While writing this letter I had

before me my latest acquisition-a small, handsome glazed Egyptian figure. I broke it in the

manner mentioned, and then immediately knew that I had caused this mischief to avert a

greater one. Luckily, both the friendship and the figure could be so cemented that the

break would not be noticed.

A third case of breaking had a less serious connection; it was only a disguised "execution,"

to use an expression from Th. Vischer's Auch Einer, of an object that no longer suited my

taste. For quite a while I had carried a cane with a silver handle; through no fault of mine

the thin silver plate was once damaged and poorly repaired. Soon after the cane was

returned I mirthfully used the handle to angle for the leg of one of my children. In that way

it naturally broke, and I got rid of it.

The indifference with which we accept the resulting damage in all these cases may

certainly be taken as evidence for the existence of an unconscious purpose in their

execution. [p. 189]

(e) As can sometimes be demonstrated by, analysis, the dropping of objects or the

overturning and breaking of the same are very frequently utilized as the expression of

unconscious streams of thought, but more often they serve to represent the superstitious

or odd significances connected therewith in popular sayings. The meanings attached to

the spilling of salt, the overturning of a wineglass, the sticking of a knife dropped to the

floor, and so on, are well known. I shall discuss later the right to investigate such

superstitious interpretations ; here I shall simply, observe that the individual awkward acts

do not by any means always have the same meaning, but, depending on the

circumstances, they serve to represent now this or that purpose.

Recently we passed through a period in my house during which an unusual number of

glass and china dishes were broken. I myself largely contributed to this damage. This little

endemic was readily explained by the fact that it preceded the public betrothal of my eldest

daughter. On such festivities it is customary to break some dishes and utter at the same

time some felicitating expression. This custom may signify a sacrifice or express any other

symbolic sense.

When servants destroy fragile objects through dropping them, we certainly do not think in

the first place of a psychologic motive for it; still, some obscure motives are not improb- [p.

190] able even here. Nothing lies farther from the uneducated than the appreciation of art

and works of art. Our servants are dominated by a foolish hostility against these

productions, especially when the objects, whose worth they do not realize ,become a

source of a great deal of work for them. On the other hand, persons of the same education

and origin employed in scientific institutions often distinguish themselves by great dexterity

and reliability in the handling of delicate objects, as soon as they begin to identify

themselves with their masters and consider themselves an essential part of the staff.

I shall here add the report of a young mechanical engineer, which gives some insight into

the mechanism of damaging things. "Some time ago I worked with many others in the

laboratory of the High School on a series of complicated experiments on the subject of

elasticity. It was a work that we undertook of our own volition, but it turned out that it took

up more of our time than we expected. One day, while going to the laboratory with F., he

complained of losing so much time, especially on this day, when he had so many other

things to do at home. I could only agree with him, and he added half jokingly, alluding to an

incident of the previous week, 'Let us hope that the machine will refuse to work, so that we

can interrupt the experiment and go home earlier.' [p. 191]

"In arranging the work, it happened that F. was assigned to the regulation of the pressure

valve, that is, it was his duty to carefully open the valve and let the fluid under pressure

flow from the accumulator into the cylinder of the hydraulic press. The leader of the

experiment stood at the manometer and called a loud 'Stop!' when the maximum pressure

was reached. At this command F. grasped the valve and turned it with all his force -- to the

left (all valves, without any exception, are closed to the right). This caused a sudden full

pressure in the accumulator of the press, and as there was no outlet, the connecting pipe

burst. This was quite a trifling accident to the machine, but enough to force us to stop our

work for the day and go home.

"It is characteristic, moreover, that some time later, on discussing this occurrence, my

friend F. could not recall the remark that I positively remember his having made."

Similarly, to fall, to make a misstep, or to slip need not always be interpreted as an entirely

accidental miscarriage of a motor action. The linguistic double meaning of these

expressions points to diverse hidden fantasies, which may present themselves through the

giving up of bodily equilibrium. I recall a number of lighter nervous ailments in women and

girls which made their appearance after falling without injury, and [p. 192] which were

conceived as traumatic hysteria as a result of the shock of the fall. At that time I already

entertained the impression that these conditions had a different connection, that the fall

was already a preparation of the neurosis, and an expression of the same unconscious

fantasies of sexual content which may be taken as the moving forces behind the

symptoms. Was not this very thing meant in the proverb which says, "When a maiden falls,

she falls on her back!"

We can also add to these mistakes the case of one who gives a beggar a gold piece in

place of a copper or a silver coin. The solution of such mishandling is simple: it is an act of

sacrifice designed to mollify fate, to avert evil, and so on. If we hear a tender mother or

aunt express concern regarding the health of a child, directly before taking a walk during

which she displays her charity, contrary to her usual habit, we can no longer doubt the

sense of this apparently undesirable accident. In this manner our faulty acts make possible

the practice of all those pious and superstitious customs which must shun the light of

consciousness, because of the strivings against them of our unbelieving reason.

(f) That accidental actions are really intentional will find no greater credence in any other

sphere than in sexual activity, where the border [p. 193] between the intention and

accident hardly seems discernible, That an apparently clumsy movement may be utilized

in a most refined way for sexual purposes I can verify by; a nice example from my own

experience. In a friend's house I met a young girl visitor who excited in me a feeling of

fondness which I had long believed extinct, thus putting me in a jovial, loquacious, and

complaisant mood. At that time I endeavoured to find out how this came about, as a year

before this same girl made no impression on me.

As the girl's uncle, a very old man, entered the room, we both jumped to our feet to bring

him a chair which stood in the corner. She was more agile than I and also nearer the

object, so that she was the first to take possession of the chair. She carried it with its back

to her, holding both hands on the edge of the seat. As I got there later and did not give up

the claim to carrying the chair, I suddenly stood directly back of her, and with both my arms

was embracing her from behind, and for a moment my hands touched her lap. I naturally

solved the situation as quickly as it came about. Nor did it occur to anybody how

dexterously I had taken advantage of this awkward movement.

Occasionally I have had to admit to myself that the annoying, awkward stepping aside on

[p. 194] the street, whereby for some seconds one steps here and there, yet always in the

same direction as the other person, until finally both stop facing each other, that this

"barring one's way" repeats an ill-mannered, provoking conduct of earlier times and

conceals erotic purposes under the mask of awkwardness. From my psychoanalysis of

neurotics I know that the so-called naïveté of young people and children is frequently only

such a mask, employed in order that the subject may say or do the indecent without

restraint.

W. Stekel has reported similar observations in regard to himself: "I entered a house and

offered my right hand to the hostess. In a most remarkable way I thereby loosened the

bow which held together her loose morning-gown. I was conscious of no dishonourable

intent, still I executed this awkward movement with the agility of a juggler."

(g) The effects which result from mistakes of normal persons are, as a rule, of a most

harmless nature. Just for this reason it would be particularly interesting to find out whether

mistakes of considerable importance, which could be followed by serious results, as, for

example, those of physicians or druggists, fall within the range of our point of view.

As I am seldom in a position to deal with active medical matters, I can only, report one[p.

195] mistake from my own experience. I treated a very old woman, whom I visited twice

daily for several years. My medical activities were limited to two acts, which I performed

during my morning visits: I dropped a few drops of an eye lotion into her eyes and gave

her a hypodermic injection of morphine. I prepared regularly two bottles -- a blue one,

containing the eye lotion, and a white one, containing the morphine solution. While

performing these duties my thoughts were mostly occupied with something else, for they

had been repeated so often that the attention acted as if free. One morning I noticed that

the automaton worked wrong; I had put the dropper into the white instead of into the blue

bottle, and had dropped into the eyes the morphine instead of the lotion. I was greatly

frightened, but then calmed myself through the reflection that a few drops of a two per

cent. solution of morphine would not likely do any harm even if left in the conjunctival sac.

The cause of the fright manifestly belonged elsewhere .

In attempting to analyse the slight mistake I first thought of the phrase, "to seize the old

woman by mistake," which pointed out the short way to the solution. I had been impressed

by a dream which a young man had told me the previous evening, the contents of which

could be explained only on the basis of sexual inter- [p. 196] course with his own

mother.[4] The strangeness of the fact that the Oedipus legend takes no offence at the age

of Queen Jocasta seemed to me to agree with the assumption that in being in love with

one's mother we never deal with the present personality, but with her youthful memory

picture carried over from our childhood. Such incongruities always show themselves where

one fantasy fluctuating between two periods is made conscious, and is then bound to one

definite period.

Deep in thoughts of this kind, I came to my patient of over ninety; I must have been well on

the way to grasp the universal character of the Oedipus fable as the correlation of the fate

which the oracle pronounces, for I made a blunder in reference to or on the old woman.

Here, again, the mistake was harmless; of the two possible errors, taking the morphine

solution for the eye, or the eye lotion for the injection, I chose the one by far the least

harmful. The question still remains open whether in mistakes in handling things which may

cause serious harm we can assume an unconscious intention as in the cases here

discussed. [p. 197]

The following case from Brill's experience corroborates the assumption that even serious

mistakes are determined by unconscious intentions: "A physician received a telegram

informing him that his aged uncle was very sick. In spite of important family affairs at home

he at once repaired to that distant town because his uncle was really his father, who had

cared for him since he was one and a half years old, when his own father had died. On

reaching there he found his uncle suffering from pneumonia, and, as the old man was an

octogenarian, the doctors held out no hope for his recovery. 'It was simply a question of a

day or two,' was the local doctor's verdict. Although a prominent physician in a big city, he

refused to co-operate in the treatment, as he found that the case was properly managed

by the local doctor, and he could not suggest anything to improve matters.

"Since death was daily expected, he decided to remain to the end. He waited a few days,

but the sick man struggled hard, and although there was no question of any recovery,

because of the many new complications which had arisen, death seemed to be deferred

for a while. One night before retiring he went into the sick-room and took his uncle's pulse.

As it was quite weak, he decided not to wait for the doctor, and administered a hypodermic

injection. The patient grew rapidly worse and died within a few hours. [p. 198]

There was something strange in the last symptoms, and on later attempting to replace the

tube of hypodermic tablets into the case, he found to his consternation that he had taken

out the wrong tube, and instead of a small dose of digitalis he had given a large dose of

hyoscine.

"This case was related to me by the doctor after he read my paper on the Oedipus

Complex.[5] We agreed that this mistake was determined not only by his impatience to get

home to his sick child, but also by an old resentment and unconscious hostility toward his

uncle (father)."

It is known that in the more serious cases of psychoneuroses one sometimes finds self-

mutilations as symptoms of the disease. That the psychic conflict may end in suicide can

never be excluded in these cases. Thus I know from experience, which some day I shall

support with convincing examples, that many apparently accidental injuries happening to

such patients are really self-inflicted. This is brought about by the fact that there is a

constantly lurking tendency to self-punishment, usually expressing itself in self-reproach,

or contributing to the formation of a symptom, which skilfully makes use of an external

situation. The required external situation may accidentally present itself [p. 199] or the

punishment tendency may assist it until the way is open for the desired injurious effect.

Such occurrences are by no means rare even in cases of moderate severity, and they

betray the portion of unconscious intention through a series of special features -- for

example, through the striking presence of mind which the patients show in the pretended

accidents. [6]

I will report exhaustively one in place of many such examples from my professional

experience. A young woman broke her leg below the knee in a carriage accident so that

she was bedridden for weeks. The striking part of it was the lack of any manifestation of

pain and the calmness with which she bore her misfortune. This calamity ushered in a long

and serious neurotic illness, from which she was finally cured by psychotherapy. During

the treatment I discovered the circumstances surrounding the accident, as well as certain

impressions which preceded it. The young woman with her jealous husband spent some

time on the farm of her married sister, in company with her numerous other brothers and

sisters with their wives and [p. 200] husbands. One evening she gave an exhibition of one

of her talents before this intimate circle; she danced artistically the "cancan," to the great

delight of her relatives, but to the great annoyance of her husband, who afterward

whispered to her, "Again you have behaved like a prostitute." The words took effect; we

will leave it undecided whether it was just on account of the dance. That night she was

restless in her sleep, and the next forenoon she decided to go out driving. She chose the

horses herself refusing one team and demanding another. Her youngest sister wished to

have her baby with its nurse accompany her, but she opposed this vehemently. During the

drive she was nervous; she reminded the coachman that the horses were getting skittish,

and as the fidgety animals really produced a momentary difficulty she jumped from the

carriage in fright and broke her leg, while those remaining; in the carriage were uninjured.

Although after the disclosure of these details we can hardly doubt that this accident was

really contrived, we cannot fail to admire the skill which forced the accident to mete out a

punishment so suitable to the crime. For as it happened "cancan" dancing with her

became impossible for a long time.

Concerning self-inflicted injuries of my own experience, I cannot report anything in calm

times, but under extraordinary: conditions I do [p. 201] not believe myself incapable of

such acts. When a member of my family complains that he or she has bitten his tongue,

bruised her finger, and so on, instead of the expected sympathy I put the question, "Why

did you do that?" But I have most painfully squeezed my thumb, after a youthful patient

acquainted me during the treatment with his intention (naturally not to be taken seriously)

of marrying my eldest daughter, while I knew that she was then in a private hospital in

extreme danger of losing her life.

One of my boys, whose vivacious temperament was wont to put difficulties in the

management of nursing him in his illness, had a fit of anger one morning because he was

ordered to remain in bed during the forenoon, and threatened to kill himself a way out

suggested to him by the newspapers. In the evening he showed me a swelling on the side

of his chest which was the result of bumping against the door knob. To my ironical

question why he did it, and what he meant by, it, the eleven-year-old child explained, "That

was my attempt at suicide which I threatened this morning." However, I do not believe that

my views on self-inflicted wounds were accessible to my children at that time.

Whoever believes in the occurrence of semi-intentional self-inflicted injury -- if this

awkward expression be permitted -- will become prepared [p. 202] to accept through it the

fact that aside from conscious intentional suicide there also exists semi-intentional

annihilation -- with unconscious intention -- which is capable of aptly utilizing a threat

against life and masking it as a casual mishap. Such mechanism is by no means rare. For

the tendency to self-destruction exists to a certain degree in many more persons than in

those who bring it to completion. Self-inflicted injuries are, as a rule, a compromise

between this impulse and the forces working against it, and even where it really comes to

suicide the inclination has existed for a long time with less strength or as an unconscious

and repressed tendency.

Even suicide consciously committed chooses its time, means, and opportunity; it is quite

natural that unconscious suicide should wait for a motive to take upon itself one part of the

causation and thus free it from its oppression by taking up the defensive forces of the

person.[7] [p. 203] These are in no way idle discussions which I here bring up; more than

one case of apparently accidental misfortune (on a horse or out of a carriage) has become

known to me whose surrounding circumstances justified the suspicion of suicide.

For example, during an officers' horse-race one of the riders fell from his horse and was so

seriously injured that a few days later he succumbed to his injuries. His behaviour after

regaining consciousness was remarkable in more than one way, and his conduct previous

to the accident was still more remarkable. He had been greatly depressed by the death of

his beloved mother, had crying spells in the society of his comrades, and to his trusted

friend had spoken of the tædium vitæ. He had wished to quit the service in order to take

part in a war in Africa which had no interest for him.[8] [p. 204] Formerly a keen rider, he

had later evaded riding whenever possible. Finally, before the horse-race, from which he

could not withdraw, he expressed a sad foreboding, which most expectedly in the light of

our conception came true. It may be contended that it is quite comprehensible without any

further cause that a person in such a state of nervous depression cannot manage a horse

as well as on normal days. I quite agree with that, only, I should like to look for the

mechanism of this motor inhibition through "nervousness" in the intention of self-

destruction here emphasized.

Dr. Ferenczi has left to me for publication the analysis of an apparently accidental injury by

shooting which he explained as an unconscious attempt at suicide. I can only agree with

his deduction :--

"J. Ad., 22 years old, carpenter, visited me on the 18th of January, 1908. He wished to

know whether the bullet which pierced his left temple March 20, 1907, could or should be

removed by operation. Aside from occasional, not very severe, headaches, he felt quite

well, also the objective examination showed nothing besides the characteristic powder

wound on the left temple, so that I advised against an operation. When questioned

concerning the circumstances of the case he asserted that he injured himself accidentally.

He was playing with his [p. 205] brother's revolver, and believing that it was not loaded he

pressed it with his left hand: against the left temple (he is not left-handed), put his finger on

the trigger, and the shot went off. There were three bullets in the six-shooter.

"I asked him how he came to carry the revolver, and he answered that it was at the time of

his army conscription, that he took it to the inn the evening before because he feared

fights. At the army examination he was considered unfit for service on account of varicose

veins, which caused him much mortification. He went home and played with the revolver.

He had no intention of hurting himself, but the accident occurred. On further questioning,

whether he was otherwise satisfied with his fortune, he answered with a sigh, and related

a love affair with a girl who loved him in return, but nevertheless left him. She emigrated to

America out of sheer avariciousness. He wanted to follow her, but his parents prevented

him. His lady-love left on the 20th of January, 1907, just two months before the accident.

"Despite all these suspicious elements the patient insisted that the shot was an 'accident.' I

was firmly convinced, however, that the neglect to find out whether the revolver was

loaded before he began to play with it, as well as the self-inflicted injury, were psychically

determined. He [p. 206] was still under the depressing effects of the unhappy love affair,

and apparently wanted 'to forget everything' in the army. When this hope, too, was taken

away from him he resorted to playing with the weapon -- that is, to an unconscious attempt

at suicide. The fact that he did not hold the revolver in the right but in the left hand speaks

conclusively in favour of the fact that he was really only 'playing' -- that is, he did not wish

consciously to commit suicide."

Another analysis of an apparently accidental self-inflicted wound, detailed to me by an

observer, recalls the saying, "He who digs a pit for others falls in himself."[9]

"Mrs. X., belonging to a good middle-class family, is married and has three children. She is

somewhat nervous, but never needed any strenuous treatment, as she could sufficiently

adapt herself to life. One day she sustained a rather striking though transitory

disfigurement of her face in the following manner: She stumbled in a street that was in

process of repair and struck her face against the house wall. The whole face was bruised,

the eyelids blue and oedematous, and as she feared that something might happen to her

eyes she sent for the doctor. After she was calmed I asked her, 'But why did you fall in

such a manner? She answered [p. 207] that just before this accident she wanted her

husband, who had been suffering for some months from a joint affection, to be very careful

in the street, and she often had the experience that in some remarkable way those things

occurred to her against which she warned others.

"I was not satisfied with this as the determination of her accident, and asked her whether

she had not something else to tell me. 'Yes, just before the accident she noticed a nice

picture in a shop on the other side or the street, which she suddenly desired as an

ornament for her nursery, and wished to buy it at once. She thereupon walked across to

the shop without looking at the street, stumbled over a heap of stones, and fell with her

face against the wall without making the slightest effort to shield herself with her hands.

The intention to buy the .picture was immediately forgotten, and she walked home in

haste.'

"'But why were you not more careful?' I asked.

"'Oh!' she answered, 'perhaps it was only a punishment for that episode which I confided

to you!'

"'Has this episode still bothered you?'

"'Yes, later I regretted it very much; I considered myself wicked, criminal, and immoral, but

at the time I was almost crazy with nervousness.' [p. 208]

"She referred to an abortion which was started by a quack and had to be brought to

completion by a gynecologist. This abortion was initiated with the consent of her husband,

as both wished, on account of their pecuniary circumstances, to be spared from being

additionally blessed with children.

"She said: 'I had often reproached myself with the words, "You really had your child killed,"

and I feared that such a crime could not remain unpunished. Now that you have assured

me that there is nothing seriously wrong with my eyes I am quite assured I have already

been sufficiently punished.'

"This accident, therefore, was, on the one hand, a retribution for her sin, but, on the other

hand, it may have served as an escape from a more dire punishment which she had

feared for many months. In the moment that she ran to the shop to buy the picture the

memory of this whole history, with its fears (already quite active in her unconscious at the

time she warned her husband), became overwhelming and could perhaps find expression

in words like these: 'But why do you want an ornament for the nursery? -- you who had

your child killed! You are a murderer! The great punishment is surely approaching!'

"This thought did not become conscious, but instead of it she made use of the situation -- I

[p. 209] might say of the psychologic moment -- to utilize in a commonplace manner the

heap of stones to inflict upon herself this punishment. It was for this reason that she did

not even attempt to put out her arms while falling and was not much frightened. The

second, and probably lesser, determinant of her accident was obviously the self-

punishment for her unconscious wish to be rid of her husband, who was an accessory to

the crime in this affair. This was betrayed by her absolutely superfluous warning to be very

careful in the street on account of the stones. For, just because her husband had a weak

leg, he was very careful in walking."

If such a rage against one's own integrity and one's own life can be hidden behind

apparently accidental awkwardness and motor insufficiency then it is not a big step

forward to grasp the possibility of transferring the same conception to mistakes which

seriously endanger the life and health of others. What I can put forward as evidence for the

validity of this conception was taken from my experience with neurotics, and hence does

not fully meet the demands of this situation. I will report a case in which it was not an

erroneously carried-out action, but what may be more aptly termed a symbolic or chance

action that gave me the clue which later made possible the solution of the patient's conflict.

[p. 210]

I once undertook to improve the marriage relations of a very intelligent man, whose

differences with his tenderly attached young wife could surely be traced to real causes, but

as he himself admitted could not be altogether explained through them. He continually

occupied himself with the thought of a separation, which he repeatedly rejected because

he dearly loved his two small children. In spite of this he always returned to that resolution

and sought no means to make the situation bearable to himself. Such an unsettlement of a

conflict served to prove to me that there were unconscious and repressed motives which

enforced the conflicting conscious thoughts, and in such cases I always undertake to end

the conflict by psychic analysis. One day the man related to me a slight occurrence which

had extremely frightened him. He was sporting with the older child, by far his favourite. He

tossed it high in the air and repeated this tossing till finally he thrust it so high that its head

almost struck the massive gas chandelier. Almost, but not quite, or say "just about!"

Nothing happened to the child except that it became dizzy from fright. The father stood

transfixed with the child in his arms, while the mother merged into an hysterical attack. The

particular facility of this careless movement, with the violent reaction in the parents,

suggested to me to look upon this accident as a symbolic [p. 211] action which gave

expression to an evil intention toward the beloved child.

I could remove the contradiction of the actual tenderness of this father for his child by

referring the impulse to injure it to the time when it was the only one, and so small that as

yet the father had no occasion for tender interest in it. Then it was easy to assume that this

man, so little pleased with his wife at that time, might have thought: "If this small being for

whom I have no regard whatever should die, I would be free and could separate from my

wife." The wish for the death of this much loved being must therefore have continued

unconsciously. From here it was easy to find the way to the unconscious fixation of this

wish.

There was indeed a powerful determinant in a memory from the patient's childhood: it

referred to the death of a little brother, which the mother laid to his father's negligence, and

which led to serious quarrels with threats of separation between the parents. The

continued course of my patient's life, as well as the therapeutic success confirmed my

analysis.

[1] A second publication of Meringer has later shown me how very unjust I was to this author when

I attributed to him so much understanding.

[2] Jones, loc. cit., p. 79.·

[3] Alas! the Venus of Medici is lost!

[4] The Oedipus dream as I was wont to call it, because it contains the key to the understanding of

the legend of King Oedipus. In the text of Sophocles the relation of such a dream is put in the

mouth of Jocasta (cf. The Interpretation of Dreams, pp. 222-4, etc.).

[5] New York Medical Journal, September, 1912. Reprinted in large form as Chapter X of

Psychoanalysis, etc., Saunders. Philadelphia.

[6] The self-inflicted injury which does not entirely tend toward self-annihilation has, moreover, no

other choice in our present state of civilization than to hide itself behind the accidental, or to break

through in a simulation of spontaneous illness. Formerly, it was a customary sign of mourning, at

other times it expressed itself in ideas of piety and renunciation of the world.

[7] The case is then identical with a sexual attack on a woman, in whom the attack of the man

cannot be warded off through the full muscular strength of the woman because a portion of the

unconscious feelings of the one attacked meets it with ready acceptance. To be sure, it is said that

such a situation paralyses the strength of a woman; we need only add the reasons for this

paralysis. Insofar the clever sentence of Sancho Panza, which he pronounced as governor of his

island, is psychologically unjust (Don Quixote, vol. ii. chap. xlv). A woman hauled before the judge

a man who was supposed to have robbed her of her honour by force of violence. Sancho

indemnified her with a full purse which he took from the accused, but after the departure of the

woman he gave the accused permission to follow her and snatch the purse from her. Both returned

wrestling, the woman priding herself that the villain was unable to possess himself of the purse.

Thereupon Sancho spoke: "Had you shown yourself so stout and valiant to defend your body (nay,

but half so much) as you have done to defend your purse, the strength of Hercules could not have

forced you."

[8] It is evident that the situation of a battlefield is such as to meet the requirement of conscious

suicidal intent which, nevertheless, shuns the direct way. Cf. in Wallenstein the words of the

Swedish captain concerning the death of Max Piccolomini: "They say he wished to die."

[9] "Selbstbestrafung wegen Abortus von Dr. J. E. G. van Emden," Haag (Holland), Zentralb. f.

Psychoanalyse, ii, 12.

CHAPTER 9

Symptomatic and Chance Actions

The actions described so far, in which we recognize the execution of an unconscious

intention, appeared as disturbances of other unintended actions, and hid themselves

under the pretext of awkwardness. Chance actions, which we shall now discuss, differ

from erroneously carried out actions only in that they disdain the support of a conscious

intention and really need no pretext. They appear independently and are accepted

because one does not credit them with any aim or purpose. We execute them "without

thinking anything of them," "by mere chance," "just to keep the hands busy," and we feel

confident that such information will be quite sufficient should one inquire as to their

significance. In order to enjoy the advantage of this exceptional position these actions

which no longer claim awkwardness as an excuse must fulfil certain conditions: they must

not be striking, and their effects must be insignificant.

I have collected a large number of such "chance actions" from myself and others, and [p.

216] after thoroughly investigating the individual examples, I believe that the name

"symptomatic actions" is more suitable. They give expression to something which the actor

himself does not suspect in them, and which as a rule he has no intention of imparting to

others, but aims to keep to himself. Like the other phenomena considered so far, they thus

play the part of symptoms .

The richest output of such chance or symptomatic actions is above all obtained in the

psychoanalytic treatment of neurotics. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of showing by

two examples of this nature how far and how delicately the determination of these plain

occurrences are swayed by unconscious thoughts. The line of demarcation between the

symptomatic actions and the erroneously carried out actions is so indefinite that I could

have disposed of these examples in the preceding chapter.

(a) During the analysis a young woman reproduced this idea which suddenly occurred to

her. Yesterday while cutting her nails "she had cut into the flesh while engaged in trimming

the cuticle." This is of so little interest that we ask in astonishment why it is at all

remembered and mentioned, and therefore come to the conclusion that we deal with a

symptomatic action. It was really the finger upon which the wedding-ring is worn which

was injured through this [p. 217] slight awkwardness. It happened, moreover, on her

wedding-day, which thus gives to the injury of the delicate skin a very definite and easily

guessed meaning. At the same time she, also related a dream which alluded to the

awkwardness of her husband and her anesthesia as a woman. But why did she injure the

ring finger of her left hand when the wedding-ring is worn on the right? Her husband is a

jurist, a "Doctor of Laws" (Doktor der Rechte, literally a Doctor of Rights), and her secret

affection as a girl belonged to a physician who was jokingly called Doktor der Linke

(literally, Doctor of Left). Incidentally a left-handed marriage has a definite meaning.

(b) A single young woman relates: "Yesterday, quite unintentionally, I tore a hundred-dollar

note in two pieces and gave half to a woman who was visiting me. Is that, too, a

symptomatic action?" After closer investigation the matter of the hundred-dollar note

elicited the following associations: She dedicated a part of her time and her fortune to

charitable work. Together with another woman she was taking care of the rearing of an

orphan. The hundred dollars was the contribution sent her by that woman, which she

enclosed in an envelope and provisionally deposited on her writing-desk.

The visitor was a prominent woman with whom she was associated in another act of

charity. [p. 218] This woman wished to note the names of a number of persons to whom

she could apply for charitable aid. There was no paper, so my patient grasped the

envelope from her desk, and without thinking of its contents tore it in two pieces, one of

which she kept, in order to have a duplicate list of names, and gave the other to her visitor.

Note the harmlessness of this aimless occurrence. It is known that a hundred-dollar note

suffers no loss in value when it is torn, provided all the pieces are produced. That the

woman would not throw away the piece of paper was assumed by the importance of the

names on it, and there was just as little doubt that she would return the valuable content

as soon as she noticed it.

But to what unconscious thought should this chance action, which was made possible

through forgetfulness, give expression? The visitor in this case had a very definite relation

to my patient and myself. It was she who at one time had recommended me as physician

to the suffering girl, and if I am, not mistaken my patient considered herself indebted for

this advice. Should this halved hundred-dollar note perhaps represent a fee for her

mediation? That still remained enigmatic.

But other material was added to this beginning. Several days before a woman mediator [p.

219] of a different sort had inquired of a relative whether the gracious young lady wished to

make the acquaintance of a certain gentleman, and that morning, some hours before the

woman's visit, the wooing letter of the suitor arrived, giving occasion for much mirth. When

therefore the visitor opened the conversation with inquiries regarding the health of my

patient, the latter could well have thought: "You certainly found me the right doctor, but if

you could assist me in obtaining the right husband (and a child) I should be still more

grateful."

Both mediators became fused into one in this repressed thought, and she handed the

visitor the fee which her fantasy was ready to give the other. This resolution became

perfectly convincing when I add that I had told her of such chance or symptomatic actions

only the previous evening. She then took advantage of the next occasion to produce an

analogous action.

We can undertake a grouping of these extremely frequent chance and symptomatic

actions according to their occurrence as habitual, regular under certain circumstances, and

as isolated ones. The first group (such as playing with the watch-chain, fingering one's

beard, and so on), which can almost serve as a characteristic of the person concerned, is

related to the numerous tic movements, and certainly deserves to be dealt with in

connection with the latter. In the second group [p. 220] I place the playing with one's cane,

the scribbling with one's pencil, the jingling of coins in one's pocket, kneading dough and

other plastic materials, all sorts of handling of one's clothing, and many other actions of the

same order.

These playful occupations during psychic treatment regularly conceal sense and meaning

to which other expression is denied. Generally the person in question knows nothing about

it; he is unaware whether he is doing the same thing or whether he has imitated certain

modifications in his customary playing, and he also fails to see or hear the effects of these

actions. For example, he does not hear the noise which is produced by the jingling of

coins, and he is astonished and incredulous when his attention is called to it. Of equal

significance to the physician, and worthy of his observation, is everything that one does

with his clothing often without noticing it. Every change in the customary attire, every little

negligence, such as an unfastened button, every trace of exposure means to express

something that the wearer of the apparel does not wish to say directly, usually he is

entirely unconscious of it.

The interpretation of these trifling chance actions, as well as the proof for their

interpretation, can be demonstrated every time with sufficient certainty from the

surrounding circumstances during the treatment, from the themes [p. 221] under

discussion, and from the ideas that come to the surface when attention is directed to the

seeming accident. Because of this connection I will refrain from supporting my assertions

by reporting examples with their analyses; but I mention these matters because I believe

that they have the same meaning in normal persons as in my patients.

I cannot, however, refrain from showing by at least one example how closely an habitually

accomplished symbolic action may be connected with the most intimate and important part

of the life of a normal individual.[1]

"As Professor Freud has taught us, the symbolism in the infantile life of the normal plays a

greater rô1e than was expected from earlier psychoanalytic experiences. In view of this

the following brief analysis may be of general interest, especially on account of its medical

aspects.

"A doctor on rearranging his furniture in a new house came across a straight, wooden

stethoscope, and, after pausing to decide where he should put it, was impelled to place it

on the side of his writing-desk in such a position that it stood exactly between his chair and

the one reserved for his patients. The act in itself was certainly odd, for in the first place

the straight [p. 222] stethoscope served no purpose, as he invariably used a binaural one;

and in the second place all his medical apparatus and instruments were always kept in

drawers, with the sole exception of this one. However, he gave no thought to the matter

until one day it was brought to his notice by a patient who had never seen a wooden

stethoscope, asking him what it was. On being told, she asked why he kept it there. He

answered in an offhand way that that place was as good as any other. This, however,

started him thinking, and he wondered whether there had been an unconscious motive in

his action. Being interested in the psychoanalytic method, he asked me to investigate the

matter.

"The first memory that occurred to him was the fact that when a medical student he had

been struck by the habit his hospital interne had of always carrying in his hand a wooden

stethoscope on his ward visits, although he never used it. He greatly admired this interne,

and was much attached to him. Later on, when he himself became an interne he

contracted the same habit, and would feel very uncomfortable if by mistake he left the

room without having the instrument to swing in his hand. The aimlessness of the habit was

shown, not only by the fact that the only stethoscope he ever used was a binaural one,

which he carried in his pocket, but also in that it was continued when he was a sur- [p.

223] gical interne and never needed any stethoscope at all.

"From this it was evident that the idea of the instrument in question had in some way or

other become invested with a greater psychic significance than normally belongs to it -- in

other words, that to the subject it stood for more than it does for other people. The idea

must have got unconsciously associated with some other one, which it symbolized, and

from which it derived its additional fulness of meaning. I will forestall the rest of the

analysis by saying what this secondary idea was -- namely, a phallic one; the way in which

this curious association had been formed will presently be related. The discomfort he

experienced in hospital on missing the instrument, and the relief and assurance the

presence of it gave him, was related to what is known as a 'castration-complex' -- namely,

a childhood fear, often continued in a disguised form into adult life, lest a private part of his

body should be taken away from him, just as playthings so often were. The fear was due

to paternal threats that it would be cut off if he were not a good boy, particularly in a certain

direction. This is a very common complex, and accounts for a great deal of general

nervousness and lack of confidence in later years.

"Then came a number of childhood memories relating to his family doctor. He had been [p.

224] strongly attached to this doctor as a child, and during the analysis long-buried

memories were recovered of a double phantasy he had in his fourth year concerning the

birth of a younger sister -- namely, that she was the child (1) of himself and his mother, the

father being relegated to the background, and (2) of the doctor and himself; in this he thus

played both a masculine and feminine part.[2] At the time, when his curiosity was being

aroused by the event, he could not help noticing; the prominent share taken by the doctor

in the proceedings, and the subordinate position occupied by the father: the significance of

this for his later life will presently be pointed out.

"The stethoscope association was formed through many connections. In the first place, the

physical appearance of the instrument- - a straight, rigid, hollow tube, having a small

bulbous summit at one extremity and a broad base at the other -- and the fact of its being

the essential part of the medical paraphernalia, the instrument with which the doctor

performed his magical and interesting feats, were matters that attracted his boyish

attention. He had had his chest repeatedly examined by the doctor at the age of six, and

distinctly recollected the volup- [p. 225] tuous sensation of feeling the latter's head near

him pressing the wooden stethoscope into his chest, and of the rhythmic to-and-fro

respiratory movement. He had been struck by the doctor's habit of carrying his

stethoscope inside his hat; he found it interesting that the doctor should carry his chief

instrument concealed about his person, always handy when he went to see patients, and

that he only had to take off his hat (i.e., a part of his clothing) and 'pull it out.' At the age of

eight he was impressed by being told by an older boy that it was the doctor's custom to get

into bed with his women patients. It is certain that the doctor, who was young and

handsome, was extremely popular among the women of the neighbourhood, including the

subject's own mother. The doctor and his 'instrument' were therefore the objects of great

interest throughout his boyhood.

"It is probable that, as in many other cases, unconscious identification with the family

doctor had been a main motive in determining the subject's choice of profession. It was

here doubly conditioned (1) by the superiority of the doctor on certain interesting occasions

to the father, of whom the subject was very jealous, and (2) by the doctor's knowledge of

forbidden topics[3] and his opportunity for illicit indulgence. [p. 226] The subject admitted

that he had on several occasions experienced erotic temptations in regard to his women

patients; he had twice fallen in love with one, and finally had married one.

"The next memory was of a dream, plainly of a homosexual-masochistic nature; in it a

man, who proved to be a replacement figure of the family doctor, attacked the subject with

a 'sword.' The idea of a sword, as is so frequently the case in dreams, represented the

same idea that was mentioned above to be associated with that of a wooden stethoscope.

The thought of a sword reminded the subject of the passage in the Nibelung Saga, where

Sigurd sleeps with his naked sword (Gram) between him and Brunhilda, an incident that

had always greatly struck his imagination.

"The meaning of the symptomatic act now at last became clear. The subject had placed

his wooden stethoscope between him and his patients, just as Sigurd had placed his

sword (an equivalent symbol) between him and the maiden he was not to touch. The act

was a compromise-formation; it served both to gratify in his imagination the repressed

wish to enter into nearer relations with an attractive patient (interposition of phallus), and at

the same time to remind him that this wish was not to become a reality (interposition of

sword). It [p. 227] was, so to speak, a charm against yielding to temptation.

"I might add that the following passage from Lord Lytton's Richelieu made a great

impression on the boy:--

'Beneath the rule of men entirely great

The pen is mightier than the sword,' [4]

and that he became a prolific writer and uses an unusually large fountain-pen. ,When I

asked him what need he had of this pen, he replied in a characteristic manner, 'I have so

much to express.'

"This analysis again reminds us of the profound views that are afforded us in the psychic

life through the 'harmless' and 'senseless' actions, and how early in life the tendency to

symbolization develops."

I can also relate an experience from my psychotherapeutic practice in which the hand,

playing with a mass of bread-crumbs, gave evidence of an eloquent declaration. My

patient was a boy not yet thirteen years of age, who had been very hysterical for two

years. I finally took him for psychoanalytic treatment, after a lengthy stay at a

hydrotherapeutic institution had proved futile. My supposition was that he must have had

sexual experiences, and that, corresponding to his age, he had been troubled by [p. 228]

sexual questions; but I was cautious about helping him with explanations as I wished to

test further my assumption. I was therefore curious as to the manner in which the desired

material would evince itself in him.

One day it struck me that he was rolling something between the fingers of his right hand;

he would thrust it into his pocket and there continue playing with it, then would draw it out

again, and so on. I did not ask what he had in his hand; but as he suddenly opened his

hand he showed it to me. It was bread-crumbs kneaded into a mass. At the next session

he again brought along a mass, and in the course of our conversation, although his eyes

were closed, modelled a figure with an incredible rapidity which excited my interest.

Without doubt it was a manikin like the crudest prehistoric idols, with a head, two arms,

two legs, and an appendage between the legs which he drew out to a long point.

This was scarcely completed when he kneaded the manikin together again: later he

allowed it to remain, but modelled an identical appendage on the flat of the back and on

other parts in order to veil the meaning of the first. I wished to show him that I had

understood him, but at the same time I wanted to deprive him of the evasion that he had

thought of nothing while actively forming these figures. With this in- [p. 229] tention I

suddenly asked him whether he remembered the story of the Roman king who gave his

son's envoy a pantomimic answer in his garden.

The boy did not wish to recall what he must have learned so much more recently than I.

He asked if that was the story of the slave on whose bald skull the answer was written. I

told him, " No, that belonged to Greek history," and related the following: "King Tarquinius

Superbus had induced his son Sextus to steal into a Latin city. The son, who had later

obtained a foothold in the city, sent a messenger to the king asking what steps he should

take next. The king gave no answer, but went into his garden, had the question repeated

there, and silently struck off the heads of the largest and most beautiful poppies. All that

the messenger could do was to report this to Sextus, who understood his father, and

caused the most distinguished citizens of the city to be removed by assassination."

While I was speaking the boy stopped kneading, and as I was relating what the king did in

his garden, I noticed that at the words "silently struck" he tore off the head of the manikin

with a movement as quick as lightning. He therefore understood me, and showed that he

was also understood by me. Now I could question him directly, and gave him the

information [p. 230] that he desired, and in a short time the neurosis came to an end.

The symptomatic actions which: we observe in inexhaustible abundance in healthy as well

as in nervous people are worthy of our interest for more than one reason. To the physician

they often serve as valuable indications for orienting himself in new or unfamiliar

conditions; to the keen observer they often betray everything, occasionally even more than

he cares to know. He who is familiar with its application sometimes feels like King

Solomon, who, according to the Oriental legend, understood the language of animals.

One day I was to examine a strange young man at his mother's home. As he came

towards me I was attracted by a large stain on his trousers, which by its peculiar stiff

edges I recognized as one produced by albumen. After a moment's embarrassment the

young man excused this stain by remarking that he was hoarse and therefore drank a raw

egg, and that some of the slippery white of the egg had probably fallen on his clothes. To

confirm his statements he showed the eggshell which could still be seen on a small plate

in the room. The suspicious spot was thus explained in this harmless way; but as his

mother left us alone I thanked him for having so greatly facilitated the diagnosis for me,

and without further pro- [p. 231] cedure I took as the topic of our discussion his confession

that he was suffering from the effects of masturbation.

Another time I called on a woman as rich as she was miserly and foolish, who was in the

habit of giving the physician the task of working his way through a heap of her complaints

before he could reach the simple cause of her condition. As I entered she was sitting at a

small table engaged in arranging silver dollars in little piles as she rose she tumbled some

of the pieces of money to the floor. I helped her pick them up, but interrupted the recitation

of her misery by remarking: "Has your good son-in-law been spending so much of your

money again? " She bitterly denied this, only to relate a few moments later the lamentable

story of the aggravation caused by her son-in-law's extravagances. And she has not sent

for me since. I cannot maintain that one always makes friends of those to whom he tells

the meaning of their symptomatic actions.

He who observes his fellow-men while at table will be able to verify in them the nicest and

most instructive symptomatic actions.

Dr. Hans Sachs relates the following:--

"I happened to be present when an elderly, couple related to me partook of their supper.

The lady had stomach trouble and was forced to follow a strict diet. A roast was put before

[p. 232] the husband, and he requested his wife, who was not allowed to partake of this

food, to give him the mustard. The wife opened the closet and took out the small bottle of

stomach drops, and placed it on the table before her husband. Between the barrel-shaped

mustard-glass and the small drop-bottle there was naturally no similarity through which the

mishandling could be explained; yet the wife only noticed the mistake after her husband

laughingly called her attention to it. The sense of this symptomatic action needs no

explanation."

For an excellent example of this kind which was very skilfully utilized by the observer, I am

indebted to Dr. Bernh. Dattner (Vienna):--

"I dined in a restaurant with my colleague H., a doctor of philosophy. He spoke about the

injustice done to probationary students, and added that even before he finished his studies

he was placed as secretary to the ambassador, or rather the extraordinary plenipotentiary

Minister to Chili [sic]. 'But,' he added, 'the minister was afterwards transferred, and I did not

make any effort to meet the newly appointed.' While uttering the last sentence he was

lifting a piece of pie to his mouth, but he let it drop as if out of awkwardness. I immediately

grasped the hidden sense of this symptomatic action, and remarked to my colleague, who

was unacquainted with psychoanalysis, 'You really allowed a very [p. 233] choice morsel to

slip from you.' He did not realize, however, that my words could equally refer to his

symptomatic action, and he repeated the same words I uttered with a peculiarly agreeable

and surprising vividness, as if I had actually -taken the words from his mouth: 'It was really

a very choice morsel that I allowed to get away from me.' He then followed this remark

with a detailed description of his clumsiness, which has cost him this very remunerative

position.

"The sense of this symbolic action becomes clearer if we remember that my colleague had

scruples about telling me, almost a perfect stranger, concerning his precarious material

situation, and his repressed thought took on the mask of symptomatic action which

expressed symbolically what was meant to be concealed, and the speaker thus got relief

from his unconscious."

That the taking away or taking along things without any apparent intention may prove to be

senseful [sic] may be shown by the following examples .

1. Dr. B. Dattner relates: "An acquaintance paid the first after-marriage visit to a highly

regarded lady friend of his youth. He told me of this visit and expressed his surprise at the

fact that he failed in his resolution to visit with her only a short time, and then reported to

me [p. 234] a rather strange faulty act which happened to him there.

"The husband of this friend, who took part in the conversation, was looking for a box of

matches which he was sure was on the table when he came there. My acquaintance, too,

looked through his pockets to ascertain whether he had not put it in his pocket, but without

avail. Some time later he actually found it in his pocket, and was struck by the fact that

there was only one match in the box.

"A dream a few days later showing the box symbolism in reference to the friend of his

youth confirmed my explanation. With the symptomatic action my acquaintance meant to

announce his priority-right and the exclusiveness of his possession (it contained only one

match)."

Dr. Hans Sachs relates the following: "Our cook is very fond of a certain kind of pie. There

is no possible doubt about this, as it is the only kind of pastry which she always prepares

well. One Sunday she brought this pie to the table, took it off the pie-plate, and proceeded

to remove the dishes used in the former course, but on the top of this pile she placed the

pie, and disappeared with it into the kitchen.

We first thought that she had something to improve on the pie, but as she failed to appear

my wife rang the bell and asked, 'Betty, what happened to the pie?' to which the girl

answered, [p. 235] without comprehending the question, 'How is that?' We had to call her

attention to the fact that she carried the pie back to the kitchen. She had put it on the pile

of dishes, taken it out, and put it away 'without noticing it.'

"The next day, when we were about to consume the rest of the pie, my wife noticed that

there was as much of it as we had left the day before -- that is, the girl had disdained to eat

the portion of her favourite dish which was rightly hers. Questioned why she did not eat the

pie, she answered, somewhat embarrassed, that she did not care for it.

"The infantile attitude is distinctly noticeable on both occasions -- first the childish

insatiableness in refusing to share with anybody the object of her wishes, then the reaction

of spite which is just as childish: 'If you grudge it to me, keep it for yourself, I want nothing

of it.' "

Chance or symptomatic actions occurring in affairs of married life have often a most

serious significance, and could lead those who do not concern themselves with the

psychology of the unconscious to a belief in omens. It is not an auspicious beginning if a

young woman loses her wedding-ring on her wedding-tour, even if it were only mislaid and

soon found.

I know a woman, now divorced, who in the management of her business affairs frequently

[p. 236] signed her maiden name many years before she actually resumed it.

Once I was the guest of a newly married couple and heard the young woman laughingly

relate her latest experience, how, on the day succeeding her return from the wedding tour

she had sought out her single sister in order to go shopping with her as in former times,

while her husband was attending business. Suddenly she noticed a man on the opposite

side of the street; nudging her sister she said, "Why, that is surely Mr. L." She forgot that

for some weeks this man had been her husband. I was chilled at this tale, but I did not

dare draw any inferences. The little story came back to me only several years later, after

this marriage had ended most unhappily .

The following observation, which could as well have found a place among the examples of

forgetting, was taken from a noteworthy work published in French by A. Maeder.[5]

"Une dame nous racontait récement qu'elle avait oublie d'essayer sa robe de noce et s'en

souvint la veille du marriage, à huit heur du soir, la couturière désespérait de voir sa

cliente. Ce détail suffit à montrer que la fiancée ne se sentait pas très hereuse de porter

une robe d'épouse, elle cherchait à oublier cette repré- [p. 237] sentation pénible. Elle est

aujourd'hui . . . divorcée.''

A friend who has learned to observe signs related to me that the great actress Eleanora

Duse introduces a symptomatic action into one of her rôles which shows very nicely from

what depth she draws her acting. It is a drama dealing with adultery; she has just been

discussing with her husband and now stands soliloquizing before the seducer makes his

appearance. During this short interval she plays with her wedding-ring, she pulls it off,

replaces it, and finally takes it off again. She is now ready for the other.

I know of an elderly man who married a young girl, and instead of starting at once on his

wedding tour he decided to spend the night in a hotel. Scarcely had they reached the

hotel, when he noticed with fright that he was without his wallet, in which he had the entire

sum of money for the wedding tour; he must have mislaid or lost it. He was still able to

reach his servant by telephone; the latter found the missing article in the coat discarded for

the travelling clothes and brought it to the hotel to the waiting bridegroom, who had thus

entered upon his marriage without means.

It is consoling to think that the "losing of objects" by people is merely an unsuspected

extension of a symptomatic action, and is thus [p. 238] welcome at least to the secret

intention of the loser. Often it is only an expression of slight appreciation of the lost article,

a secret dislike for the same, or perhaps for the person from whom it came, or the desire

to lose this object was transferred to it from other and more important objects through

symbolic association. The loss of valuable articles serves as an expression of diverse

feelings; it may either symbolically represent a repressed thought -- that is, it may bring

back a memory which one would rather not hear -- of it may represent a sacrifice to the

obscure forces of fate, the worship of which is not yet entirely extinct even with us. [6] [p.

239]

The following examples will illustrate these statements concerning the losing of objects:--

Dr. B. Dattner states: "A colleague related to me that he lost his steel pencil which he had

had for over two years, and which, on account of its superior quality, was highly prized by

him. Analysis elicited the following facts: The day before he had received a very

disagreeable [p. 240] letter from his brother-in-law, the concluding sentence of which read:

'At present I have neither the desire nor the time to assist you in your carelessness and

laziness.' The effect connected with this letter was so powerful that the next day he

promptly sacrificed the pencil which was a present from this brother-in-law in order not to

be burdened with his favours." [p. 241]

Brill reports the following example: "A doctor took exception to the following statement in

my book, 'We never lose what we really want' (Psychanalysis, its Theories and Practical

Application, p. 214).· His wife, who is very interested in psychologic subjects, read with him

the chapter on "Psychopathology of Everyday Life "; they were both very much impressed

with the novelty of the ideas, and so on, and were very willing to accept most of the

statements. He could not, however, agree with the above-given statement because, as he

said to his wife, 'I surely did not wish to lose my knife.' He referred to a valuable knife given

to him by his wife, which he highly prized, the loss of which caused him much pain.

"It did not take his wife very long to discover the solution for this loss in a manner to

convince them both of the accuracy of my statement. When she presented him with this

knife he was a bit loath to accept it. Although he considered himself quite emancipated, he

nevertheless entertained some superstition about giving or accepting a knife as a gift,

because it is said that a knife cuts friendship. He even remarked this to his wife, who only

laughed at his superstition. He had the knife for years before it disappeared.

"Analysis brought out the fact that the disappearance of the knife was directly connected

[p. 242] with a period when there were violent quarrels between himself and his wife,

which threatened to end in separation. They lived happily together until his step-daughter

(it was his second marriage) came to live with them. His daughter was the cause of many

misunderstandings, and it was at the height of these quarrels that he lost the knife.

"The unconscious activity is very nicely shown in this symptomatic action. In spite of his

apparent freedom from superstition, he still unconsciously believed that a donated knife

may cut friendship between the persons concerned. The losing of it was simply an

unconscious defence against losing his wife, and by sacrificing the knife he made the

superstitious ban impotent.''

In a lengthy discussion and with the aid of dream analysis[7] Otto Rank made clear the

sacrificial tendency with its deep-reaching motivation. It must be said that just such

symptomatic actions often give us access to the understanding of the intimate psychic life

of the person.

Of the many isolated chance-actions, I will relate one example which showed a deeper

meaning even without analysis. This example clearly explains the conditions under which

such [p. 243] symptoms may be produced most casually, and also shows that an

observation of practical importance may be attached to it. During a summer tour it

happened that I had to wait several days at a certain place for the arrival of my travelling

companions. In the meantime I made the acquaintance of a young man, who also seemed

lonely and was quite willing to join me. As we lived at the same hotel it was quite natural

that we should take all our meals and our walks together.

On the afternoon of the third day he suddenly informed me that he expected his wife to

arrive on that evening's express train. My psychologic interest was now aroused, as it had

already struck me that morning that my companion rejected my proposal to make a long

excursion, and in our short walk he objected to a certain path as too steep and dangerous.

During our afternoon walk he suddenly thought that I must be hungry and insisted that I

should not delay my evening meal on his account, that he would not sup before his wife's

arrival. I understood the hint and seated myself at the table while he went to the station.

The next morning we met in the foyer of the hotel. He presented me to his wife, and

added, "Of course, you will breakfast with us? " I had to attend first to a small matter in the

next street, but assured him that I would return [p. 244] shortly. Later, as I entered the

breakfast-room, I noticed that the couple were at a small table near the window, both

seated on the same side of it. On the opposite side there was only one chair, which was

covered, however, with a man's large and heavy coat. I understood well the meaning of

this unintentional, none the less expressive, disposition of the coat. It meant this: "There is

no room for you here, you are superfluous now."

The man did not notice that I remained standing before the table, being unable to take the

seat, but his wife noticed it, and quickly nudged her husband and whispered: "Why, you

have covered the gentleman's place with your coat."

These as well as other similar experiences have caused me to think that the actions

executed unintentionally must inevitably become the source of misunderstanding in human

relations. The perpetrator of the act, who is unaware of any associated intention, takes no

account of it, and does not hold himself responsible for it. On the other hand, the second

party, having regularly utilized even such acts as those of his partner to draw conclusions

as to the purpose and meaning, recognizes more of the stranger's psychic processes than

the latter is ready either to admit or believe that he has imparted. He becomes indignant

when these conclusions drawn from [p. 245] his symptomatic actions are held up to him;

he declares them baseless because he does not see any conscious intention in their

execution, and complains of being misunderstood by the other. Close examination shows

that such misunderstandings are based on the fact that the person is too fine an observer

and understands too much. The more "nervous" two persons are the more readily will they

give each other cause for disputes, which are based on the fact that one as definitely

denies about his own person what he is sure to accept about the other.

And this is, indeed, the punishment for the inner dishonesty to which people grant

expression under the guise of "forgetting," of erroneous actions and accidental emotions, a

feeling which they would do better to confess to themselves and others when they can no

longer control it. As a matter of fact it can be generally affirmed that every one is

continually practising psychoanalysis on his neighbours, and consequently learns to know

them better than each individual knows himself. The road following the admonition g n w q

i s e a u t o n leads through study of one's own apparently casual commissions and

omissions.

[1] "Beitrag zur Symbolik im Alltag von Ernest Jones," Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse, i. 3, 1911.

[2] Psychoanalytic research, with the penetration of infantile amnesia, has shown that this apparent

precocity is a less abnormal occurrence than was previously supposed.

[3] The term " medical questions" is a common periphrasis for " sexual questions."

[4] Cf. Oldham's "I wear my pen as others do their sword."

[5] Maeder, "Contribution a la psychologie de la vie quotidienne," Arch. des psychologie, T. vi.

1906.

[6] Here is another small collection of various symptomatic actions in normal and neurotic persons.

An elderly colleague who does not like to lose at cards had to pay one evening a large sum of

money in consequence of his losses; he did this without complaint, but with a peculiar constrained

temper. After his departure it was discovered that he had left at this place practically everything he

had with him, spectacles, cigar-case, and handkerchief. That would be readily translated into the

words: "You robbers, you have nicely plundered me." A man who suffers from occasional sexual

impotence, which has its origin in the intimacy of his infantile relations to his mother, relates that he

is in the habit of embellishing pamphlets and notes with an S, the initial of his mother's name. He

cannot bear the idea of having letters from home come in contact with other unsanctified

correspondence, and therefore finds it necessary to keep the former separate. A young woman

suddenly flings open the door of the consulting-room while her predecessor is still present. She

excused herself on the ground of "thoughtlessness"; it soon came to light that she demonstrated

her curiosity which caused her at an earlier time to intrude into the bedroom of her parents. Girls

who are proud of their beautiful hair know so well how to manipulate combs and hairpins, that in

the midst of conversation their hair becomes loosened. During the treatment (in a reclining

position) some men scatter change from their pockets and thus pay for the hour of treatment; the

amount scattered is in proportion to their estimation of the work. Whoever forgets articles in the

doctor's office, such as eye-glasses, gloves, handbags, generally indicates that he cannot tear

himself away and is anxious to return soon. Ernest Jones says: "One can almost measure the

success with which a physician is practising psychotherapy, for instance, by the size of the

collection of umbrellas, handkerchiefs, purses, and so on, that he could make in a month. The

slightest habits and acts performed with a minimum of attention, such as the winding of a clock

before retiring to sleep, the putting out of lights before leaving the room, and similar actions, are

occasionally subject to disturbances which clearly demonstrate the influence of the unconscious

complex, and what is thought to be the strongest "habits." In the journal Coenobium, Maeder

relates about a hospital physician who, on account of an important matter, desired to get to the city

that evening, although he was on duty and had no right to leave the hospital. On his return he

noticed to his surprise that there was a light in his room. On leaving the room he had forgotten to

put it out, something that had never happened before. But he soon grasped the motive of this

forgetting. The hospital superintendent who lived in the same house must have concluded from the

light in the room that he was at home. A man overburdened with worries and subject to occasional

depressions assured me that he regularly forgot to wind his watch on those evenings when life

seemed too hard and unfriendly. In this omission to wind his watch he symbolically expressed that

it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived to see the next day. Another man who was

personally unknown to me wrote: "Having been struck by a terrible misfortune, life appeared so

harsh and unsympathetic, that I imagined that I had not sufficient strength to live to see the next

day. I then noticed that almost every day I forgot to wind my watch, something that I never omitted

before. I had been in the habit of doing it regularly before retiring in an almost mechanical and

unconscious manner. It was only very seldom that I thought of it, and that happened when I had

something important for the next day which held my interest. "Should this be considered a

symptomatic action? I really cannot explain it." Whoever will take the trouble, like Jung (The

Psychology of Dementia Præcox, translated by Peterson and Brill), or Maeder ("Une voie nouvelle

en Psychologie -- Freud et son ecole," Coenobium, Lugano, 1906), to pay attention to melodies

which one hums to himself aimlessly and unconsciously, will regularly discover the relation of the

melody's text to a theme which occupies the person at that time.

[7] Das Verlieren als Symptom-handlung," Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse, i. 10-11.

CHAPTER 10

Errors

Errors of memory are distinguished from forgetting and false recollections through one

feature only, namely, that the error false recollection) is not recognized as such but finds

credence. However, the use of the expression "error" seems to depend on still another

condition. We speak of "erring·" instead of "falsely recollecting where the character of the

objective reality is emphasized in the psychic material to be reproduced -- that is, where

something other than a fact of my own psychic life is to be remembered, or rather

something that mat be confirmed or refuted through the memory of others. The reverse of

the error in memory in this sense is formed by ignorance.

In my book The Interpretation of Dreams, [1] I was responsible for a series of errors in

historical, and above all, in material facts, which I was astonished to discover after the

appearance [p. 250] of the book. On closer examination I found that they did not originate

from my ignorance, but could be traced to errors of memory explainable by means of

analysis.

(a) On page 361 I indicated as Schiller's birthplace the city of Marburg, a name which

recurs in Styria. The error is found in the analysis of a dream during a night journey from

which I was awakened by the conductor calling out the name of the station Marburg. In the

contents of the dream inquiry is made concerning a book by Schiller. But Schiller was not

born in the university town of Marburg but in the Swabian city Marbach. I maintain that I

always knew this.

(b) On page 165 Hannibal's father is called Hasdrubal. This error was particularly annoying

to me, but it was most corroborative of my conception of such errors. Few readers of the

book are better posted on the history of the Barkides than the author who wrote this error

and overlooked it in three proofs. The name of Hannibal's father was Hamilcar Barkas;

Hasdrubal was the name of Hannibal's brother as well as that of his brother-in-law and

predecessor in command.

from the throne. This horror I have erroneously advanced by a generation; according to [p.

251] Greek mythology it was Kronos who committed this on his father Uranos.[2]

How is it to be explained that my memory furnished me with false material on these points,

while it usually places the most remote and unusual material at my disposal, as the

readers of my books can verify? And, what is more, in three carefully executed proof-

readings I passed over these errors as if struck blind.

Goethe said of Lichtenberg: "Where he cracks a joke, there lies a concealed problem."

Similarly we can affirm of these passages cited from my book: back of every error is a

repression. More accurately stated: the error conceals a falsehood, disfigurement which is

ultimately based on repressed material. In the analysis of the dreams there reported, I was

compelled by the very nature of the theme to which the dream thoughts related, on the one

hand, to break off the analysis in some places before it had reached its completion, and on

the other hand, to remove an indiscreet detail through a slight disfigurement of its outline. I

could not act differently, and had no other choice if I was at all to offer examples and

illustrations. My constrained position was necessarily brought about by the peculiarity of

dreams, which give expression to [p. 252] repressed thoughts, or to material which is

incapable of becoming conscious. In spite of this it is said that enough material remained

to offend the more sensitive souls. The disfigurement or concealment of the continuing

thoughts known to me could not be accomplished without leaving some trace. What I

wished to repress has often against my will obtruded itself on what I have taken up, and

evinced itself in the matter as an unnoticeable error. Indeed, each of the three examples

given is based on the same theme: the errors are the results of repressed thoughts which

occupy themselves with my deceased father.

(ad a) Whoever reads through the dream analysed on page 361 will find some parts

unveiled; in some parts he will be able to divine through allusions that I have broken off the

thoughts which would have contained an unfavourable criticism of my father. In the

continuation of this line of thoughts and memories there lies an annoying tale, in which

books and a business friend of my father, named Marburg, play a part; it is the same name

the calling out of which in the southern railway-station had aroused me from sleep. I

wished to suppress this Mr. Marburg in the analysis from myself and my readers: he

avenged himself by intruding where he did not belong, and changed the name of Schiller's

birthplace from Marbach to Marburg. [p. 253]

(ad b) The error Hasdrubal in place of Hamilcar, the name of the brother instead of that of

the father, originated from an association which dealt with the Hannibal fantasies of my

college years and my dissatisfaction with the conduct of my father towards the "enemies of

our people." I could have continued and recounted how my attitude toward my father was

changed by a visit to England, where I made the acquaintance of my half-brother, by a

previous marriage of my father. My brother's oldest son was my age exactly. Thus the age

relations were no hindrance to a fantasy which may be stated thus: how much pleasanter it

would be had I been born the son of my brother instead of the son of my father! This

suppressed fantasy then falsified the text of my book at the point where I broke off the

analysis, by forcing me to put the name of the brother for that of the father.

(ad c) The influence of the memory of this same brother is responsible for my having

advanced by a generation the mythological horror of the Greek deities. One of the

admonitions of my brother has lingered long in my memory. " Do not forget one thing

concerning your conduct in life," he said: " you belong not to the second but really to the

third generation of your father." Our father had remarried at an advanced age, and was

therefore an old man to his children by the second marriage. I commit [p. 254] the error

mentioned where I discuss the piety between parents and children.

Several times friends and patients have called my attention to the fact that in reporting

their dreams or alluding to them in dream analyses, I have related inaccurately the

circumstances experienced by us in common. These are also historic errors. On re-

examining such individual cases I have found that my recollection of the facts was

unreliable only where I had purposely disfigured or concealed something in the analysis.

Here again we have an unobserved error as a substitute for an intentional concealment or

repression.

From these errors, which originate from repression, we must sharply distinguish those

which are based on actual ignorance. Thus, for example, it was ignorance when on my

excursion a to Wachau I believed that I had passed the resting-place of the revolutionary

leader Fischof. Only the name is common to both places. Fischof's Emmersdorf is located

in Kärnthen. But I did not know any better.

Here is another embarrassing but instructive error, an example of temporary ignorance if

you like. One day a patient reminded me to give him the two books on Venice which I had

promised him, as he wished to use them in planning his Easter tour. I answered that I had

them ready and went into the library to [p. 255] fetch them, though the truth of the matter

was that I had forgotten to look them up, since I did not quite approve of my patient's

journey, looking upon it as an unnecessary interruption to the treatment, and as a material

loss to the physician. Thereupon I made a quick survey of the library for the books.

One was Venedig als Kunststätte, and besides this I imagined I had an historic work of a

similar order. Certainly there was Die Mediceer (The Medicis); I took them and brought

them in to him, then, embarrassed, I confessed my error. Of course I really knew that the

Medicis had nothing: to do with Venice, but for a short time it did not appear to me at all

incorrect. Now I was compelled to practise justice; as I had so frequently interpreted my

patient's symptomatic actions I could save my prestige only by, being honest and admitting

to him the secret motives of my averseness to his trip.

It may cause general astonishment to learn how much stronger is the impulse to tell the

truth than is usually supposed. Perhaps it is a result of my occupation with psychoanalysis

that I can scarcely lie any more. As often as I attempt a distortion I succumb to an error or

some other faulty act, which betrays my dishonesty, as was manifest in this and in the

preceding examples. [p. 256]

Of all faulty actions the mechanisms of the error seems to be the most superficial. That is,

the occurrence of the error invariably indicates that the mental activity concerned had to

struggle with some disturbing influence, although the nature of the error need not be

determined but the quality of the disturbing idea, which may have remained obscure. It is

not out of place to add that the same state of affairs may be assumed in many simple

cases of lapses in speaking and writing. Every time we commit a lapse in speaking or

writing we may conclude that through mental processes there has come a disturbance

which is beyond our intention. It may be conceded, however, that lapses in speaking and

writing often follow the laws of similarity and convenience, or the tendency to acceleration,

without allowing the disturbing element to leave a trace of its own character in the error

resulting from the lapses in speaking or writing. It is the responsiveness of the linguistic

material which at first makes possible the determination of the error, but it also limits the

same.

In order not to confine myself exclusively to personal errors I will relate a few examples

which could just as well have been ranged under "Lapses in Speech" or under

"Erroneously Carried-out Actions," but as ah these forms of faulty action have the same

value they may as well be reported here. [p. 257]

(a) I forbade a patient to speak on the telephone to his lady-love, with whom he himself

was willing to break off all relations, as each conversation only renewed the struggling

against it. He was to write her his final decision, although there were some difficulties in

the way of delivering the letter to her. He visited me at one o'clock to tell me that he had

found a way of avoiding these difficulties, and among other things he asked me whether

he might refer to me in my professional capacity.

At two o'clock while he. was engaged in com- posing the letter of refusal, he interrupted

himself suddenly, and said to his mother, "Well, I have forgotten to ask the Professor

whether I may use his name in the letter." He hurried to the telephone, got the connection,

and asked the question, "May I speak to the Professor after his dinner?" In answer he got

an astonished "Adolf, have you gone crazy I " The answering voice was the very voice

which at my command he had listened to for the last time. He had simply "made a

mistake," and in place of the physician's number had called up that of his beloved.

(b) During a summer vacation a school-teacher, a poor but excellent young man, courted

the daughter of a summer resident, until the girl fell passionately in love with him, and even

prevailed upon her family to countenance the matri [p. 258] monial alliance in spite of the

difference in position and race. One day, however, the teacher wrote his brother a letter in

which he said: "Pretty, the lass is not at all, but she is very amiable, and so far so good.

But whether I can make up my mind to marry a Jewess I cannot yet tell." This letter got

into the hands of the fiancée, who put an end to the engagement, while at the same time

his brother was wondering at the protestations of love directed to him. My informer

assured me that this was really an error and not a cunning trick.

I am familiar with another case, in which a woman who was dissatisfied with her old

physician, and still did not openly wish to discharge him, accomplished this purpose

through the interchange of letters. Here, at least, I can assert confidently that it was error

and not conscious cunning that made use, of this familiar comedy-motive.

her maiden name. Her attention having been directed to this error, she had to admit that

she disliked her friend's husband and had never been satisfied with her marriage.

Maeder[4] relates a good example of how a reluctantly repressed wish can be satisfied by

[p. 259] means of an "error." A colleague wanted to enjoy his day of leave of absence

absolutely undisturbed, but he, also felt that he ought to go to Lucerne to pay a call which

he did not anticipate with any pleasure. After long reflection, however, he concluded to go.

For pastime on the train he, read the daily newspapers. He journeyed from Zurich to Arth

Goldau, where he changed trains for Lucerne, all the time engrossed in reading. Presently

the conductor informed him that he was in the wrong train -- that is, he had got into the one

which was returning from Goldau to Zurich, whereas his ticket was for Lucerne.

A very similar trick was played by me quite recently. I had promised my oldest brother to

pay him a long-due visit at a sea-shore in England; as the time was short I felt obliged to

travel by the shortest route and without interruption. I begged for a day's sojourn in

Holland, but he thought that I could stop there on my return trip. Accordingly I journeyed

from Munich through Cologne to Rotterdam -- Hook of Holland -- where I was to take the

steamer at midnight to Harwich. In Cologne I had to change cars; I left my train to go into

the Rotterdam express, but it was not to be found. I asked various railway employees, was

sent from one platform to another, got into an exaggerated state of despair, and could

easily [p. 260] reckon that during this fruitless search I had probably missed my

connection.

After this was corroborated, I pondered whether or not I should spend the night in

Cologne. This was favoured by a feeling of piety, for according to an old family tradition,

my ancestors were once expelled from this city during a persecution of the Jews. But

eventually I came to another decision; I took a later train to Rotterdam, where I arrived late

at night and was thus compelled to spend a day in Holland. This brought me the fulfilment

of a long-fostered wish -- the sight of the beautiful Rembrandt paintings at The Hague and

in the Royal Museum at Amsterdam. Not before the next forenoon, while collecting my

impressions during the railway journey in England, did I definitely remember that only a

few steps from the place where I got off at the railroad station in Cologne, indeed, on the

same platform, I had seen a large sign, "Rotterdam -- Hook of Holland." There stood the

train in which I should have continued my journey.

If one does not wish to assume that, contrary to my brother's orders, I had really resolved

to admire the Rembrandt pictures on my way to him, then the fact that despite clear

directions I hurried away and looked for another train must be designated as an

incomprehensible "blinding." Everything else -- my well-acted [p. 261] perplexity, the

emergence of the pious intention to spend the night in Cologne -- was only a contrivance

to hide my resolution until it had been fully accomplished.

One may possibly be disinclined to consider the class of errors which I have here

explained as very numerous or particularly significant. But I leave it to your consideration

whether there is no ground for extending the same points of view also to the more

important errors of judgment, as evinced by people in life and science. Only for the most

select and most balanced minds does it seem; possible to guard the perceived picture of

external reality against the distortion to which it is otherwise subjected in its transit through

the psychic individuality of the transit through the psychic individuality of the one

perceiving it.

[1] Translated by A. A. Brill. The Macmillan Company, New York; George Allen Company, London.

[2] This is not a perfect error. According to the orphic version of the myth the emasculation was

performed by Zeus on his father Kronos.

[3] Loc. cit., p. 191.

[4] Nouvelles contributions, etc., Arch. de Psych., vi. 1908·

CHAPTER 11

Combined Faulty Acts

Two of the last-mentioned examples, my error which transfers the Medici to Venice and

that of the young man who knew how to circumvent a command against a conversation on

the telephone with his lady love, have really not been fully discussed, as after careful

consideration they may be shown to represent a union of forgetting with an error. I can

show the same union still more clearly in certain other examples .

(a) A friend related to me the following experience: "Some years ago I consented to be

elected to the committee of a certain literary; society, as I supposed the organization might

some time be of use to me in assisting me in the production of my drama. Although not

much interested, I attended the meetings regularly every Friday. Some months ago I was

definitely assured that one of my dramas would be presented at the theatre in F., and since

that time it regularly happened that I forgot the meeting of the association. As I read their

[p. 266] programme announcements I was ashamed of my forgetfulness. I reproached

myself, feeling that it was certainly rude of me to stay away now when I no longer needed

them, and determined that I would certainly not forget the next Friday. Continually I

reminded myself of this resolution until the hour came and I stood before the door of the

meeting-room. To my astonishment it was locked; the meeting: was already over. I had

mistaken my day; it was already Saturday!["]

(b) The next example is the combination of a symptomatic action with a case of mislaying;

it reached me by, remote byways, but from a reliable source.

A woman travelled to Rome with her brother-in-law, a renowned artist. The visitor was

highly honoured by the German residents of Rome, and among other things received a

gold medal of antique origin. The woman was grieved that her brother-in-law did not

sufficiently appreciate the value of this beautiful gift. After she had returned home she

discovered in unpacking that -- without knowing how -- she had brought the medal home

with her. She immediately notified her brother-in-law of this by letter, and informed him that

she would send it back to Rome the next day. The next day, however, the medal was so

aptly mislaid that it could not be found and could not be sent back, and then it dawned [p.

267] on the woman what her "absent-mindedness" signified -- namely, that she wished to

keep, the medal herself.

same time also changes its mode of action:--

Due to unknown motives, Jones I left a letter[1] for several days on his desk, forgetting

each time to post it. He ultimately posted it, but it was returned to him from the Dead-letter

Office because he forgot to address it. After addressing and posting it a second time it was

again returned to him, this time without a stamp. He was then forced to recognize the

unconscious opposition to the sending of the letter.

(d) A short account by Dr. Karl Weiss (Vienna) [2] of a case of forgetting impressively

describes the futile effort to accomplish something in the face of opposition. "How

persistently the unconscious activity can achieve its purpose if it has cause to prevent a

resolution from being executed, and how difficult it is to guard against this tendency, will be

illustrated by the following incident: An acquaintance requested me to lend him: a book

and bring it to him the next day. I immediately promised it, but perceived a distinct feeling

of displeasure [p. 268] which I could not explain at the time. Later it became clear to me:

this acquaintance had owed me for years a sum of money which he evidently had no

intention of returning. I did not give this matter any more thought, but I recalled it the

following: forenoon with the same feeling of displeasure, and at once said to myself: 'Your

unconscious will see to it that you forget the book, but you don't wish to appear unobliging

and will therefore do everything not to forget it.' I came home, wrapped the book in paper,

and put it near me on the desk while I wrote some letters.

"A little later I went away, but after a few steps I recollected that I had left on the desk the

letters which I wished to post. (By, the way, one of the letters was written to a person who

urged me to undertake something disagreeable.) I returned, took the letters, and again left.

While in the street-car it occurred to me that I had undertaken to purchase something for

my: wife, and I was pleased at the thought that it would be only a small package. The

association 'small package,' suddenly recalled 'book' -- and only then I noticed that I did

not have the book with me. Not only had I forgotten it when I left my home the first time,

but I had overlooked it again when I got the letters near which it lay."

(e) A similar mechanism is shown in the [p. 269] following fully analysed observation of

Otto Rank[3]:--

"A scrupulously orderly and pedantically precise man reported the following occurrence,

which he considered quite remarkable: One afternoon on the street wishing to find out the

time, he discovered that he had left his watch at home, an omission which to his

knowledge had never occurred before. As he had an engagement elsewhere and had not

enough time to return for his watch, he made use of a visit to a woman friend to borrow her

watch for the evening. This was the most convenient way out of the dilemma, as he had a

previous engagement to visit this lady the next day. Accordingly, he promised to return her

watch at that time.

"But the following day when about to consummate this he found to his surprise that he had

left the watch at home; his own watch he had with him. He then firmly, resolved to return

the lady's property that same afternoon, and even followed out his resolution. But on

wishing to see the time on leaving her he found to his chagrin and astonishment that he

had again forgotten to take his own watch.

"The repetition of this faulty action seemed so pathologic to this order-loving man that he

was quite anxious to know its psychologic motiva- [p. 270] tion, and when questioned

whether he experienced anything disagreeable on the critical day of the first forgetting, and

in what connection it had occurred, the motive was promptly found. He related that he had

conversed with his mother after luncheon, shortly before leaving the house. She told him

that an irresponsible relative, who had already caused him much worry and loss of money,

had pawned his (the relative's) watch, and, as it was needed in the house, the relative had

asked for money to redeem it. This almost "forced" loan affected our man very painfully

and brought back to his memory all the disagreeable episodes perpetrated by this relative

for many years.

"His symptomatic action therefore proves to be manifoldly determined. First, it gives

expression to a stream of thought which runs perhaps as follows: 'I won't allow my money

to be extorted this way, and if a watch is needed I will leave my own at home.' But as he

needed it for the evening to keep his appointment, this intention could only be brought

about on an unconscious path in the form of a symptomatic action. Second, the forgetting

expresses a sentiment something like the following: 'This everlasting sacrificing of money

for this good-for-nothing is bound to ruin me altogether, so that I will have to give up

everything.' Although the anger, according to the report [p. 271] of this man, was only

momentary, the repetition of the same symptomatic action conclusively shows that in the

unconscious it continued to act more intensely, and may be equivalent to the conscious

expression: 'I cannot get this story out of my head.[4] That the lady's watch should later

meet the same fate will not surprise us after knowing this attitude of the unconscious.'

"Yet there may be still other special motives which favour the transference on the

'innocent' lady's watch. The nearest motive is probably that he would have liked to keep it

as a substitute for his own sacrificed watch, and that hence he forgot to return it the next

day. He also might have liked to possess this watch as a souvenir of the lady. Moreover,

the forgetting of the lady's watch gave him the excuse for calling on the admired one a

second time; for he was obliged to visit her in the morning in reference to another matter,

and with the forgetting of the watch he seemed to indicate that this visit for which an

appointment had been made so long ago was too good for him to be used simply for the

return of a watch.

"Twice forgetting his own watch and thus making possible the substitution of the lady's [p.

272] watch speaks for the fact that our man unconsciously endeavoured to avoid carrying

both watches at the same time. He obviously thought of avoiding the appearance of

superfluity which would have stood out in striking contrast to the want of the relative; but,

on the other hand, he utilized this as a self-admonition against his apparent intention to

marry this lady, reminding himself that he was tied to his family (mother) by indissoluble

obligations.

"Finally, another reason for the forgetting of the lady's watch may be sought in the fact that

the evening before he, a bachelor, was ashamed to be seen with a lady's watch by his

friends, so that he only looked at it stealthily, and in order to evade the repetition of this

painful situation he could not take the watch along. But as he was obliged to return it, there

resulted here, too, an unconsciously performed symptomatic action which proved to be a

compromise formation between conflicting emotional feelings and a dearly bought victory

of the unconscious instance.''

In the same discussion Rank has also paid attention to the very interesting! relation of

"faulty actions and dreams," which cannot, however, be followed here without a

comprehensive analysis of the dream with which the faulty action is connected. I once

dreamed at great length that I had lost my pocket-book. In the morning [p. 273] while

dressing I actually missed it; while undressing the night before the dream I had forgotten to

take it out of my trousers pocket and put it in its usual place, This forgetting was therefore

not unknown to me; probably it was to give expression to an unconscious thought which

was ready to appear in the dream content.

I do not mean to assert that such cases of combined faulty actions can teach anything new

that we have not already seen in the individual cases. But this change in form of the faulty

action, which nevertheless attains the same result, gives the plastic impression of a will

working towards a definite end, and in a far more energetic way contradicts the idea that

the faulty action represents something: fortuitous and requires no explanation. Not less

remarkable is the fact that the conscious intention thoroughly fails to check the success of

the faulty, action. Despite all, my friend did not pay his visit to the meeting of the literary

society, and the woman found it impossible to give up the medal. That unconscious

something which worked against these resolutions found another outlet after the first road

was closed to it. It requires something other than the conscious counter-resolution to

overcome the unknown motive ; it requires a psychic work which makes the unknown

known to consciousness.

[1] Loc. cit., p. 42.

[2] Zentralb.f. Psychoanalyse, ii. 9.

[3] Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse, ii. 5.

[4] This continued action in the unconscious manifested itself once in the form of a dream which

followed the faulty action, another time in the repetition of the same or in the omission of a

correction.

CHAPTER 12

Determinism -- Chance -- and Superstitious Beliefs

Points of View.

As the general result of the preceding separate discussions we must put down the

following principle: Certain inadequacies of our psychic capacities -- whose common

character will soon be more definitely determined -- and certain performances which are

apparently unintentional prove to be well motivated when subjected to the psychoanalytic

investigation, and are determined through the consciousness of unknown motives.

In order to belong to this class of phenomena thus explained a faulty psychic action must

satisfy the following conditions:--

(a) It must not exceed a certain measure which is firmly established through our

estimation, and is designated by the expression "within normal limits."

(b) It must evince the character of the momentary and temporary disturbance. The same

action must have been previously performed more correctly or we must always rely on our-

[p. 278] selves to perform it more correctly; if we are corrected by others we must

immediately recognize the truth of the correction and the incorrectness of our psychic

action.

the same, but must attempt to explain it through "inattention" or attribute it to an "accident."

Thus there remain in this group the cases of forgetting and the errors, despite better

knowledge, the lapses in speaking, reading, writing, the erroneously carried-out actions,

and the so-called chance actions. The explanations of these so definite psychic processes

are connected with a series of observations which may in part arouse further interest.

I. By abandoning a part of our psychic capacity as unexplainable through purposive ideas

we ignore the realms of determinism in our mental life. Here, as in still other spheres,

determinism reaches farther than we suppose. In the year 1900 I read an essay published

in the Zeit written by the literary historian R. M. Meyer, in which he maintains, and

illustrates by examples, that it is impossible to compose nonsense intentionally and

arbitrarily, For some time I have been aware that it is impossible to think of a number, or

even of a name, of one's own free will. If one investigates this seeming [p. 279] voluntary

formation, let us say, of a number of many digits uttered in unrestrained mirth, it always

proves to be so strictly determined that the determination seems impossible. I will now

briefly discuss an example of an "arbitrarily chosen" first name, and then exhaustively

analyse an analogous example of: a "thoughtlessly uttered" number.

While preparing the history of one of my patients for publication I considered what first

name I should give her in the article. There seemed to be a wide choice; of course, certain

names were at once excluded by me, in the first place the real name, then the names of

members of my family to which I would have objected, also some female names having an

especially peculiar pronunciation. But, excluding these, there should have been no need of

being puzzled about such a name. It would be thought, and I myself supposed, that a

whole multitude of feminine names would be placed at my disposal. Instead of this only

one sprang up, no other besides it; it was the name Dora.

I inquired as to its determination: "Who else is called Doral?" I wished to reject the next

idea as incredulous; it occurred to me that the nurse of my sister's children was named

Dora. But I possess so much .self-control, or practice in analysis, if you like, that I held

firmly to the idea and proceeded. Then a slight incident [p. 280] of the previous evening

soon flashed through my mind which brought the looked-for determination. On my sister's

dining-room table I noticed a letter bearing the address, "Miss Rosa W." Astonished, I

asked whose name this was, and was informed that the right name of the supposed Dora

was really Rosa, and that on accepting the position she had to lay; aside her name,

because Rosa would also refer to my sister. I said pityingly, "Poor people! They cannot

even retain their own names!" I now recall that on hearing this I became quiet for a

moment and began to think of all sorts of serious matters which merged into the obscure,

but which I could now easily bring; into my consciousness. Thus when I sought a name for

a person who could not retain her own name no other except "Dora" occurred to me. The

exclusiveness here is based, moreover, on firmer internal associations, for in the history of

my patient it was a stranger in the house, the governess, who exerted a decisive influence

on the course of the treatment.

This slight incident found its unexpected: continuation many years later. While discussing

in a lecture the long-since published history; of the girl called Dora it occurred to me that

one of my two women pupils had the very name Dora which I was obliged to utter so often

in the different associations of the case. I turned to the young student, whom I knew

personally, [p. 281] with the apology that I had really not thought that she bore the same

name, and that I was ready to substitute it in my lecture by another name.

I was now confronted with the task of rapidly choosing another name, and reflected that I

must not now choose the first name of the other woman student, and so set a poor

example to the class, who were already quite conversant with psychoanalysis. I was

therefore well pleased when the name "Erna" occurred to me as the substitute for Dora,

and Erna I used in the discourse. After the lecture I asked myself whence the name "Erna"

could possibly have originated, and had to laugh as I observed that the feared possibility in

the choice of the substitutive name had come to pass, in part at least. The other lady's

family name was Lucerna, of which Erna was a part.

In a letter to a friend I informed him that I had finished reading the proof-sheets of The

Interpretation of Dreams, and that I did not intend to make any further changes in it, "even

if it contained 2,467 mistakes." I immediately attempted to explain to myself the number,

and added this little analysis as a postscript to the letter. It will be best to quote it now as I

wrote it when I caught myself in this transaction:--

"I will add hastily another contribution to the Psychopathology of Everyday Life. You will

find in the letter the number 2,467 as a jocose [p. 282] and arbitrary estimation of the

number of errors that may be found in the dream-book. I meant to write: no matter how

large the number might be, and this one presented itself. But there is nothing arbitrary or

undetermined in the psychic life. You will therefore rightly suppose that the unconscious

hastened to determine the number which was liberated by consciousness. Just previous to

this I had read in the paper that General E. M. had been retired as Inspector-General of

Ordnance. You must know that I am interested in this man. While I was serving as military

medical student he, then a colonel, once came into the hospital and said to the physician:

'You must make me well in eight days, as I have some work to do for which the Emperor is

waiting.'

"At that time I decided to follow this man's career, and just think, to-day (1899) he is at the

end of it -- Inspector-General of Ordnance and already retired. I wished to figure out in

what time he had covered this road, and assumed that I had seen him in the hospital in

1882. That would make 17 years. I related this to my wife, and she remarked, 'Then you,

too, should be retired.' And I protested, 'The Lord forbid!' After this conversation I seated

myself at the table to write to you. The previous train of thought continued, and for good

reason. The figuring was incorrect; I had a definite recollection of the circumstances in my

mind. [p. 283] I had celebrated my coming of my 24th birthday, in the military prison (for

being absent without permission). Therefore I must have seen him in 1880, which makes it

19 years ago. You then have the number 24 in 2,467! Now take the number that

represents my age, 43, and add 24 years to it and you get 67! That is, to the question

whether I wished to retire I had expressed the wish to work 24 years more. Obviously I am

annoyed that in the interval during which I followed Colonel M. I have not accomplished

much myself, and still there is a sort of triumph in the fact that he is already finished, while

I still have all before me. Thus we may justly say that not even the unintentionally thrown-

out number 2,467 lacks its determination from the unconscious."

Since this first example of the interpretation of an apparently arbitrary choice of a number I

have repeated a similar test with the same result; but most cases are of such intimate

content that they do not lend themselves to report .

It is for this reason that I shall not hesitate to add here a very interesting analysis of a

"chance number" which Dr. Alfred Adler (Vienna) received from a "perfectly healthy"

man.[1] A. [p. 284] wrote to me: "Last night I devoted myself to the Psychopathology of

Everyday Life, and I would have read it all through had I not been hindered by a

remarkable coincidence. When I read that every number that we apparently conjure up

quite arbitrarily in our consciousness has a definite meaning, I decided to test it. The

number 1,734 occurred to my mind. The following associations then came up: 1,734 ¸ 17 =

102; 102 ¸ 17 = 6. I then separated the number into 17 and 34. I am 34 years old. .. I

believe that I once told you that I consider34 the last year of youth, and for this reason I felt

miserable on my last birthday. The end of my 17th year was the beginning of a very nice

and interesting period of my development. I divide my life into period of 17 years. That do

the divisions signify? The number 102 recalls the fact that volume 102 Of the Reclam

Universal Library is Kotzebue's play Menschenhass und Reue (Human Hatred and

Repentance).

"My present psychic state is 'human hatred and repentance.' No. 6 of the U. L. (I know a

great many numbers by heart) is Mullner's 'Schuld' (Fault). I am constantly annoyed at the

thought that it is through my own fault that I have not become what I could have been with

my abilities.

"I then asked myself, 'What is No. 17 of [p. 285] U. L.?' But I could not recall it. But as I

positively knew it before, I assumed that I wished to forget this number. All reflection was in

vain. I wished to continue with my reading, but I read only mechanically without

understanding a word, for I was annoyed by the number 17. I extinguished the light and

:continued my search. It finally came to me that number 17 must be a play by

Shakespeare. But which one! I thought of Hero and Leander. Apparently a stupid attempt

of my will to distract me. I finally arose and consulted the catalogue of the U. L. Number 17

was Macbeth! To my surprise I had to discover that I knew nothing of the play, despite the

fact that it did not interest me any less than any other Shakespearean drama. I only

thought of murder, Lady Macbeth, witches, 'nice is ugly,' and that I found Schiller's version

of Macbeth very nice. Undoubtedly I also wished to forget the play. Then it occurred to me

that 17 and 34 may be divided by 17 and result in 1 and 2. Numbers 1 and 2 of the U. L. is

Goethe's Faust. Formerly I found much of Faust in me."

We must regret that the discretion of the physician did not allow us to see the significance

of ideas. Adler remarked that the man did not succeed in the synthesis of his analysis. His

association would hardly be worth reporting un- [p. 286] less their continuation would bring

out something that would give us the key to the understanding of the number 1,734 and

the whole series of ideas.

To quote further: "To be sure this morning I had an experience which speaks much for the

correctness of the Freudian conception. My wife, whom I awakened through my getting up

at night, asked me what I wanted with the catalogue of the U. L. I told her the story. She

found it all pettifogging but -- very interesting;. Macbeth, which caused me so much

trouble, she simply passed over. She said that nothing came to her mind when she thought

of a number. I answered, 'Let us try; it.' She named the number 117· To this I immediately;

replied: '17 refers to what I just told you; furthermore, I told you yesterday that if a wife is in

the 82nd year and the husband is in the 35th year it must be a gross misunderstanding.'

For the last few days I have been teasing my wife by maintaining that she was a little old

mother of 82 years. 82 + 35 = 117."

The man who did not know how to determine his own number at once found the solution

when his wife named a number which was apparently arbitrarily chosen. As a matter of

fact, the woman understood very well from which complex the number of her husband

originated, and chose her own number from the same complex, which [p. 287] surely

common it, both, as it dealt in his case with their relative ages. Now, we find it easy to

interpret the number that occurred to the man. As Dr, Adler indicates, it expressed 'a

repressed wish of the husband which, fully developed, would read: "For a man of 34 years

as I am, only a woman of 17 would be suitable."

Lest one should think too lightly of such "playing," I will add that I was recently informed by

Dr. Adler that a year after the publication of this analysis the man was divorced from his

wife.[2]

Adler gives a similar explanation for the origin of obsessive numbers. Also the choice of

so-called "favourite numbers" is not without relation to the life of the person concerned,

and does not lack a certain psychologic interest. A gentleman who evinced a particular

partiality for the numbers 17 and 19 could specify, after brief reflection, that at the age of

17 he attained the greatly longed-for academic freedom by having been admitted to the

university, that at 19 he made his first long journey, and shortly thereafter made his first

scientific discovery. But the fixation of this preference followed later, after [p. 288] two

questionable affairs, when the same numbers were invested with importance in his "love-

life."

Indeed, even those numbers which we use in a particular connection extremely often and

with apparent arbitrariness can be traced by analysis to an unexpected meaning. Thus,

one day it struck one of my patients that he was particularly fond of saying, "I have already

told you this from 17 to 36 times." And he asked himself whether there was any motive for

it. It soon occurred to him that he was born on the 27th day of the month, and that his

younger brother was born on the 26th day of another month, and he had grounds for

complaint that Fate had robbed him of so many of the benefits of life only to bestow them

on his younger brother. Thus he represented this partiality of Fate by deducting 10 from

the date of his birth and adding it to the date of his brother's birthday. I am the elder and

yet am so "cut short."

I shall tarry a little longer at the analysis of chance numbers, for I know of no other

individual observation which would so readily demonstrate the existence of highly

organized thinking processes of which consciousness has no knowledge. Moreover, there

is no better example of analysis in which the suggestion of the position, a frequent

accusation, is so distinctly out of consideration. I shall therefore report the analysis of a

chance number of one of my [p. 289] patients (with his consent), to which I will only add

that he is the youngest of many children and that he lost his beloved father in his young

years.

While in a particularly happy mood he let the number 426,718 come to his mind, and put to

himself the question, "Well, what does it bring to your mind?" First came a joke he had

heard: "If your catarrh of the nose is treated by a doctor it lasts 42 days, if it is not treated it

lasts -- 6 weeks." This corresponds to the first digit of the number (42 = 6 x 7). During the

obstruction that followed this first solution I called his attention to the fact that the number

of six digits selected by him contains all the first numbers except 3 and 5. He at once

found the continuation of this solution:--

"We were altogether 7 children, I was the youngest. Number 3 in the order of the children

corresponds to my sister A., and 5 to my brother L.; both of them were my enemies. As a

child I used to pray to the Lord every night that He should take out of my life these two

tormenting spirits. It seems to me that I have fulfilled for myself this wish: '3' and '5,' the

evil brother and the hated sister, are omitted."

"If the number stands for your sisters and brothers, what significance is there to 18 at the

end? You were altogether only 7."

"I often thought if my father had lived longer [p. 290] I should not have been the youngest

child. If one more would have come, we should have been 8, and there would have been a

younger child, toward whom I could have played the rô1e of the older one."

With this the number was explained, but we still wished to find the connection between the

first part of the interpretation and the part following it. This came very readily from the

condition required for the last digits -- if the father had lived longer. 42 = 6 x 7 signifies the

ridicule directed against the doctors who could not help the father, and in this way

expresses the wish for the continued existence of the father. The whole number really

corresponds to the fulfilment of his two wishes in reference to his family circle -- namely,

that both the evil brother and sister should die and that another little child should follow

him. Or, briefly expressed: If only these two had died in place of my father![3]

Another analysis of numbers I take from Jones.[4] A gentleman of his acquaintance let the

number 986 come to his mind, and defied him to connect it to anything of special interest

in his mind. "Six years ago, on the hottest day he could remember, he had seen a joke in

an evening newspaper, which stated that the [p. 291] thermometer had stood at 98.6° F.,

evidently an exaggeration of 98.6° F.[sic] We were at the time seated in front of a very hot

fire, from which he had just drawn back, and he remarked, probably quite correctly, that

the heat had aroused his dormant memory. However, I was curious to know why this

memory had persisted with such vividness as to be so readily brought out, for with most

people it surely would have been forgotten beyond recall, unless it had become associated

with some other mental experience of more significance .

"He told me that on reading: the joke he had laughed uproariously, and that on many

subsequent occasions he had recalled it with great relish. As the joke was obviously of an

exceedingly tenuous nature, this strengthened my expectation that more lay behind. His

next thought was the general reflection that the conception of heat had always greatly

impressed him, that heat was the most important thing in the universe, the source of all

life, and so on. This remarkable attitude of a quite prosaic young man certainly needed

some explanation, so I asked him to continue his free associations. The next thought was

of a factory stack which he could see from his bedroom window. He often stood of an

evening watching the flame and smoke issuing out of it, and reflecting on this deplorable

waste of energy. Heat, flame, the source of [p. 292] life, the waste of vital energy issuing

from an upright, hollow tube -- it was not hard to divine from such associations that the

ideas of heat and fire were unconsciously linked in his mind with the idea of love, as is so

frequent in symbolic thinking, and that there was a strong masturbation complex present, a

conclusion that he presently confirmed."

Those who wish to get a good impression of the way the material of numbers becomes

elaborated in the unconscious thinking, I refer to two papers by Jung[5] and Jones.[6]

In personal analysis of this kind two things were especially striking. First, the absolute

somnambulistic certainty with which I attacked the unknown objective point, merging into a

mathematical train of thought, which later suddenly extended to the looked-for number,

and the rapidity with which the entire subsequent work was performed. Secondly, the fact

that the numbers were always at the disposal of my unconscious mind, when as a matter

of fact I am a poor mathematician and find it very difficult to consciously recall years,

house numbers, and the like. Moreover, in these unconscious mental operations with

figures I found a tendency to [p. 293] superstition, the origin of which had long remained

unknown to me.

It will not surprise us to find that not only numbers but also mental occurrences of different

kinds of words regularly prove on analytic investigation to be well determined.

Brill relates: "While working on the English edition of this book I was obsessed one

morning with the strange word 'Cardillac.' Busily intent on my work, I refused at first to pay

attention to it, but, as is usually the case, I simply could not do anything else. 'Cardillac'

was constantly in my mind. Realizing that my refusal to recognize it was only a resistance,

I decided to analyse it. The following associations occurred to me: Cardillac, cardiac,

carrefour, Cadillac.

"Cardiac recalled cardalgia -- heartache -- a medical friend who had recently told me

confidentially that he feared that he had some cardiac affection because he had suffered

some attacks of pain in the region of his heart. Knowing him so well, I at once rejected his

theory, and told him that his attacks were of a neurotic character, and that his other

apparent physical ailments were also only the expression of his neurosis.

''I might add that just before telling me of his heart trouble he spoke of a business matter of

vital interest to him which had suddenly come to naught. Being a man of unbounded

ambitions, [p. 294] he was very depressed because of late he had suffered many similar

reverses. His neurotic conflicts, however, had become manifest a few months before this

misfortune. Soon after his father's death had left a big business on his hands. As the

business could be continued only under my friend's management, he was unable to decide

whether to enter into commercial life or continue his chosen career. His great ambition was

to become a successful medical practitioner, and although he had practised medicine

successfully for many years, he was not altogether satisfied with the financial fluctuations

of his professional income. On the other hand, his father's business promised him an

assured, though limited, return. In brief, he was 'at a crossing and did not know which way

to turn.'

"I then recalled the word carrefour, which is the French for 'crossing,' and it occurred to me

that while working in a hospital in Paris I lived near the 'Carrefour St. Lazarre.' And now I

could understand what relation all these associations had for me.

"When I resolved to leave the State Hospital I made the decision, first, because I desired

to get married, and, secondly, because I wished to enter private practice. This brought up

a new problem. Although my State hospital service was an absolute success, judging by

promo- [p. 295] tions and so on, I felt like a great many others in the same situation,

namely, that my training was ill suited for private practice. To specialize in mental work was

a daring undertaking for one without money and social connections. I also felt that the best

I could do for patients should they ever come my way would be to commit them to one of

the hospitals, as I had little confidence in the home treatment in vogue. In spite of the

enormous advances made in recent years in mental work, the specialist is almost helpless

when he is confronted with the average case of insanity. This may be partially attributed to

the fact that such cases are brought to him after they have fully developed the psychosis

when hospital treatment is imperative. Of the great army of milder mental disturbances, the

so-called border-line cases, which make up the bulk of clinic and private work and which

rightfully belong to the mental specialist, I knew very little, as those patients rarely, or

never, came to the State hospital, and what I did know concerning the treatment of

neurasthenia and psychasthenia was not conducive to make me more hopeful of success

in private practice.

"It was in this state of mind that I came to Paris, where I hoped to learn enough about the

psychoneuroses to enable me to continue my specialty in private practice, and yet feel that

I could do something for my patients. What I [p. 296] saw in Paris did not, however, help to

change my state of mind. There, too, most of the work was directed to dead tissues. The

mental aspects, as such, received but scant attention. I was, therefore, seriously thinking

of giving up my mental work for some other specialty. As can be seen, I was confronted

with a situation similar to the one of my medical friend. I, too, was at a crossing and did not

know which way to turn. My suspense was soon ended. One day, I received a letter from

my friend Professor Peterson, who, by the way, was responsible for my entering the State

hospital service. In this letter he advised me not to give up my work, and suggested the

psychiatric clinic of Zurich, where he thought I could find what I desired.

"But what does Cadillac mean? Cadillac is the name of a hotel and of an automobile. A few

days before in a country place my medical friend and I had been trying to hire an

automobile, but there was none to be had. We both expressed the wish to own an

automobile -- again an unrealized ambition. I also recalled that the 'Carrefour St. Lazarre'

always impressed me as being one of the busiest thoroughfares in Paris. It was always

congested with automobiles. Cadillac also recalled that only a few days ago on the way to

my clinic I noticed a large sign over a building which announced that on a certain day 'this

building was to be occupied [p. 297] by the Cadillac,' etc. This at first made me think of the

Cadillac Hotel, but on second sight I noticed that it referred to the Cadillac motorcar. There

was a sudden obstruction here for a few moments. The word Cadillac reappeared and by

sound association the word catalogue occurred to me. This word brought back a very

mortifying occurrence of recent origin, the motive of which is again blighted ambition.

"When one wishes to report any auto-analysis he must be prepared to lay bare many

intimate affairs of his own life. Any one reading carefully Professor Freud's works cannot

fail to become intimately acquainted with him and his family. I have often been asked by

persons who claim to have read and studied Freud's works such questions as: 'How old is

Freud?' 'Is Freud married?' 'How many children has he?' etc. Whenever I hear these or

similar questions I know that the questioner has either lied when he made these

assertions, or, to be more charitable, that he is a very careless and superficial reader. All

these questions and many more are answered in Freud's works. Auto-analyses are

autobiographies par excellence; but whereas the autobiographer may for definite reasons

consciously and unconsciously hide many facts of his life, the auto-analyst not only tells

the truth consciously, but perforce brings to light his whole intimate personality. It is for

these reasons that [p. 298] one finds it very unpleasant to report his own auto-analyses.

However, as we often report our patients' unconscious productions, it is but fair that we

should sacrifice ourselves on the altar of publicity when occasion demands. This is my

apology for having thrust some of my personal affairs on the reader, and for being obliged

to continue a little longer in the same strain.

"Before digressing with the last remarks I mentioned that the word Cadillac brought the

sound association catalogue. This association brought back another important epoch in

my life with which Professor Peterson is connected. Last May I was informed by the

secretary of the faculty that I was appointed chief of clinic of the department of psychiatry. I

need hardly say that I was exceedingly pleased to be so honoured -- in the first place

because it was the realization of an ambition which I dared entertain only under special

euphoric states; and, secondly, it was a compensation for the many unmerited criticisms

from those who are blindly and unreasonably opposing some of my work. Soon thereafter I

called on the stenographer of the faculty and spoke to her about a correction to be made in

my name as it was printed in the catalogue. For some unknown reason (perhaps racial

prejudice) this stenographer, a maiden lady, must have taken a dislike to me. For [p. 299]

about three years I repeatedly requested her to have this correction made, but she had

paid no attention to me. To be sure she always promised to attend to it, but the mistake

remained uncorrected.

"When I saw her last May I again reminded her of this correction, and also called her

attention to the fact that as I had been appointed chief of clinic I was especially anxious to

have my name correctly printed in the catalogue. She apologized for her remissness and

assured me that everything should be as I requested. Imagine my surprise and chagrin

when on receiving the new catalogue I found that while the correction had been made in

my name I was not listed as chief of clinic. When I asked her about this she was quite

puzzled; she said she had no idea that I had been appointed chief of clinic. She had to

consult the minutes of the faculty, written by herself, before she was convinced of it. It

should be noted that as recorder to the faculty it was her duty to know all these things as

soon as they transpired.[7] When she finally ascertained that I was right she was very

apologetic and informed me that she would at once write to the superintendent of the clinic

to inform him of my appointment, [p. 300] something which she should have done months

before. Of course I gained nothing by her regrets and apologies. The catalogue was

published and those who read it did not find my name in the desired place. I am chief of

clinic in fact but not in name. Moreover, as the appointments are made only for one year, it

is quite likely that my great ambition will never be actually realized.

"Thus the obsessive neologism cardillac, which is a condensation of cardiac, Cadillac, and

catalogue, contains some of the most important efforts of my medical experience. When I

was almost at the end of this analysis I suddenly recalled a dream containing this

neologism cardillac in which my wish was realized. My name appeared in its rightful place

in the catalogue. The person who showed it to me in the dream was Professor Peterson. It

was when I was at the first 'crossing' after I had graduated from the medical college that

Professor Peterson urged me to enter the hospital service. About five years later while I

was in the state of indecision which I have described, it was Professor Peterson who

advised me to go to the clinic of psychiatry at Zurich where through Bleuler and Jung I first

became acquainted with Professor Freud and his works, and it was also through the kind

recommendation of Dr. Peterson that I was elevated to my present position." [p. 301]

I am indebted to Dr. Hitschman for the solution of another case in which a line of poetry

repeatedly obtruded itself on the mind in a certain place without showing any trace of its

origin and relation.

Related by Dr. E.: "Six years ago I travelled from Biarritz to San Sebastian. The railroad

crosses over the Bidassao -- a river which here forms the boundary between France and

Spain. On the bridge one has a splendid view, on the one side of the broad valley and the

Pyrenees and on the other of the sea. It was a beautiful, bright summer day; everything

was filled with sun and light. I was on a vacation and pleased with my trip to Spain.

Suddenly the following words came to me: 'But the soul is already free, floating on a sea of

light.'

"At that time I was trying to remember where these lines came from, but I could not

remember; judging by the rhythm, the words must be a part of some poem, which,

however, entirely escaped my memory. Later when the verse repeatedly came to my mind,

I asked many people about it without receiving any information.

"Last year I crossed the same bridge on my return journey from Spain. It was a very dark

night and it rained. I looked through the window to ascertain whether we had already

reached the frontier station and noticed that we were on the Bidassao bridge. Immediately

the above- [p. 302] cited verse returned to my memory and again I could not recall its

origin.

"At home many months later I found Uhland's poems. I opened the volume and my glance

fell upon the verse: 'But the soul is already free, floating on a sea of light,' which were the

concluding lines of the poem entitled 'The Pilgrim.' I read the poem and dimly recalled that

I had known it many years ago. The scene of action is in Spain, and this seemed to me to

be the only relation between the quoted verse and the place on the railroad journey

described by me. I was only half satisfied with my discovery and mechanically continued to

turn the pages of the book. On turning the next page I found a poem the title of which was

'Bidassao Bridge.'

"I may add that the contents of this poem seemed even stranger to me than that of the

first, and that its first verse read:

"'On the Bidassao bridge stands a saint grey with age, he blesses to the right the Spanish

mountain, to the left he blesses the French land.'"

II. This understanding of the determination of apparently arbitrarily selected names,

numbers, and words may perhaps contribute to the solution of another problem. As is

known, many persons argue against the assumption of an absolute psychic determinism

by referring to an intense [p. 303] feeling of conviction that there is a free will. This feeling

of conviction exists, but is not incompatible with the belief in determinism. Like all normal

feelings, it must be justified by something. But, so far as I can observe, it does not

manifest itself in weighty and important decisions; on these occasions one has much more

the feeling of a psychic compulsion and gladly falls back upon it. (Compare Luther's "Here

I stand, I cannot do anything else.")

On the other hand, it is in trivial and indifferent decisions that one feels sure that he could

just as easily have acted differently, that he acted of his own free will, and without any

motives. From our analyses we therefore need not contest the right of the feeling of

conviction that there is a free will. If we distinguish conscious from unconscious motivation

we are then informed by the feeling of conviction that the conscious motivation does not

extend over all our motor resolutions. Minima non curat prætor. What is thus left free from

the one side receives its motive from the other side, from the unconscious, and the

determinism in the psychic realm is thus carried out uninterruptedly.[8] [p.304]

III. Although conscious thought must be altogether ignorant of the motivation of the faulty

actions described above, yet it would be desirable to discover a psychologic proof of its

existence; indeed, reasons obtained through a deeper knowledge of the unconscious

make it probable that such proofs are to be discovered somewhere. As a matter of fact

phenomena can be demonstrated in two spheres which seem to correspond to an

unconscious and hence to a displaced knowledge of these motives.

(a) It is a striking and generally to be recognized feature in the behaviour of paranoiacs,

that they attach the greatest significance to the trivial details in the behaviour of others.

Details which are usually overlooked by others they interpret and utilize as the basis of far-

reaching conclusions. For example, the last paranoiac seen by me concluded that there

was a general understanding among people of his environment, because at his departure

from the railway-station [p. 305] they made a certain motion with one hand. Another

noticed how people walked on the street, how they brandished their walking-sticks, and

the like.[9]

The category of the accidental, requiring no motivation, which the normal person lets pass

as a part of his own psychic activities and faulty actions, is thus rejected by the paranoiac

in the application to the psychic manifestations to others. All that he observes in others is

full of meaning, all is explainable. But how does he come to look at it in this manner?

Probably here as in so many other cases, he projects into the mental life of others what

exists in his own unconscious activity. Many things obtrude themselves on consciousness

in paranoia which in normal and neurotic persons can only be demonstrated through

psychoanalysis as existing in their unconscious.[10] In a certain sense the paranoiac is

here justified, he perceives something that escapes the normal person, he sees clearer

than one of normal intellectual capacity, [p. 306] but his knowledge becomes worthless

when he imputes to others the state of affairs he thus recognizes. I hope that I shall not be

expected to justify every paranoic interpretation. But the point which we grant to paranoia

in this conception of chance actions will facilitate for us the psychologic understanding of

the conviction which the paranoiac attaches to all these interpretations. There is certainly

same truth to it; even our errors of judgment, which are not designated as morbid, acquire

their feeling of conviction in the same way. This feeling is justified for a certain part of the

erroneous train of thought or for the source of its origin, and we shall later extend to it the

remaining relationships.

(b) The phenomena of superstition furnish another indication of the unconscious

motivation in chance and faulty actions. I will make myself clear through the discussion of

a simple experience which gave me the starting-point to these reflections .

Having returned from vacation, my thoughts immediately turned to the patients with whom

I was to occupy myself in the beginning of my year's work. My first visit was to a very old

woman (see above) for whom I had twice daily performed the same professional services

for many years. Owing to this monotony unconscious thoughts have often found

expression on [p. 307] the way to the patient and during my occupation with her. She was

over ninety years old; it was therefore pertinent to ask oneself at the beginning of each

year how much longer she was likely to live.

On the day of which I speak I was hurry and took a carriage to her house. Every

coachman at the cabstand near my house knew the old woman's address, as each of

them had often driven me there. This day it happened that the driver did not stop in front of

her house, but before one of the same number in a near-by and really similar-looking

parallel street. I noticed the mistake and reproached the coachman, who apologized for it.

Is it of any significance when I am taken to a house where the old woman is not to be

found? Certainly not to me; but were I superstitious, I should see an omen in this incident,

a hint of fate that this would be the last year for the old woman. A great many omens which

have been preserved by history have been founded on no better symbolism. Of course, I

explain the incident as an accident without further meaning. The case would have been

entirely different had I come on foot and, "absorbed in thought " or "through distraction," I

had gone to the house in the parallel street instead of the correct one. I would not explain

that as an accident, but as an action with unconscious intent requiring inter- [p. 308]

pretation. My explanation of this "lapse in walking" would probably be that I expected that

the time would soon come when I should not meet the old woman any longer.

I therefore differ from a superstitious person in the following manner:

I do not believe that an occurrence in which my mental life takes no part can teach me

anything hidden concerning the future shaping of reality; but I do believe that an

unintentional manifestation of my own mental activity surely contains something concealed

which belongs only to my mental life -- that is, I believe in outer (real) chance, but not in

inner (psychic) accidents. With the superstitious person the case is reversed: he knows

nothing of the motive of his chance and faulty actions; he believes in the existence of

psychic contingencies; he is therefore inclined to attribute meaning to external chance,

which manifests itself in actual occurrence, and to see in the accident a means of

expression for something hidden outside of him. There are two differences between me

and the superstitious person: first, he projects the motive to the to the outside, while I look

for it in myself; second, he explains the accident by an event which I trace to a thought.

What he considers hidden corresponds to the unconscious with me, and the compulsion

not to let chance pass as chance, but to explain it as common to both of us. [p. 309] Thus I

admit that this conscious ignorance and unconscious knowledge of the motivation of

psychic accidentalness is one of the psychic roots of superstition. Because the

superstitious person knows nothing of the motivation of his own accidental actions, and

because the fact of this motivation strives for a place in his recognition, he is compelled to

dispose of them by displacing them into the outer world. If such a connection exists it can

hardly be limited to this single case. As a matter of fact, I believe that a large portion of the

mythological conception of the world which reaches far into the most modern religions is

nothing but psychology projected into the outer world. The dim perception (the endo-

psychic perception, as it were) of psychic factors and relations[11] of the unconscious was

taken as a model in the construction of a transcendental reality, which is destined to be

changed again by science into psychology of the unconscious.

It is difficult to express it in other terms; the analogy to paranoia must here come to our

aid. We venture to explain in this way the myths of paradise and the fall of man, of God, of

good and evil, of immortality, and the like -- that is, to transform metaphysics into meta-

psychology. The gap between the paranoiac's displacement [p. 310] and that of

superstition is narrower than appears at first sight. When human beings began to think,

they were obviously compelled to explain the outer world in an anthropomorphic sense by

a multitude of personalities in their own image; the accidents which they explained

superstitiously were thus actions and expressions of persons. In that regard they behaved

just like paranoiacs, who draw conclusions from insignificant signs which others give them,

and like all normal persons who justly take the unintentional actions of their fellow-beings

as a basis for 'the estimation of their characters. Only in our modern philosophical, but by

no means finished, views of life does superstition seem so much out of place: in the view

of life of prescientific times and nations it was justified and consistent.

The Roman who gave up an important undertaking because he sighted an ill-omened flock

of birds was relatively right; his action was consistent with his principles. But if he withdrew

from an undertaking because he had stumbled on his threshold (un Romain retournerait),

he was absolutely superior even to us unbelievers. He was a better psychologist than we

are striving to become. For his stumbling could demonstrate to him the existence of a

doubt, an internal counter-current the force of which could weaken the power of his [p.

311] intention at the moment of its execution. For only by concentrating all psychic forces

on the desired aim can one be assured of perfect success. How does Schiller's Tell, who

hesitated so long to shoot the apple from his son's head, answer the bailiff's question why

he had provided himself with a second arrow!

"With the second arrow I would have pierced you had I struck my dear child -- and; truly, I

should not have failed to reach you."

IV. Whoever has had the opportunity of studying the concealed psychic feelings of persons

by means of psychoanalysis can also tell something new concerning the quality of

unconscious motives, which express themselves in superstition. Nervous persons afflicted

with compulsive thinking and compulsive states, who are often very intelligent, show very

plainly that superstition originates from repressed hostile and cruel impulses. The greater

part of superstition signifies fear of impending evil, and he who has frequently wished evil

to others, but because of a good bringing-up has repressed the same into the

unconscious, will be particularly apt to expect punishment for such unconscious evil in the

form of a misfortune threatening him: from without.

If we concede that we have by no means exhausted the psychology of superstition in

these remarks, we must, on the other hand, at least [p. 312] touch upon the question

whether real roots of superstition should be altogether denied, whether there are really no

omens, prophetic dreams, telepathic experiences, manifestations of supernatural forces,

and the like. I am now far from willing to repudiate without anything further all these

phenomena, concerning which we possess so many minute observations even from men

of intellectual prominence, and which should certainly form a basis for further investigation.

We map even hope that some of these observations will be explained by our present

knowledge of the unconscious psychic processes without necessitating radical changes in

our present aspect. If still other phenomena, as, for example, those maintained by the

spiritualists, should be proven, we should then consider the modification of our "laws" as

demanded by the new experience, without becoming confused in regard to the relation of

things of this world.

In the sphere of these analyses I can only answer the questions here proposed

subjectively -- that is, in accordance with my personal experience. I am sorry to confess

chat I belong to that class of unworthy individuals before whom the spirits cease their

activities and the supernatural disappears, so that I have never been in position to

experience anything personally that would stimulate belief in the miraculous. Like

everybody else, I have had forebodings and ex- [p. 313] perienced misfortunes; but the

two evaded each other, so that nothing followed the foreboding, and the misfortune struck

me unannounced. When as a young man I lived alone in a strange city I frequently heard

my name suddenly pronounced by an unmistakable, dear voice, and I then made a note of

the exact moment of the hallucination in order to inquire carefully of those at home what

had occurred at that time. There was nothing to it. On the other hand, I later worked

among my patients calmly and without foreboding while my child almost bled to death. Nor

have I ever been able to recognize as unreal phenomena any of the forebodings reported

to me by my patients.

The belief in prophetic dreams numbers many adherents, because it can be supported by

the fact that some things really so happen in the future as they were previously foretold by

the wish of the dream. But in this there is little to be wondered at, as many far-reaching

deviations may be regularly demonstrated between a dream and the fulfilment which the

credulity of the dreamer prefers to neglect.

A nice example, one which may be justly called prophetic was once brought to me for

exhaustive analysts by an intelligent and truth-loving patient. She related that she once

dreamed that she had met a former friend and family physician in front of a certain store in

[p. 314] a certain street, and next morning when she went down town she actually met him

at the place named in the dream. I may observe that the significance of this wonderful

coincidence was not proven to be due to any subsequent event -- that is, it could not be

justified through future occurrences.

Careful examination definitely established the fact that there was no proof that the woman

recalled the dream in the morning following the night of the dream -- that is, before the

walk and before the meeting. She could offer no objection when this state of affairs was

presented in a manner that robbed this episode of everything miraculous, leaving only an

interesting psychologic problem. One morning she had walked through this very street,

had met her old family physician before that certain store, and on seeing him received the

conviction that during the preceding night she had dreamed of this meeting at this place.

The analysis then showed with great probability how she came to this conviction, to which,

in accordance with the general rule, we cannot deny a certain right to credence. A meeting

at a definite place following a previous expectation really describes the fact of a

rendezvous. The old family physician awakened her memory of old times, when meetings

with a third person, also a friend of the physician, were of marked [p. 315] significance to

her. Since that time she had continued her relations with this gentleman, and the day

before the mentioned dream she had waited for him in vain. If I could report in greater

detail the circumstances here before us, I could easily show that the illusion of the

prophetic dream at the sight of the friend of former times is perchance equivalent to the

following speech: "Ah, doctor, you now remind me of bygone times, when I never had to

wait in vain for N. when we had arranged a meeting."

I have observed in myself a simple and easily explained example, which is probably a

good model for similar occurrences of those familiar "remarkable coincidences" wherein

we meet a person of whom we were just thinking. During a walk through the inner city a

few days after the title of "Professor" was bestowed on me, which carries with it a great

deal of prestige even in monarchical cities, my thoughts suddenly merged into a childish

revenge-fantasy against a certain married couple. Some months previous they had called

me to see their little daughter who suffered from' an interesting compulsive manifestation

following the appearance of a dream. I took a great interest in the case, the genesis of

which I believed I could surmise, but the parents were unfavourable to my treatment, and

gave me to understand that they thought of applying to a foreign authority who cured by [p.

316] means of hypnotism. I now fancied that after the failure of this attempt, the parents

begged me to resume my treatment, that they now had full confidence in me, etc. But I

answered: "Now that I have become a professor, you have confidence in me. The title has

made no change in my ability; if you could not use me when I was instructor you can get

along without me now that I am! a professor." At this point my fantasy was interrupted by a

loud "Good evening, Professor!" and as I looked up there passed me the same couple on

whom I had just taken this imaginary vengeance.

The next reflection destroyed the semblance of the miraculous. I was walking towards this

couple on a straight, almost deserted street; glancing up hastily at a distance of perhaps

twenty steps from me, I had spied and realized their stately personalities; but this

perception, following the model of a negative hallucination, was set aside by certain

emotionally accentuated motives and then asserted itself in the apparently spontaneous

emerging fantasy.

A similar experience is related by Brill, which also throws some light on the nature of

telepathy.

"While engrossed in conversation during our customary Sunday evening dinner at one of

the large New York restaurants, I suddenly stopped and irrelevantly remarked to my wife, 'I

wonder [p. 317] how Dr. R. is doing in Pittsburg.' She looked at me much astonished and

said: 'Why, that is exactly what I have been thinking for the last few seconds! Either you

have transferred this thought to me or I have transferred it to you. How can you otherwise

explain this strange phenomenon?' I had to admit that I could offer no solution. Our

conversation throughout the dinner showed not the remotest association to Dr. R., nor, so

far as our memories went, had we heard or spoken of him for some time. Being a sceptic, I

refused to admit that there was anything mysterious about it, although inwardly I felt quite

uncertain. To be frank, I was somewhat mystified.

"But we did not remain very long in this state of mind, for on looking toward the cloak-room

we were surprised to see Dr. R. Though closer inspection showed our mistake, we were

both struck by the remarkable resemblance of this stranger to Dr. R. From the position of

the cloak-room we were forced to conclude that this stranger had passed our table.

Absorbed in our conversation, we had not noticed him consciously, but the visual image

had stirred up the association of his double, Dr. R. That we should both have experienced

the same thought is also quite natural. The last word from our friend was to the effect that

he had taken up private practice in Pittsburg, and, being aware of the vicissi- [p. 318] tudes

that beset the beginner, it was quite natural to wonder how fortune smiled upon him.

"What promised to be a supernatural manifestation was thus easily explained on a normal

basis; but had we not noticed the stranger before he left the restaurant, it would have been

impossible to exclude the mysterious. I venture to say that such simple mechanisms are at

the bottom of the most complicated telepathic manifestations; at least, such has been my

experience in all cases accessible to investigation."

Another "solution of an apparent foreboding " was reported by Otto Rank[12]:--

"Some time ago I had experienced a remarkable variation of that peculiar coincidence

wherein one meets a person who has just been occupying one's thoughts. Shortly before

Christmas I went to the Austro-Hungarian Bank in order to obtain ten new silver crown-

pieces destined for Christmas gifts. Absorbed in ambitious fantasies which dealt with the

contrast of my meagre means to the enormous sums in the banking-house, I turned into

the narrow street to the bank. In front of the door I saw an automobile and many people

going in and out. I thought to myself: 'The officials will have plenty of time for my new

crowns; naturally I shall be quick about it; I shall put down the paper notes to be

exchanged, and say, "Please [p. 319] give me gold."' I realized my mistake at once -- I was

to have asked for silver -- and awoke from my fantasies.

"I was now only a few steps front the entrance, and noticed a young man coming toward

me who looked familiar, but whom I could not definitely identify on account of my short-

sightedness. As he came nearer I recognized him as a classmate of my brother whose

name was Gold and from whose brother, a well-known journalist, I had great expectations

in the beginning of my literary career. But these expectations had not materialized, and

with them had vanished the hoped-for material success with which my fantasies were

occupying; themselves on my way to the bank. Thus engrossed I must have unconsciously

perceived the approach of Mr. Gold, who impressed himself on my conscience while I was

dreaming of material success, and thereby caused me to ask the cashier for gold instead

of the inferior silver. But, on the other hand, the paradoxical fact that my unconscious was

able to perceive an object long before it was recognized by the eye might in part be

explained by the complex readiness (Komplexbereitschaft) of Bleuler. For my mind was

attuned to the material, and, contrary to my better knowledge, it guided my steps from the

very beginning to buildings where gold and paper money were exchanged." [p. 320]

To the category of the wonderful and uncanny we may also add that strange feeling we

perceive in certain moments and situations when it seems as if we had already had exactly

the same experience, or had previously found ourselves in the same situation. Yet we are

never successful in our efforts to recall clearly; those former experiences and situations. I

know that I follow only the loose colloquial expression when I designate that which

stimulates us in such moments as a "feeling." We undoubtedly deal with a judgment, and,

indeed, with a judgment of cognition; but these cases, nevertheless, have a character

peculiar to themselves, and besides, we must not ignore the fact that we never recall what

we are seeking.

I do not know whether this phenomenon of Déjà vu was ever seriously offered as a proof

of a former psychic existence of the individual; but it is certain that psychologists have

taken an interest in it, and have attempted to solve the riddle in a multitude of speculative

ways. None of the proposed tentative explanations seems right to me, because none takes

account of anything but the accompanying manifestations and the favouring conditions of

the phenomenon. Those psychic processes which, according to my observation, are alone

responsible for the explanation of the Déjà vu -- namely, the unconscious fantasies -- are

generally neglected by the psychologists even to-day. [p. 321]

I believe that it is wrong to designate the feeling of having experienced something before

as an illusion. On the contrary, in such moments something is really touched that we have

already experienced, only we cannot consciously recall the latter because it never was

conscious. In short, the feeling Déjà vu corresponds to the memory of an unconscious

fantasy. There are unconscious fantasies (or day dreams) just as there are similar

conscious creations, which everyone knows from personal experience.

I realize that the object is worthy of most minute study, but I will here give the analysis of

only one case of Déjà vu in which the feeling was characterized by particular intensity and

persistence. A woman of thirty-seven years asserted that she most distinctly remembered

that at the age of twelve and a half she paid her first visit to some school friends in the

country, and as she entered the garden she immediately had the feeling of having been

there before. This feeling was repeated as she went through the living-rooms, so that she

believed she knew beforehand how big the next room was, what views one could have on

looking out of it, etc. But the belief that this feeling of recognition might have its source in a

previous visit to the house and garden, perhaps a visit paid in earliest childhood, was

absolutely excluded and disproved [p. 322] by statements from her parents. The woman

who related this sought no psychologic explanation, but saw in the appearance of this

feeling a prophetic reference to the importance which these friends later assumed in her

emotional life. On taking into consideration, however, the circumstance under which this

phenomenon presented itself to her, we found the way to another conception.

When she decided upon this visit she knew that these girls had an only brother, who was

seriously ill. In the course of the visit she actually saw him. She found him looking very

badly, and thought to herself that he would soon die. But it happened that her own only

brother had had a serious attack of diphtheria some months before, and during his illness

she had lived for weeks with relatives far from her parental home. She believed that her

brother was taking part in this visit to the country, imagined even that this was his first long

journey since his illness; still, her memory was remarkably indistinct in regard to these

points, whereas all other details, and particularly the dress which she wore that day,

remained most clearly before her eyes.

To the initiated it will not be difficult to conclude from these suggestions that the

expectation of her brother's death had played a great part in the girl's mind at that time,

and that either it never [p. 323] became conscious or it was more energetically repressed

after the favourable issue of' the illness. Under other circumstances she would have been

compelled to wear another dress -- namely, mourning clothes. She found the analogous

situation in her friends' home; their only: brother was in danger of an early death, an event

that really came to pass a short time after. She might have consciously remembered that

she lived through a similar situation a few months previous, but instead of recalling what

was inhibited through repression she transferred the memory feeling to the locality, to the

garden and the house, and merged it into the fausse reconnaissance that she had already

seen everything exactly as it was.

From the fact of the repression we may conclude that the former expectation of the death

of her brother was not far from evincing the character of a wish-fantasy. She would then

have become the only: child. In her later neurosis she suffered in the most intense manner

from the fear of losing her parents, behind which the analysis disclosed, as usual, the

unconscious wish of the same content.

My own experience of Déjà vu I can trace in a similar manner to the emotional

constellation of the moment. It may he expressed as follows: "That would be another

occasion for awakening certain fantasies (unconscious and unknown) [p. 324] which were

formed in me at one time or another as a wish to improve my situation."[13]

V. Recently when I had occasion to recite to a colleague of a philosophical turn of mind

some examples of name-forgetting, with their analyses, he hastened to reply: "That is all

very well, but with me the forgetting of a name proceeds in a different manner." Evidently

one cannot dismiss this question as simply as that; I do not believe that my colleague had

ever thought of an analysis for the forgetting of a name, nor could he say how the process

differed in him. But his remark, nevertheless, touches upon a problem which many would

be inclined to place in the foreground. Does the solution given for faulty and chance

actions apply in general or only in particular cases, and if only in the latter, what are the

conditions under which it may also be employed in the explanation of the other

phenomena? [p. 325]

In answer to this question my experiences leave me in the lurch. I can only urge against

considering the demonstrated connections as rare, for as often as I have made the test in

myself and with my patients it was always definitely demonstrated exactly as in the

examples reported, or there were at least good reasons to assume this. One should not be

surprise, however, when one does not succeed every time in finding the concealed

meaning of he symptomatic action, as the amount of inner resistances ranging themselves

against the solution must be considered a deciding factor. Also, it is not always possible to

explain every individual dream of one's self of patients. To substantiate the general validity

of the theory, it is enough if one can penetrate only a certain distance into the hidden

associations. The dream which proves refractory when the solution is attempted on the

following day can often be robbed of its secret a week or a month later, when the psychic

factors combating one another have been reduced as a consequence of a real change that

has meanwhile taken place. The same applies to the solution of faulty and symptomatic

actions. It would therefore be wrong to affirm of all cases which resist analysis that they

are caused by another psychic mechanism than that here revealed; such assumption

requires more than negative proofs; moreover, the readiness to [p. 326] believe in a

difference explanation of faulty and symptomatic actions, which probably exists universally

in all normal persons, does not prove anything; it is obviously an expression of the same

psychic forces which produced the secret, which therefore strives to protect and struggle

against its elucidation.

On the other hand, we must not overlook the fact that the repressed thoughts and feelings

are not independent in attaining expression in symptomatic and faulty actions. The

technical possibility for such an adjustment of the innervations must be furnished

independently of them, and this is then gladly utilized by the intention of the repressed

material to come to conscious expression. In the case of linguistic faulty actions an attempt

has been made by philosophers and philologists to verify through minute observations

what structural and functional relations enter into the service of such intention. If in the

determinations of faulty and symptomatic actions we separate the unconscious motive

from its co-active physiological and psychophysical relations, the question remains open

whether there are still other factors within normal limits which, like the unconscious motive,

and in its place can produce faulty and symptomatic actions on the road of the relations. It

is not my; task to answer this question.

VI. Since the discussion of speech blunders [p. 327] we have been content to demonstrate

that faulty actions have a concealed motive, and through the aid of psychoanalysis we

have traced our way to the knowledge of their motivation. The general nature and the

peculiarities of the psychic factors brought to expression in these faulty actions we have

hitherto left almost without consideration; at any rate, we have not attempted to define

them more accurately or to examine into their lawfulness. Nor will we now attempt a

thorough elucidation of the subject, as the first steps have already taught us that it is more

feasible to enter this structure from another side. Here we can put before ourselves certain

questions which I will cite in their order. (1) What is the content and the origin of the

thoughts and feelings ;which show; themselves through faulty and chance actions? (2)

What are the conditions which force a thought or a feeling to make use of these

occurrences as a means of expression and place it in a position to do sol (3) Can constant

and definite associations be demonstrated between the manner of the faulty action and the

qualities brought to expression through it.

I shall begin by bringing together some material for answering the last question. In the

discussion of the examples of speech blunders we found it necessary to go beyond the

contents of the intended speech, and we had to seek the [p. 328] cause of the speech

disturbance outside the intention. The latter was quite clear in a series of cases, and as

known to the consciousness of the speaker. In the example that seemed most simple and

transparent it was a similar sounding but different conception of the same thought, which

disturbed its expression without any one being able to say why the one succumbed and

the other came to the surface (Meringer and Mayers' Contaminations).

In a second group of cases one conception succumbed to a motive which did not,

however, prove strong enough to cause complete submersion. The conception which was

withheld was clearly presented to consciousness.

Only of the third group can we affirm unreservedly that the disturbing thought differed from

the one intended, and it is obvious that it may establish an essential distinction. The

disturbing thought is either connected with the disturbed on through a thought association

(disturbance through inner contradiction), or it is substantially strange to it, and just the

disturbed word is connected with the disturbing thought through a surprising outer

association, which is frequently unconscious.

In the examples which I have given from my psychoanalyses it is found that the entire

speech is either under the influence of thoughts which have become active simultaneously,

or under [p. 329] absolutely unconscious thoughts which betray themselves either through

the disturbance itself, or which evince an indirect influence by making it possible for the

individual parts of the unconsciously intended speech to disturb one another. The retained

unconscious thoughts from which the disturbances in speech emanate are of most varied

origin. A general survey does not reveal any definite direction.

Comparative examinations of examples of mistakes in reading and writing lead me to the

same conclusions. Isolated cases, as in speech blunders, seem to owe their origin to an

unmotivated work of condensation (e.g., the Apel). But we should be pleased to know

whether special conditions must not be fulfilled in order that such condensation, which is

considered regular in the dream-work and faulty in our waking thoughts, should take place.

No information concerning this can be obtained from the examples themselves. But I

merely refuse from this to draw the conclusion that there are no such conditions, as, for

instance, the relaxation of conscious attention; for I have learned elsewhere that automatic

actions are especially characterized by correctness and reliability. I would rather

emphasize the fact that here, as so frequently in biology, it is the normal relations, or those

approaching the normal, that are less favourable objects for investigation than the [p. 330]

pathological. What remains obscure in the explanation of these most simple disturbances

will, according to my expectation, be made clear through the explanation of more serious

disturbances.

Also mistakes in reading and writing do not lack examples in which more remote and more

complicated motivation can be recognized.

There is no doubt that the disturbances of the speech functions occur more easily and

make less demand on the disturbing forces than other psychic acts.

But one is on different ground when it comes to the examination of forgetting in the literal

sense -- i.e., the forgetting of past experiences. (To distinguish this forgetting from the

others we designate sensu strictiori the forgetting of proper names and foreign words, as

in Chapters I and II, as "slips"; and the forgetting of resolutions as "omissions.") The

principal conditions of the normal process in forgetting are unknown.[14] We are also

reminded of the fact [p. 331] that not all is forgotten which we believe to be. Our

explanation here deals only with those cases in which the forgetting arouses our

astonishment, in so far as it infringes the rule that the unimportant is forgotten, while the

important matter is guarded by memory. Analysis of these examples of forgetting - is

always an unwillingness to recall something which may evoke painful feelings. We may

come to the conjecture that this motive universally strives for expression in psychic life, but

is inhibited through other [p. 332] and contrary forces from regularly manifesting itself. The

extent and significance of this dislike to recall painful impressions seems worthy of the

most painstaking psychologic investigation. The question as to what special conditions

render possible the universally resistant forgetting in individual cases cannot be solved

through this added association.

A different factor steps into the foreground in the forgetting of resolutions; the supposed

conflict resulting in the repression of the painful memory becomes tangible, and in the

analysis of the examples one regularly recognizes a counter-will which opposes but does

not put an end to the resolution. As in previously discussed faulty act, we here also

recognize two types of the psychic process: the counter-will either turns directly against

the resolution (in intentions of some consequence) or it is substantially foreign to the

resolution itself and establishes its connection with it through an outer association (in

almost indifferent resolutions).

The same conflict governs the phenomena of erroneously carried-out actions. The impulse

which manifests itself in the disturbances of the action is frequently a counter-impulse. Still

oftener it is altogether a strange impulse which only utilizes the opportunity to express

itself through a disturbance in the execution of the action. The cases in which the

disturbance is [p. 333] the result of an inner contradiction are the most significant ones,

and also deal with the more important activities.

The inner conflict in the chance or symptomatic actions then merges into the background.

Those motor expressions which are least thought of, or are entirely overlooked by

consciousness, serve as the expression of numerous unconscious or restrained feelings.

For the most part they represent symbolically wishes and phantoms. The first question (as

to the origin of the thoughts and emotions which find expression in faulty actions) we can

answer by saying that in a series of cases the origin of the disturbing thoughts can be

readily traced to repressed emotions of the psychic life. Even in healthy persons egotistic,

jealous and hostile feelings and impulses, burdened by the pressure of moral education,

often utilize the path of faulty actions to express in some way their undeniably existing

force which is not recognized by the higher psychic instances. Allowing these faulty and

chance actions to continue corresponds in great part to a comfortable toleration of the

unmoral. The manifold sexual currents play no insignificant part m these repressed

feelings. That they appear so seldom in the thoughts revealed by the analyses of my

examples is simply a matter of coincidence. As I have undertaken the analyses of

numerous examples from my own [p. 334] psychic life, the selection was partial from the

first, and aimed at the exclusion of sexual matters. At other times it seemed that the

disturbing thoughts originated from the most harmless objection and consideration.

We have now reached the answer to the second question -- that is, what psychologic

conditions are responsible for the fact that a thought must seek expression not in its

complete form but, as it were, in parasitic form, as a modification and disturbance of

another. From the most striking examples of faulty actions it is quite obvious that this

determinant should be sought in a relation to conscious capacity, or in the more or less

firmly pronounced character of the "repressed" material. But an examination of this series

of examples shows that this character consists of many indistinct elements. The tendency

to overlook something because it is wearisome, or because the concerned thought does

not really belong to the intended matter -- these feelings seem to play the same rôle as

motives for the suppression of a thought (which later depends for expression on the

disturbance of another), as the moral condemnation of a rebellious emotional feeling, or as

the origin of absolutely unconscious trains of thought. An insight into the general nature of

the condition of faulty and chance actions cannot be gained in this way. [p. 335]

However, this investigation gives us one single significant fact; the more harmless the

motivation of the faulty act the less obnoxious, and hence less incapable of

consciousness, the thought to which it gives expression is; the easier also becomes the

solution of the phenomenon after we have turned our attention toward it. The simplest

cases of speech blunders are immediately noticed and instantaneously corrected. Where

one deals with motivation through actually repressed feelings the solution requires a

painstaking analysis, which may sometimes strike against difficulties or turn out

unsuccessful.

One is therefore justified in taking the result of this last investigation as an indication of the

fact that the satisfactory explanation of the psychologic determinations of faulty and

chance actions is to be acquired in another way and from another source. The indulgent

reader can therefore see in these discussions the demonstration of the surfaces of fracture

in which this theme was quite artificially. evolved from a broader connection.

VII. Just a few words to indicate the direction of this broader connection. The mechanism

of the faulty and chance actions, as we have learned to know it through the application of

analysis, shows in the most essential points an agreement with the mechanism of dream

formation, which I have discussed in the chapter "The Dream [p. 336] Work" of my book on

the interpretation of dreams. Here, as there, one finds the condensation and compromise

formation ("contaminations"); in addition the situation is much the same, since

unconscious thoughts find expression as modifications of other thoughts in unusual ways

and through outer associations. The incongruities, absurdities, and errors in the dream

content by virtue of which the dream is scarcely recognized as a psychic achievement

originate in the same way -- to be sure, through freer usage of the existing material -- as

the common error of our everyday life; here, as there, the appearance of the incorrect

function is explained through the peculiar interference of two or more correct actions.

An important conclusion call be drawn from this combination: the peculiar mode of

operation, whose most striking function we recognize in the dream content, should not be

adjudged only to the sleeping state of the psychic life when we possess abundant proof of

its activity during the waking state in the form of faulty actions. The same connection also

forbids us assuming that these psychic processes which impress us as abnormal and

strange are determined by deep-seated decay of psychic activity or by morbid state of

function.[15]

The correct understanding of this strange psychic work which allows the faulty actions to

originate like the dream pictures will only be possible after we have discovered that the

psychoneurotic symptoms, particularly the psychic formations of hysteria and compulsion

neurosis, repeat in their mechanisms all the essential features of this mode of operation.

The continuation of our investigation would therefore have to begin at this point.

There is still another special interest for us in considering the faulty, chance, and

symptomatic actions in the light of this last analogy. If we compare them to the function of

the psychoneuroses and the neurotic symptoms, two frequently recurring statements gain

in sense and support--namely, that the border-line between the nervous, normal, and

abnormal states is indistinct, and that we are all slightly nervous. Regardless of all medical

experience, one may construe various types of such barely suggested nervousness, the

formes frustes of the neuroses. There may, ;be cases in which only a few symptoms

appear, or they may manifest themselves rarely or in mild forms; the extenuation may be

transferred to the number; intensity, or to the temporal outbreak of the morbid

manifestation. It may also happen that just this type, which forms the most frequent

transition between health and disease, may never be discovered. [p. 338] The transition

type, whose morbid manifestations come in the form of faulty and symptomatic actions, is

characterized by the fact that the symptoms are transformed to the least important psychic

activities, while everything that can lay claim to a higher psychic value remains free from

disturbance. When the symptoms are disposed of in a reverse manner -- that is, when they

appear in the most important individual and social activities in a manner to disturb the

functions of nourishment and sexual relations, professional and social life -- such

disposition is found in the severe cases of neuroses, and is perhaps more characteristic of

the latter than the multiformity or vividness of the morbid manifestations.

But the common character of the mildest as well as the severest cases, to which the faulty

and chance actions contribute, lies in the ability to refer the phenomena to unwelcome,

repressed, psychic material, which, though pushed away from consciousness, is

nevertheless not robbed of all capacity to express itself.

Footnotes

[1] Alfred Adler, "Drei Psychoanalysen von Zahlen einfällen und obsedierenden Zahlen," Psych.

Neur. Wochenschr., No. 28, 1905·

[2] As an explanation of Macbeth, No. 17 of the U. L., I was informed by Dr. Adler that in his

seventeenth year this man had joined an anarchistic society whose aim was regicide. Probably this

is why he forgot the content of the play Macbeth. The same person invented at that time a secret

code in which numbers substituted letters.

[3] For the sake of simplicity I have omitted some of the not less suitable thoughts of the patients.

[4] Loc. cit., p. 36.

[5]. "Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis des Zahlentraumes," Zentralb. f. Psychoanalyse, i. 12.

[6] "Unconscious Manipulation of Numbers" (ibid., ii. 5, 1912).

[7] This is another excellent example showing how a conscious intention was powerless to

counteract an unconscious resistance.

[8] These conceptions of strict determinism in seemingly arbitrary actions have already borne rich

fruit for psychology --perhaps also for the administration of justice. Bleuler and Jung have in this

way made intelligible the reaction in the so-called association experiments, wherein the test person

answers to a given word with one occurring to him (stimulus-word reaction), while the time elapsing

between the stimulus word and answer is measured (reaction-time). Jung has shown in his

Diagnostische Assoziationsstudien, 1906, what fine reagents for psychic occurrences we possess

in this association-experiment. Three students of criminology, H. Gross, of Prague, and Wertheimer

and Kiein, have developed from these experiments a technique for the diagnosis of facts

(Tatbestands-Diagnostik) in criminal cases, the examination of which is now tested by

psychologists and jurists.

[9] Proceeding from other points of view, this interpretation of the trivial and accidental by the

patient has been designated as "delusions of reference."

[10] For example, the fantasies of the hysterical regarding sexual and cruel abuse which are made

conscious by analysis often correspond in every detail with the complaints of persecuted

paranoiacs. It is remarkable but not altogether unexpected that we also meet the identical content

as reality in the contrivances of perverts for the gratification of their desires.

[11] Which naturally has nothing of the character of perception.

[12] Zenltralb. f. Psychoanalyse, ii. 5.

[13] Thus far this explanation of Déjà vu has been appreciated by only one observer. Dr. Ferenczi,

to whom the third edition of this is book is indebted for so many contributions, writes to me

concerning this:"I have been convinced, through myself as well as others, that the inexplicable

feeling of familiarity can be referred to unconscious fantasies of which we are unconsciously

reminded in an actual situation. With one of my patients the process was apparently different but in

reality it was quite analogous. This feeling returned to him very often, but showed itself regularly as

originating in a forgotten (repressed) portion of a dream of the preceding night. Thus it appears that

the Déjà vu can originate not only from day dreams but also from night dreams."

[14] I can perhaps give the following outline concerning the mechanism of actual forgetting. The

memory material succumbs in general to two influences, condensation and disfigurement.

Disfigurement is the work of the tendencies dominating the psychic life, and directs itself above all

against the affective remnants of memory traces which maintain a more resistive attitude towards

condensation. The traces which have grown indifferent merge into a process of condensation

without opposition; in addition it may be observed that tendencies of disfigurement also feed on the

indifferent material, because they have not been gratified where they wished to manifest

themselves. As these processes of condensation and disfigurement continue for long periods

during which all fresh experiences act upon the transformation of the memory content, it is our

belief that it is time that makes memory uncertain and indistinct. It is quite probable that in

forgetting there can really be no question of a direct function of time. From the repressed memory

traces it can be verified that they suffer no changes even in the longest periods. The unconscious,

at all events, knows no time limit. The most important as well as the most peculiar character of

psychic fixation consists in the fact that all impressions are on the one hand retained in the same

form as they were received, and also in the forms that they have assumed in their further

development. This state of affairs cannot be elucidated by any comparison from any other sphere.

By virtue of this theory every former state of the memory content may thus be restored, even

though all original relations have long been replaced by newer ones.

[15] Cf. here The Interpretation of Dreams, p. 483· Macmillan: New York ; and Allen : London.

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