
                                      1900                                   
                                                                             
                          THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS                       
                                                                             
                                by Sigmund Freud                             
                                                                             
                           translated by A. A. Brill                         
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
 
INTERPRETATION_OF_DREAMS                                                     
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
                                                                             
            Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.                    
                                                                             
PREFACE_THIRD_EDITION                                                        
                 PREFACE TO THE THIRD GERMAN EDITION                         
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  WHEREAS there was a space of nine years between the first and second       
editions of this book, the need of a third edition was apparent when         
little more than a year had elapsed. I ought to be gratified by this         
change; but if I was unwilling previously to attribute the neglect           
of my work to its small value, I cannot take the interest which is now       
making its appearance as proof of its quality.                               
  The advance of scientific knowledge has not left The                       
Interpretation of Dreams untouched. When I wrote this book in 1899           
there was as yet no "sexual theory," and the analysis of the more            
complicated forms of the psychoneuroses was still in its infancy.            
The interpretation of dreams was intended as an expedient to                 
facilitate the psychological analysis of the neuroses; but since             
then a profounder understanding of the neuroses has contributed              
towards the comprehension of the dream. The doctrine of                      
dream-interpretation itself has evolved in a direction which was             
insufficiently emphasized in the first edition of this book. From my         
own experience, and the works of Stekel and other writers, * I have          
since learned to appreciate more accurately the significance of              
symbolism in dreams (or rather, in unconscious thought). In the course       
of years, a mass of data has accumulated which demands                       
consideration. I have endeavored to deal with these innovations by           
interpolations in the text and footnotes. If these additions do not          
always quite adjust themselves to the framework of the treatise, or if       
the earlier text does not everywhere come up to the standard of our          
present knowledge, I must beg indulgence for this deficiency, since it       
is only the result and indication of the increasingly rapid advance of       
our science. I will even venture to predict the directions in which          
further editions of this book- should there be a demand for them-            
may diverge from previous editions. Dream-interpretation must seek a         
closer union with the rich material of poetry, myth, and popular             
idiom, and it must deal more faithfully than has hitherto been               
possible with the relations of dreams to the neuroses and to mental          
derangement.                                                                 
  Herr Otto Rank has afforded me valuable assistance in the                  
selection of supplementary examples, and has revised the proofs of           
this edition. I have to thank him and many other colleagues for              
their contributions and corrections.                                         
  Vienna, 1911                                                               
-                                                                            
  * Omitted in subsequent editions.                                          
                                                                             
PREFACE_SECOND_EDITION                                                       
                PREFACE TO THE SECOND (GERMAN) EDITION                       
-                                                                            
  THAT there should have been a demand for a second edition of this          
book- a book which cannot be described as easy to read- before the           
completion of its first decade is not to be explained by the                 
interest of the professional circles to which I was addressing myself.       
My psychiatric colleagues have not, apparently, attempted to look            
beyond the astonishment which may at first have been aroused by my           
novel conception of the dream; and the professional philosophers,            
who are anyhow accustomed to disposing of the dream in a few                 
sentences- mostly the same- as a supplement to the states of                 
consciousness, have evidently failed to realize that precisely in this       
connection it was possible to make all manner of deductions, such as         
must lead to a fundamental modification of our psychological                 
doctrines. The attitude of the scientific reviewers was such to lead         
me to expect that the fate of the book would be to fall into oblivion;       
and the little flock of faithful adherents, who follow my lead in            
the therapeutic application of psycho-analysis, and interpret dreams         
by my method, could not have exhausted the first edition of this book.       
I feel, therefore, that my thanks are due to the wider circle of             
cultured and inquiring readers whose sympathy has induced me, after          
the lapse of nine years, once more to take up this difficult work,           
which has so many fundamental bearings.                                      
  I am glad to be able to say that I found little in the book that           
called for alteration. Here and there I have interpolated fresh              
material, or have added opinions based on more extensive experience,         
or I have sought to elaborate individual points; but the essential           
passages treating of dreams and their interpretation, and the                
psychological doctrines to be deduced therefrom, have been left              
unaltered; subjectively, at all events, they have stood the test of          
time. Those who are acquainted with my other writings (on the                
aetiology and mechanism of the psychoneuroses) will know that I              
never offer unfinished work as finished, and that I have always              
endeavoured to revise my conclusions in accordance with my maturing          
opinions; but as regards the subject of the dream-life, I am able to         
stand by my original text. In my many years' work upon the problems of       
the neuroses I have often hesitated, and I have often gone astray; and       
then it was always the interpretation of dreams that restored my             
self-confidence. My many scientific opponents are actuated by a wise         
instinct when they decline to follow me into the region of oneirology.       
  Even the material of this book, even my own dreams, defaced by             
time or superseded, by means of which I have demonstrated the rules of       
dream-interpretation, revealed, when I came to revise these pages, a         
continuity that resisted revision. For me, of course, this book has an       
additional subjective significance, which I did not understand until         
after its completion. It reveals itself to me as a piece of my               
self-analysis, as my reaction to the death of my father, that is, to         
the most important event, the most poignant loss in a man's life. Once       
I had realized this, I felt that I could not obliterate the traces           
of this influence. But to my readers the material from which they            
learn to evaluate and interpret dreams will be a matter of                   
indifference.                                                                
  Where an inevitable comment could not be fitted into the old               
context, I have indicated by square brackets that it does not occur in       
the first edition. *                                                         
  Berchtesgaden, 1908                                                        
-                                                                            
  * Omitted in subsequent editions.                                          
                                                                             
INTRODUCTORY_NOTE                                                            
                          INTRODUCTORY NOTE                                  
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  IN this volume I have attempted to expound the methods and results         
of dream-interpretation; and in so doing I do not think I have               
overstepped the boundary of neuro-pathological science. For the              
dream proves on psychological investigation to be the first of a             
series of abnormal psychic formations, a series whose succeeding             
members- the hysterical phobias, the obsessions, the delusions-              
must, for practical reasons, claim the attention of the physician. The       
dream, as we shall see, has no title to such practical importance, but       
for that very reason its theoretical value as a typical formation is         
all the greater, and the physician who cannot explain the origin of          
dream-images will strive in vain to understand the phobias and the           
obsessive and delusional ideas, or to influence them by therapeutic          
methods.                                                                     
  But the very context to which our subject owes its importance must         
be held responsible for the deficiencies of the following chapters.          
The abundant lacunae in this exposition represent so many points of          
contact at which the problem of dream-formation is linked up with            
the more comprehensive problems of psycho-pathology; problems which          
cannot be treated in these pages, but which, if time and powers              
suffice and if further material presents itself, may be elaborated           
elsewhere.                                                                   
  The peculiar nature of the material employed to exemplify the              
interpretation of dreams has made the writing even of this treatise          
a difficult task. Consideration of the methods of dream-interpretation       
will show why the dreams recorded in the literature on the subject, or       
those collected by persons unknown to me, were useless for my purpose;       
I had only the choice between my own dreams and those of the                 
patients whom I was treating by psychoanalytic methods. But this later       
material was inadmissible, since the dream-processes were                    
undesirably complicated by the intervention of neurotic characters.          
And if I relate my own dreams I must inevitably reveal to the gaze           
of strangers more of the intimacies of my psychic life than is               
agreeable to me, and more than seems fitting in a writer who is not          
a poet but a scientific investigator. To do so is painful, but               
unavoidable; I have submitted to the necessity, for otherwise I              
could not have demonstrated my psychological conclusions. Sometimes,         
of course, I could not resist the temptation to mitigate my                  
indiscretions by omissions and substitutions; but wherever I have done       
so the value of the example cited has been very definitely diminished.       
I can only express the hope that my readers will understand my               
difficult position, and will be indulgent; and further, that all those       
persons who are in any way concerned in the dreams recorded will not         
seek to forbid our dream-life at all events to exercise freedom of           
thought!                                                                     
                                                                             
I                                                                            
     I. THE SCIENTIFIC LITERATURE OF DREAM-PROBLEMS (UP TO 1900)             
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  IN the following pages I shall demonstrate that there is a                 
psychological technique which makes it possible to interpret dreams,         
and that on the application of this technique every dream will               
reveal itself as a psychological structure, full of significance,            
and one which may be assigned to a specific place in the psychic             
activities of the waking state. Further, I shall endeavour to                
elucidate the processes which underlie the strangeness and obscurity         
of dreams, and to deduce from these processes the nature of the              
psychic forces whose conflict or cooperation is responsible for our          
dreams. This done, my investigation will terminate, as it will have          
reached the point where the problem of the dream merges into more            
comprehensive problems, and to solve these we must have recourse to          
material of a different kind.                                                
  I shall begin by giving a short account of the views of earlier            
writers on this subject, and of the status of the dream-problem in           
contemporary science; since in the course of this treatise I shall not       
often have occasion to refer to either. In spite of thousands of years       
of endeavour, little progress has been made in the scientific                
understanding of dreams. This fact has been so universally                   
acknowledged by previous writers on the subject that it seems hardly         
necessary to quote individual opinions. The reader will find, in the         
works listed at the end of this work, many stimulating observations,         
and plenty of interesting material relating to our subject, but little       
or nothing that concerns the true nature of the dream, or that               
solves definitely any of its enigmas. The educated layman, of                
course, knows even less of the matter.                                       
  The conception of the dream that was held in prehistoric ages by           
primitive peoples, and the influence which it may have exerted on            
the formation of their conceptions of the universe, and of the soul,         
is a theme of such great interest that it is only with reluctance that       
I refrain from dealing with it in these pages. I will refer the reader       
to the well-known works of Sir John Lubbock (Lord Avebury), Herbert          
Spencer, E. B. Tylor, and other writers; I will only add that we shall       
not realize the importance of these problems and speculations until we       
have completed the task of dream-interpretation that lies before us.         
  A reminiscence of the concept of the dream that was held in                
primitive times seems to underlie the evaluation of the dream which          
was current among the peoples of classical antiquity. * They took it         
for granted that dreams were related to the world of the                     
supernatural beings in whom they believed, and that they brought             
inspirations from the gods and demons. Moreover, it appeared to them         
that dreams must serve a special purpose in respect of the dreamer;          
that, as a rule, they predicted the future. The extraordinary                
variations in the content of dreams, and in the impressions which they       
produced on the dreamer, made it, of course, very difficult to               
formulate a coherent conception of them, and necessitated manifold           
differentiations and group-formations, according to their value and          
reliability. The valuation of dreams by the individual philosophers of       
antiquity naturally depended on the importance which they were               
prepared to attribute to manticism in general.                               
-                                                                            
  * The following remarks are based on Buchsenschutz's careful               
essay, Traum und Traumdeutung im Altertum (Berlin 1868).                     
-                                                                            
  In the two works of Aristotle in which there is mention of dreams,         
they are already regarded as constituting a problem of psychology.           
We are told that the dream is not god-sent, that it is not of divine         
but of demonic origin. For nature is really demonic, not divine;             
that is to say, the dream is not a supernatural revelation, but is           
subject to the laws of the human spirit, which has, of course, a             
kinship with the divine. The dream is defined as the psychic                 
activity of the sleeper, inasmuch as he is asleep. Aristotle was             
acquainted with some of the characteristics of the dream-life; for           
example, he knew that a dream converts the slight sensations perceived       
in sleep into intense sensations ("one imagines that one is walking          
through fire, and feels hot, if this or that part of the body                
becomes only quite slightly warm"), which led him to conclude that           
dreams might easily betray to the physician the first indications of         
an incipient physical change which escaped observation during the            
day. *                                                                       
-                                                                            
  * The relationship between dreams and disease is discussed by              
Hippocrates in a chapter of his famous work.                                 
-                                                                            
  As has been said, those writers of antiquity who preceded                  
Aristotle did not regard the dream as a product of the dreaming              
psyche, but as an inspiration of divine origin, and in ancient times         
the two opposing tendencies which we shall find throughout the ages in       
respect of the evaluation of the dream-life were already                     
perceptible. The ancients distinguished between the true and                 
valuable dreams which were sent to the dreamer as warnings, or to            
foretell future events, and the vain, fraudulent, and empty dreams           
whose object was to misguide him or lead him to destruction.                 
  Gruppe * speaks of such a classification of dreams, citing Macrobius       
and Artemidorus: "Dreams were divided into two classes; the first            
class was believed to be influenced only by the present (or the past),       
and was unimportant in respect of the future; it included the                
enuknia (insomnia), which directly reproduce a given idea or its             
opposite; e.g., hunger or its satiation; and the phantasmata, which          
elaborate the given idea phantastically, as e.g. the nightmare,              
ephialtes. The second class of dreams, on the other hand, was                
determinative of the future. To this belonged:                               
  1. Direct prophecies received in the dream (chrematismos,                  
     oraculum);                                                              
  2. the foretelling of a future event (orama, visio);                       
  3. the symbolic dream, which requires interpretation (oneiros,             
     somnium.)                                                               
  This theory survived for many centuries."                                  
-                                                                            
  * Griechische Mythologie und Religionsgeschichte, p. 390.                  
-                                                                            
  Connected with these varying estimations of the dream was the              
problem of "dream-interpretation." Dreams in general were expected           
to yield important solutions, but not every dream was immediately            
understood, and it was impossible to be sure that a certain                  
incomprehensible dream did not really foretell something of                  
importance, so that an effort was made to replace the incomprehensible       
content of the dream by something that should be at once                     
comprehensible and significant. In later antiquity Artemidorus of            
Daldis was regarded as the greatest authority on dream-interpretation.       
His comprehensive works must serve to compensate us for the lost works       
of a similar nature. * The pre-scientific conception of the dream            
which obtained among the ancients was, of course, in perfect keeping         
with their general conception of the universe, which was accustomed to       
project as an external reality that which possessed reality only in          
the life of the psyche. Further, it accounted for the main                   
impression made upon the waking life by the morning memory of the            
dream; for in this memory the dream, as compared with the rest of            
the psychic content, seems to be something alien, coming, as it              
were, from another world. It would be an error to suppose that               
theory of the supernatural origin of dreams lacks followers even in          
our own times; for quite apart from pietistic and mystical writers-          
who cling, as they are perfectly justified in doing, to the remnants         
of the once predominant realm of the supernatural until these remnants       
have been swept away by scientific explanation- we not infrequently          
find that quite intelligent persons, who in other respects are               
averse from anything of a romantic nature, go so far as to base              
their religious belief in the existence and co-operation of superhuman       
spiritual powers on the inexplicable nature of the phenomena of dreams       
(Haffner). The validity ascribed to the dream-life by certain                
schools of philosophy- for example, by the school of Schelling- is a         
distinct reminiscence of the undisputed belief in the divinity of            
dreams which prevailed in antiquity; and for some thinkers the               
mantic or prophetic power of dreams is still a subject of debate. This       
is due to the fact that the explanations attempted by psychology are         
too inadequate to cope with the accumulated material, however strongly       
the scientific thinker may feel that such superstitious doctrines            
should be repudiated.                                                        
-                                                                            
  * For the later history of dream-interpretation in the Middle Ages         
consult Diepgen, and the special investigations of M. Forster,               
Gotthard, and others. The interpretation of dreams among the Jews            
has been studied by Amoli, Amram, and Lowinger, and recently, with           
reference to the psycho-analytic standpoint, by Lauer. Details of            
the Arabic methods of dream-interpretation are furnished by Drexl,           
F. Schwarz, and the missionary Tfinkdji. The interpretation of               
dreams among the Japanese has been investigated by Miura and Iwaya,          
among the Chinese by Secker, and among the Indians by Negelein.              
-                                                                            
  To write strongly the history of our scientific knowledge of the           
dream-problem is extremely difficult, because, valuable though this          
knowledge may be in certain respects, no real progress in a definite         
direction is as yet discernible. No real foundation of verified              
results has hitherto been established on which future investigators          
might continue to build. Every new author approaches the same problems       
afresh, and from the very beginning. If I were to enumerate such             
authors in chronological order, giving a survey of the opinions              
which each has held concerning the problems of the dream, I should           
be quite unable to draw a clear and complete picture of the present          
state of our knowledge on the subject. I have therefore preferred to         
base my method of treatment on themes rather than on authors, and in         
attempting the solution of each problem of the dream I shall cite            
the material found in the literature of the subject.                         
  But as I have not succeeded in mastering the whole of this                 
literature- for it is widely dispersed, and interwoven with the              
literature of other subjects- I must ask my readers to rest content          
with my survey as it stands, provided that no fundamental fact or            
important point of view has been overlooked.                                 
  Until recently most authors have been inclined to deal with the            
subjects of sleep and dreams in conjunction, and together with these         
they have commonly dealt with analogous conditions of a                      
psycho-pathological nature, and other dream-like phenomena, such as          
hallucinations, visions, etc. In recent works, on the other hand,            
there has been a tendency to keep more closely to the theme, and to          
consider, as a special subject, the separate problems of the                 
dream-life. In this change I should like to perceive an expression           
of the growing conviction that enlightenment and agreement in such           
obscure matters may be attained only by a series of detailed                 
investigations. Such a detailed investigation, and one of a special          
psychological nature, is expounded in these pages. I have had little         
occasion to concern myself with the problem of sleep, as this is             
essentially a physiological problem, although the changes in the             
functional determination of the psychic apparatus should be included         
in a description of the sleeping state. The literature of sleep will         
therefore not be considered here.                                            
  A scientific interest in the phenomena of dreams as such leads us to       
propound the following problems, which to a certain extent,                  
interdependent, merge into one another.                                      
                                                                             
I|A                                                                          
           A. The Relation of the Dream to the Waking State                  
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  The naive judgment of the dreamer on waking assumes that the               
dream- even if it does not come from another world- has at all               
events transported the dreamer into another world. The old                   
physiologist, Burdach, to whom we are indebted for a careful and             
discriminating description of the phenomena of dreams, expressed             
this conviction in a frequently quoted passage (p. 474): "The waking         
life, with its trials and joys, its pleasures and pains, is never            
repeated; on the contrary, the dream aims at relieving us of these.          
Even when our whole mind is filled with one subject, when our hearts         
are rent by bitter grief, or when some task has been taxing our mental       
capacity to the utmost, the dream either gives us something entirely         
alien, or it selects for its combinations only a few elements of             
reality; or it merely enters into the key of our mood, and                   
symbolizes reality." J. H. Fichte (I. 541) speaks in precisely the           
same sense of supplementary dreams, calling them one of the secret,          
self-healing benefits of the psyche. L. Strumpell expresses himself to       
the same effect in his Natur und Entstehung der Traume, a study              
which is deservedly held in high esteem. "He who dreams turns his back       
upon the world of waking consciousness" (p. 16); "In the dream the           
memory of the orderly content of waking consciousness and its normal         
behaviour is almost entirely lost" (p. 17); "The almost complete and         
unencumbered isolation of the psyche in the dream from the regular           
normal content and course of the waking state..." (p. 19).                   
  Yet the overwhelming majority of writers on the subject have adopted       
the contrary view of the relation of the dream to waking life. Thus          
Haffner (p. 19): "To begin with, the dream continues the waking              
life. Our dreams always connect themselves with such ideas as have           
shortly before been present in our consciousness. Careful                    
examination will nearly always detect a thread by which the dream            
has linked itself to the experiences of the previous day." Weygandt          
(p. 6) flatly contradicts the statement of Burdach. "For it may              
often be observed, apparently indeed in the great majority of                
dreams, that they lead us directly back into everyday life, instead of       
releasing us from it." Maury (p. 56) expresses the same idea in a            
concise formula: "Nous revons de ce que nous avons vu, dit, desire, ou       
fait." * Jessen, in his Psychologie, published in 1855 (p. 530), is          
rather more explicit: "The content of dreams is always more or less          
determined by the personality, the age, sex, station in life,                
education and habits, and by the events and experiences of the whole         
past life of the individual."                                                
-                                                                            
  * We dream of what we have seen, said, desired, or done.                   
-                                                                            
  The philosopher, I. G. E. Maas, adopts the most unequivocal attitude       
in respect of this question (Uber die Leidenschaften, 1805):                 
"Experience corroborates our assertion that we dream most frequently         
of those things toward which our warmest passions are directed. This         
shows us that our passions must influence the generation of our              
dreams. The ambitious man dreams of the laurels which he has won             
(perhaps only in imagination), or has still to win, while the lover          
occupies himself, in his dreams, with the object of his dearest              
hopes.... All the sensual desires and loathings which slumber in the         
heart, if they are stimulated by any cause, may combine with other           
ideas and give rise to a dream; or these ideas may mingle in an              
already existing dream." *                                                   
-                                                                            
  * Communicated by Winterstein to the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse.       
-                                                                            
  The ancients entertained the same idea concerning the dependence           
of the dream-content on life. I will quote Radestock (p. 139): "When         
Xerxes, before his expedition against Greece, was dissuaded from his         
resolution by good counsel, but was again and again incited by               
dreams to undertake it, one of the old, rational dream-interpreters of       
the Persians, Artabanus, told him, and very appropriately, that              
dream-images for the most part contain that of which one has been            
thinking in the waking state."                                               
  In the didactic poem of Lucretius, On the Nature of Things (IV.            
962), there occurs this passage:                                             
  "Et quo quisque fere studio devinctus adhaeret, aut quibus in              
rebus multum sumus ante morati atque in ea ratione fuit contenta magis       
mens, in somnis eadem plerumque videmur obire; causidici causas              
agere et componere leges, induperatores pugnare ac proelia                   
obire,"... etc., etc. * Cicero (De Divinatione, II. LXVII) says, in          
a similar strain, as does also Maury many centuries later:                   
"Maximeque 'reliquiae' rerum earum moventur in animis et agitantur, de       
quibus vigilantes aut cogitavimus aut egimus." *(2)                          
-                                                                            
  * And whatever be the pursuit to which one clings with devotion,           
whatever the things on which we have been occupied much in the past,         
the mind being thus more intent upon that pursuit, it is generally the       
same things that we seem to encounter in dreams; pleaders to plead           
their cause and collate laws, generals to contend and engage battle.         
  *(2) And especially the "remnant" of our waking thoughts and deeds         
move and stir within the soul.                                               
-                                                                            
  The contradiction between these two views concerning the relation          
between dream life and waking life seems indeed irresolvable. Here           
we may usefully cite the opinion of F. W. Hildebrandt (1875), who held       
that on the whole the peculiarities of the dream can only be described       
as "a series of contrasts which apparently amount to contradictions"         
(p. 8). "The first of these contrasts is formed by the strict                
isolation or seclusion of the dream from true and actual life on the         
one hand, and on the other hand by the continuous encroachment of            
the one upon the other, and the constant dependence of the one upon          
the other. The dream is something absolutely divorced from the reality       
experienced during the waking state; one may call it an existence            
hermetically sealed up and insulated from real life by an unbridgeable       
chasm. It frees us from reality, blots out the normal recollection           
of reality, and sets us in another world and a totally different life,       
which fundamentally has nothing in common with real life...."                
Hildebrandt then asserts that in falling asleep our whole being,             
with its forms of existence, disappears "as through an invisible             
trapdoor." In one's dream one is perhaps making a voyage to St. Helena       
in order to offer the imprisoned Napoleon an exquisite vintage of            
Moselle. One is most affably received by the ex-emperor, and one feels       
almost sorry when, on waking, the interesting illusion is destroyed.         
But let us now compare the situation existing in the dream with the          
actual reality. The dreamer has never been a wine-merchant, and has no       
desire to become one. He has never made a sea-voyage, and St. Helena         
is the last place in the world that he would choose as the destination       
of such a voyage. The dreamer feels no sympathy for Napoleon, but on         
the contrary a strong patriotic aversion. And lastly, the dreamer            
was not yet among the living when Napoleon died on the island of St.         
Helena; so that it was beyond the realms of possibility that he should       
have had any personal relations with Napoleon. The dream-experience          
thus appears as something entirely foreign, interpolated between two         
mutually related and successive periods of time.                             
  "Nevertheless," continues Hildebrandt, "the apparent contrary is           
just as true and correct. I believe that side by side with this              
seclusion and insulation there may still exist the most intimate             
interrelation. We may therefore justly say: Whatever the dream may           
offer us, it derives its material from reality, and from the psychic         
life centered upon this reality. However extraordinary the dream may         
seem, it can never detach itself from the real world, and its most           
sublime as well as its most ridiculous constructions must always             
borrow their elementary material either from that which our eyes             
have beheld in the outer world, or from that which has already found a       
place somewhere in our waking thoughts; in other words, it must be           
taken from that which we have already experienced, either                    
objectively or subjectively."                                                
                                                                             
I|B                                                                          
             B. The Material of Dreams- Memory in Dreams                     
-                                                                            
  That all the material composing the content of a dream is somehow          
derived from experience, that it is reproduced or remembered in the          
dream- this at least may be accepted as an incontestable fact. Yet           
it would be wrong to assume that such a connection between the               
dream-content and reality will be easily obvious from a comparison           
between the two. On the contrary, the connection must be carefully           
sought, and in quite a number of cases it may for a long while elude         
discovery. The reason for this is to be found in a number of                 
peculiarities evinced by the faculty of memory in dreams; which              
peculiarities, though generally observed, have hitherto defied               
explanation. It will be worth our while to examine these                     
characteristics exhaustively.                                                
  To begin with, it happens that certain material appears in the             
dream-content which cannot be subsequently recognized, in the waking         
state, as being part of one's knowledge and experience. One                  
remembers clearly enough having dreamed of the thing in question,            
but one cannot recall the actual experience or the time of its               
occurrence. The dreamer is therefore in the dark as to the source            
which the dream has tapped, and is even tempted to believe in an             
independent productive activity on the part of the dream, until, often       
long afterwards, a fresh episode restores the memory of that former          
experience, which had been given up for lost, and so reveals the             
source of the dream. One is therefore forced to admit that in the            
dream something was known and remembered that cannot be remembered           
in the waking state. *                                                       
-                                                                            
  * Vaschide even maintains that it has often been observed that in          
one's dreams one speaks foreign languages more fluently and with             
greater purity than in the waking state.                                     
-                                                                            
  Delboeuf relates from his own experience an especially impressive          
example of this kind. He saw in his dream the courtyard of his house         
covered with snow, and found there two little lizards, half-frozen and       
buried in the snow. Being a lover of animals he picked them up, warmed       
them, and put them back into the hole in the wall which was reserved         
especially for them. He also gave them a few fronds of a little fern         
which was growing on the wall, and of which he knew they were very           
fond. In the dream he knew the name of the plant; Asplenium ruta             
muralis. The dream continued returning after a digression to the             
lizards, and to his astonishment Delboeuf saw two other little lizards       
falling upon what was left of the ferns. On turning his eyes to the          
open fields he saw a fifth and a sixth lizard making for the hole in         
the wall, and finally the whole road was covered by a procession of          
lizards, all wandering in the same direction.                                
  In his waking state Delboeuf knew only a few Latin names of                
plants, and nothing of any Asplenium. To his great surprise he               
discovered that a fern of this name did actually exist, and that the         
correct name was Asplenium ruta muraria, which the dream had                 
slightly distorted. An accidental coincidence was of course                  
inconceivable; yet where he got his knowledge of the name Asplenium in       
the dream remained a mystery to him.                                         
  The dream occurred in 1862. Sixteen years later, while at the              
house of one of his friends, the philosopher noticed a small album           
containing dried plants, such as are sold as souvenirs to visitors           
in many parts of Switzerland. A sudden recollection came to him: he          
opened the herbarium, discovered therein the Asplenium of his dream,         
and recognized his own handwriting in the accompanying Latin name. The       
connection could now be traced. In 1860, two years before the date           
of the lizard dream, one of his friend's sisters, while on her               
wedding-journey, had paid a visit to Delboeuf. She had with her at the       
time this very album, which was intended for her brother, and Delboeuf       
had taken the trouble to write, at the dictation of a botanist, the          
Latin name under each of the dried plants.                                   
  The same good fortune which gave this example its unusual value            
enabled Delboeuf to trace yet another portion of this dream to its           
forgotten source. One day in 1877 he came upon an old volume of an           
illustrated periodical, in which he found the whole procession of            
lizards pictured, just as he had dreamt of it in 1862. The volume bore       
the date 1861, and Delboeuf remembered that he had subscribed to the         
journal since its first appearance.                                          
  That dreams have at their disposal recollections which are                 
inaccessible to the waking state is such a remarkable and                    
theoretically important fact that I should like to draw attention to         
the point by recording yet other hypermnesic dreams. Maury relates           
that for some time the word Mussidan used to occur to him during the         
day. He knew it to be the name of a French city, but that was all. One       
night he dreamed of a conversation with a certain person, who told him       
that she came from Mussidan, and, in answer to his question as to            
where the city was, she replied: "Mussidan is the principal town of          
a district in the department of Dordogne." On waking, Maury gave no          
credence to the information received in his dream; but the gazetteer         
showed it to be perfectly correct. In this case the superior knowledge       
of the dreamer was confirmed, but it was not possible to trace the           
forgotten source of this knowledge.                                          
  Jessen (p. 55) refers to a very similar incident, the period of            
which is more remote. "Among others we may here mention the dream of         
the elder Scaliger (Hennings, l.c., p. 300), who wrote a poem in             
praise of the famous men of Verona, and to whom a man named                  
Brugnolus appeared in a dream, complaining that he had been neglected.       
Though Scaliger could not remember that he had heard of the man, he          
wrote some verses in his honour, and his son learned subsequently that       
a certain Brugnolus had at one time been famed in Verona as a critic."       
  A hypermnesic dream, especially remarkable for the fact that a             
memory not at first recalled was afterwards recognized in a dream            
which followed the first, is narrated by the Marquis d'Hervey de St.         
Denis: * "I once dreamed of a young woman with fair golden hair,             
whom I saw chatting with my sister as she showed her a piece of              
embroidery. In my dream she seemed familiar to me; I thought,                
indeed, that I had seen her repeatedly. After waking, her face was           
still quite vividly before me, but I was absolutely unable to                
recognize it. I fell asleep again; the dream-picture repeated                
itself. In this new dream I addressed the golden-haired lady and asked       
her whether I had not had the pleasure of meeting her somewhere. 'Of         
course,' she replied; 'don't you remember the bathing-place at               
Pornic?' Thereupon I awoke, and I was then able to recall with               
certainty and in detail the incidents with which this charming               
dream-face was connected."                                                   
-                                                                            
  * See Vaschide, p. 232.                                                    
-                                                                            
  The same author * recorded that a musician of his acquaintance             
once heard in a dream a melody which was absolutely new to him. Not          
until many years later did he find it in an old collection of                
musical compositions, though still he could not remember ever having         
seen it before.                                                              
-                                                                            
  * Vaschide, p. 233                                                         
-                                                                            
  I believe that Myers has published a whole collection of such              
hypermnesic dreams in the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical           
Research, but these, unfortunately, are inaccessible to me. I think          
everyone who occupies himself with dreams will recognize, as a very          
common phenomenon, the fact that a dream will give proof of the              
knowledge and recollection of matters of which the dreamer, in his           
waking state, did not imagine himself to be cognizant. In my                 
analytic investigations of nervous patients, of which I shall speak          
later, I find that it happens many times every week that I am able           
to convince them, from their dreams, that they are perfectly well            
acquainted with quotations, obscene expressions, etc., and make use of       
them in their dreams, although they have forgotten them in their             
waking state. I shall here cite an innocent example of                       
dream-hypermnesia, because it was easy to trace the source of the            
knowledge which was accessible only in the dream.                            
  A patient dreamed amongst other things (in a rather long dream) that       
he ordered a kontuszowka in a cafe, and after telling me this he asked       
me what it could be, as he had never heard the name before. I was able       
to tell him that kontuszowka was a Polish liqueur, which he could            
not have invented in his dream, as the name had long been familiar           
to me from the advertisements. At first the patient would not                
believe me, but some days later, after he had allowed his dream of the       
cafe to become a reality, he noticed the name on a signboard at a            
street corner which for some months he had been passing at least twice       
a day.                                                                       
  I have learned from my own dreams how largely the discovery of the         
origin of individual dream-elements may be dependent on chance.              
Thus, for some years before I had thought of writing this book, I            
was haunted by the picture of a church tower of fairly simple                
construction, which I could not remember ever having seen. I then            
suddenly recognized it, with absolute certainty, at a small station          
between Salzburg and Reichenhall. This was in the late nineties, and         
the first time I had travelled over this route was in 1886. In later         
years, when I was already busily engaged in the study of dreams, I was       
quite annoyed by the frequent recurrence of the dream-image of a             
certain peculiar locality. I saw, in definite orientation to my own          
person- on my left- a dark space in which a number of grotesque              
sandstone figures stood out. A glimmering recollection, which I did          
not quite believe, told me that it was the entrance to a                     
beer-cellar; but I could explain neither the meaning nor the origin of       
this dream-picture. In 1907 I happened to go to Padua, which, to my          
regret, I had been unable to visit since 1895. My first visit to             
this beautiful university city had been unsatisfactory. I had been           
unable to see Giotto's frescoes in the church of the Madonna dell'           
Arena: I set out for the church, but turned back on being informed           
that it was closed for the day. On my second visit, twelve years             
later, I thought I would compensate myself for this disappointment,          
and before doing anything else I set out for Madonna dell' Arena. In         
the street leading to it, on my left, probably at the spot where I had       
turned back in 1895, I discovered the place, with its sandstone              
figures, which I had so often seen in my dream. It was, in fact, the         
entrance to a restaurant garden.                                             
  One of the sources from which dreams draw material for reproduction-       
material of which some part is not recalled or utilized in our               
waking thoughts- is to be found in childhood. Here I will cite only          
a few of the authors who have observed and emphasized this fact:             
  Hildebrandt (p. 23): "It has already been expressly admitted that          
a dream sometimes brings back to the mind, with a wonderful power of         
reproduction, remote and even forgotten experiences from the                 
earliest periods of one's life."                                             
  Strumpell (p. 40): "The subject becomes more interesting still             
when we remember how the dream sometimes drags out, as it were, from         
the deepest and densest psychic deposits which later years have              
piled upon the earliest experiences of childhood, the pictures of            
certain persons, places and things, quite intact, and in all their           
original freshness. This is confined not merely to such impressions as       
were vividly perceived at the time of their occurrence, or were              
associated with intense psychological values, to recur later in the          
dream as actual reminiscences which give pleasure to the waking              
mind. On the contrary, the depths of the dream-memory rather contain         
such images of persons, places, things and early experiences as either       
possessed but little consciousness and no psychic value whatsoever, or       
have long since lost both, and therefore appear totally strange and          
unknown, both in the dream and in the waking state, until their              
early origin is revealed."                                                   
  Volkelt (p. 119): "It is especially to be remarked how readily             
infantile and youthful reminiscences enter into our dreams. What we          
have long ceased to think about, what has long since lost all                
importance for us, is constantly recalled by the dream."                     
  The control which the dream exercises over material from our               
childhood, most of which, as is well known, falls into the lacunae           
of our conscious memory, is responsible for the production of                
interesting hypermnesic dreams, of which I shall cite a few more             
examples.                                                                    
  Maury relates (p. 92) that as a child he often went from his               
native city, Meaux, to the neighbouring Trilport, where his father was       
superintending the construction of a bridge. One night a dream               
transported him to Trilport and he was once more playing in the              
streets there. A man approached him, wearing a sort of uniform.              
Maury asked him his name, and he introduced himself, saying that his         
name was C, and that he was a bridge-guard. On waking, Maury, who            
still doubted the actuality of the reminiscence, asked his old               
servant, who had been with him in his childhood, whether she                 
remembered a man of this name. "Of course," was the reply; "he used to       
be watchman on the bridge which your father was building then."              
  Maury records another example, which demonstrates no less clearly          
the reliability of the reminiscences of childhood that emerge in our         
dreams. M. F., who as a child had lived in Montbrison, decided,              
after an absence of twenty-five years, to visit his home and the old         
friends of his family. The night before his departure he dreamt that         
he had reached his destination, and that near Montbrison he met a            
man whom he did not know by sight, and who told him that he was M. F.,       
a friend of his father's. The dreamer remembered that as a child he          
had known a gentleman of this name, but on waking he could no longer         
recall his features. Several days later, having actually arrived at          
Montbrison, he found once more the locality of his dream, which he had       
thought was unknown to him, and there he met a man whom he at once           
recognized as the M. F. of his dream, with only this difference,             
that the real person was very much older than his dream-image.               
  Here I might relate one of my own dreams, in which the recalled            
impression takes the form of an association. In my dream I saw a man         
whom I recognized, while dreaming, as the doctor of my native town.          
His face was not distinct, but his features were blended with those of       
one of my schoolmasters, whom I still meet from time to time. What           
association there was between the two persons I could not discover           
on waking, but upon questioning my mother concerning the doctor I            
learned that he was a one-eyed man. The schoolmaster, whose image in         
my dream obscured that of the physician, had also only one eye. I            
had not seen the doctor for thirty-eight years, and as far as I know I       
had never thought of him in my waking state, although a scar on my           
chin might have reminded me of his professional attentions.                  
  As though to counterbalance the excessive part which is played in          
our dreams by the impressions of childhood, many authors assert that         
the majority of dreams reveal elements drawn from our most recent            
experiences. Robert (p. 46) even declares that the normal dream              
generally occupies itself only with the impressions of the last few          
days. We shall find, indeed, that the theory of the dream advanced           
by Robert absolutely requires that our oldest impressions should be          
thrust into the background, and our most recent ones brought to the          
fore. However, the fact here stated by Robert is correct; this I can         
confirm from my own investigations. Nelson, an American author,              
holds that the impressions received in a dream most frequently date          
from the second day before the dream, or from the third day before it,       
as though the impressions of the day immediately preceding the dream         
were not sufficiently weakened and remote.                                   
  Many authors who are unwilling to question the intimate connection         
between the dream-content and the waking state have been struck by the       
fact that the impressions which have intensely occupied the waking           
mind appear in dreams only after they have been to some extent removed       
from the mental activities of the day. Thus, as a rule, we do not            
dream of a beloved person who is dead while we are still overwhelmed         
with sorrow (Delage). Yet Miss Hallam, one of the most recent                
observers, has collected examples which reveal the very opposite             
behaviour in this respect, and upholds the claims of psychological           
individuality in this matter.                                                
  The third, most remarkable, and at the same time most                      
incomprehensible, peculiarity of memory in dreams is shown in the            
selection of the material reproduced; for here it is not, as in the          
waking state, only the most significant things that are held to be           
worth remembering, but also the most indifferent and insignificant           
details. In this connection I will quote those authors who have              
expressed their surprise in the most emphatic language.                      
  Hildebrandt (p. 11): "For it is a remarkable fact that dreams do           
not, as a rule, take their elements from important and far-reaching          
events, or from the intense and urgent interests of the preceding day,       
but from unimportant incidents, from the worthless odds and ends of          
recent experience or of the remoter past. The most shocking death in         
our family, the impressions of which keep us awake long into the             
night, is obliterated from our memories until the first moment of            
waking brings it back to us with distressing force. On the other hand,       
the wart on the forehead of a passing stranger, to whom we did not           
give a moment's thought once he was out of sight, finds a place in our       
dreams."                                                                     
  Strumpell (p. 39) speaks of "cases in which the analysis of a              
dream brings to light elements which, although derived from the              
experiences of yesterday or the day before yesterday, were yet so            
unimportant and worthless for the waking state that they were                
forgotten soon after they were experienced. Some experiences may be          
the chance-heard remarks of other persons, or their superficially            
observed actions, or, fleeting perceptions of things or persons, or          
isolated phrases that we have read, etc."                                    
  Havelock Ellis (p. 727): "The profound emotions of waking life,            
the questions and problems on which we spend our chief voluntary             
mental energy, are not those which usually present themselves at             
once to dream-consciousness. It is, so far as the immediate past is          
concerned, mostly the trifling, the incidental, the 'forgotten'              
impressions of daily life which reappear in our dreams. The psychic          
activities that are awake most intensely are those that sleep most           
profoundly."                                                                 
  It is precisely in connection with these characteristics of memory         
in dreams that Binz (p. 45) finds occasion to express                        
dissatisfaction with the explanations of dreams which he himself had         
favoured: "And the normal dream raises similar questions. Why do we          
not always dream of mental impressions of the day before, instead of         
going back, without any perceptible reason, to the almost forgotten          
past, now lying far behind us? Why, in a dream, does consciousness           
so often revive the impression of indifferent memory-pictures, while         
the cerebral cells that bear the most sensitive records of                   
experience remain for the most part inert and numb, unless an acute          
revival during the waking state has quite recently excited them?"            
  We can readily understand how the strange preference shown by the          
dream-memory for the indifferent and therefore disregarded details           
of daily experience must commonly lead us altogether to overlook the         
dependence of dreams on the waking state, or must at least make it           
difficult for us to prove this dependence in any individual case. Thus       
it happened that in the statistical treatment of her own and her             
friend's dream, Miss Whiton Calkins found that 11 per cent of the            
entire number showed no relation to the waking state. Hildebrandt            
was certainly correct in his assertion that all our dream-images could       
be genetically explained if we devoted enough time and material to the       
tracing of their origin. To be sure, he calls this "a most tedious and       
thankless job. For most often it would lead us to ferret out all sorts       
of psychically worthless things from the remotest corners of our             
storehouse of memories, and to bring to light all sorts of quite             
indifferent events of long ago from the oblivion which may have              
overtaken them an hour after their occurrence." I must, however,             
express my regret that this discerning author refrained from following       
the path which at first sight seemed so unpromising, for it would have       
led him directly to the central point of the explanation of dreams.          
  The behaviour of memory in dreams is surely most significant for any       
theory of memory whatsoever. It teaches us that "nothing which we have       
once psychically possessed is ever entirely lost" (Scholz, p. 34);           
or as Delboeuf puts it, "que toute impression, meme la plus                  
insignificante, laisse une trace inalterable, indifiniment susceptible       
de reparaitre au jour"; * a conclusion to which we are urged by so           
many other pathological manifestations of mental life. Let us bear           
in mind this extraordinary capacity of the memory in dreams, in              
order the more keenly to realize the contradiction which has to be put       
forward in certain dream-theories to be mentioned later, which seek to       
explain the absurdities and incoherences of dreams by a partial              
forgetting of what we have known during the day.                             
-                                                                            
  * That every impression, even the most insignificant, leaves an            
ineradicable mark, indefinitely capable of reappearing by day.               
-                                                                            
  It might even occur to one to reduce the phenomenon of dreaming to         
that of remembering, and to regard the dream as the manifestation of a       
reproductive activity, unresting even at night, which is an end in           
itself. This would seem to be in agreement with statements such as           
those made by Pilcz, according to which definite relations between the       
time of dreaming and the contents of a dream may be demonstrated,            
inasmuch as the impressions reproduced by the dream in deep sleep            
belong to the remote past, while those reproduced towards morning            
are of recent origin. But such a conception is rendered improbable           
from the outset by the manner in which the dream deals with the              
material to be remembered. Strumpell rightly calls our attention to          
the fact that repetitions of experiences do not occur in dreams. It is       
true that a dream will make a beginning in that direction, but the           
next link is wanting; it appears in a different form, or is replaced         
by something entirely novel. The dream gives us only fragmentary             
reproductions; this is so far the rule that it permits of a                  
theoretical generalization. Still, there are exceptions in which an          
episode is repeated in a dream as completely as it can be reproduced         
by our waking memory. Delboeuf relates of one of his university              
colleagues that a dream of his repeated, in all its details, a               
perilous drive in which he escaped accident as if by miracle. Miss           
Calkins mentions two dreams the contents of which exactly reproduced         
an experience of the previous day, and in a later chapter I shall have       
occasion to give an example that came to my knowledge of a childish          
experience which recurred unchanged in a dream. *                            
-                                                                            
  * From subsequent experience I am able to state that it is not at          
all rare to find in dreams reproductions of simple and unimportant           
occupations of everyday life, such as packing trunks, preparing food         
in the kitchen, etc., but in such dreams the dreamer himself                 
emphasizes not the character of the recollection but its "reality"- "I       
really did this during the day."                                             
                                                                             
I|C                                                                          
                     C. Dream-Stimuli and Sources                            
-                                                                            
  What is meant by dream-stimuli and dream-sources may be explained by       
a reference to the popular saying: "Dreams come from the stomach."           
This notion covers a theory which conceives the dream as resulting           
from a disturbance of sleep. We should not have dreamed if some              
disturbing element had not come into play during our sleep, and the          
dream is the reaction against this disturbance.                              
  The discussion of the exciting causes of dreams occupies a great           
deal of space in the literature of dreams. It is obvious that this           
problem could have made its appearance only after dreams had become an       
object of biological investigation. The ancients, who conceived of           
dreams as divine inspirations, had no need to look for stimuli; for          
them a dream was due to the will of divine or demonic powers, and            
its content was the product of their special knowledge and                   
intention. Science, however, immediately raised the question whether         
the stimuli of dreams were single or multiple, and this in turn led to       
the consideration whether the causal explanation of dreams belonged to       
the region of psychology or to that of physiology. Most authors appear       
to assume that disturbance of sleep, and hence dreams, may arise             
from various causes, and that physical as well as mental stimuli may         
play the part of dream-excitants. Opinions differ widely in preferring       
this or the other factor as the cause of dreams, and in classifying          
them in the order of importance.                                             
  Whenever the sources of dreams are completely enumerated they fall         
into the following four categories, which have also been employed in         
the classification of dreams: (1) external (objective) sensory               
stimuli; (2) internal (subjective) sensory stimuli; (3) internal             
(organic) physical stimuli; (4) Purely psychical sources of                  
excitation.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  1. External sensory stimuli                                                
-                                                                            
  The younger Strumpell, the son of the philosopher, whose work on           
dreams has already more than once served us as a guide in                    
considering the problems of dreams, has, as is well known, recorded          
his observations of a patient afflicted with general anaesthesia of          
the skin and with paralysis of several of the higher sensory organs.         
This man would laps into sleep whenever the few remaining sensory            
paths between himself and the outer world were closed. When we wish to       
fall asleep we are accustomed to strive for a condition similar to           
that obtaining in Strumpell's experiment. We close the most                  
important sensory portals, the eyes, and we endeavour to protect the         
other senses from all stimuli or from any change of the stimuli              
already acting upon them. We then fall asleep, although our                  
preparations are never wholly successful. For we can never                   
completely insulate the sensory organs, nor can we entirely abolish          
the excitability of the sensory organs themselves. That we may at            
any time be awakened by intenser stimuli should prove to us "that            
the mind has remained in constant communication with the external            
world even during sleep." The sensory stimuli that reach us during           
sleep may easily become the source of dreams.                                
  There are a great many stimuli of this nature, ranging from those          
unavoidable stimuli which are proper to the state of sleep or                
occasionally admitted by it, to those fortuitous stimuli which are           
calculated to wake the sleeper. Thus a strong light may fall upon            
the eyes, a noise may be heard, or an odour may irritate the mucous          
membranes of the nose. In our unintentional movements during sleep           
we may lay bare parts of the body, and thus expose them to a sensation       
of cold, or by a change of position we may excite sensations of              
pressure and touch. A mosquito may bite us, or a slight nocturnal            
mischance may simultaneously attack more than one sense-organ.               
Observers have called attention to a whole series of dreams in which         
the stimulus ascertained on waking and some part of the                      
dream-content corresponded to such a degree that the stimulus could be       
recognized as the source of the dream.                                       
  I shall here cite a number of such dreams, collected by Jessen (p.         
527), which are traceable to more or less accidental objective sensory       
stimuli. Every noise indistinctly perceived gives rise to                    
corresponding dream-representations; the rolling of thunder takes us         
into the thick of battle, the crowing of a cock may be transformed           
into human shrieks of terror, and the creaking of a door may conjure         
up dreams of burglars breaking into the house. When one of our               
blankets slips off us at night we may dream that we are walking              
about naked, or falling into water. If we lie diagonally across the          
bed with our feet extending beyond the edge, we may dream of                 
standing on the brink of a terrifying precipice, or of falling from          
a great height. Should our head accidentally get under the pillow we         
may imagine a huge rock overhanging us and about to crush us under its       
weight. An accumulation of semen produces voluptuous dreams, and local       
pains give rise to ideas of suffering ill-treatment, of hostile              
attacks, or of accidental bodily injuries....                                
  "Meier (Versuch einer Erklarung des Nachtwandelns, Halle, 1758, p.         
33) once dreamed of being attacked by several men who threw him flat         
on the ground and drove a stake into the earth between his first and         
second toes. While imagining this in his dream he suddenly awoke and         
felt a piece of straw sticking between his toes. The same author,            
according to Hemmings (Von den Traumen und Nachtwandlern, Weimar,            
1784, p. 258), "dreamed on another occasion, when his nightshirt was         
rather too tight round his neck, that he was being hanged. In his            
youth Hoffbauer dreamed of having fallen from a high wall, and               
found, on waking, that the bedstead had come apart, and that he had          
actually fallen on to the floor.... Gregory relates that he once             
applied a hot-water bottle to his feet, and dreamed of taking a trip         
to the summit of Mount Etna, where he found the heat of the soil             
almost unbearable. After having a blister applied to his head, another       
man dreamed of being scalped by Indians; still another, whose shirt          
was damp, dreamed that he was dragged through a stream. An attack of         
gout caused a patient to believe that he was in the hands of the             
Inquisition, and suffering the pains of torture (Macnish)."                  
  The argument that there is a resemblance between the                       
dream-stimulus and the dream-content would be confirmed if, by a             
systematic induction of stimuli, we should succeed in producing dreams       
corresponding to these stimuli. According to Macnish such                    
experiments had already been made by Giron de Buzareingues. "He left         
his knee exposed and dreamed of travelling on a mail-coach by night.         
He remarked, in this connection, that travellers were well aware how         
cold the knees become in a coach at night. On another occasion he left       
the back of his head uncovered, and dreamed that he was taking part in       
a religious ceremony in the open air. In the country where he lived it       
was customary to keep the head always covered except on occasions of         
this kind."                                                                  
  Maury reports fresh observation on self-induced dreams of his own.         
(A number of other experiments were unsuccessful.)                           
  1. He was tickled with a feather on his lips and on the tip of his         
nose. He dreamed of an awful torture, viz., that a mask of pitch was         
stuck to his face and then forcibly torn off, bringing the skin with         
it.                                                                          
  2. Scissors were whetted against a pair of tweezers. He heard              
bells ringing, then sounds of tumult which took him back to the days         
of the Revolution of 1848.                                                   
  3. Eau de Cologne was held to his nostrils. He found himself in            
Cairo, in the shop of Johann Maria Farina. This was followed by              
fantastic adventures which he was not able to recall.                        
  4. His neck was lightly pinched. He dreamed that a blister was being       
applied, and thought of a doctor who had treated him in childhood.           
  5. A hot iron was brought near his face. He dreamed that                   
chauffeurs * had broken into the house, and were forcing the occupants       
to give up their money by thrusting their feet into braziers. The            
Duchesse d'Abrantes, whose secretary he imagined himself to be then          
entered the room.                                                            
-                                                                            
  * Chauffeurs were bands of robbers in the Vendee who resorted to           
this form of torture.                                                        
-                                                                            
  6. A drop of water was allowed to fall on to his forehead. He              
imagined himself in Italy, perspiring heavily, and drinking the              
white wine of Orvieto.                                                       
  7. When the light of a candle screened with red paper was allowed to       
fall on his face, he dreamed of thunder, of heat, and of a storm at          
sea which he once witnessed in the English Channel.                          
  Hervey, Weygandt, and others have made attempts to produce dreams          
experimentally.                                                              
  Many have observed the striking skill of the dream in interweaving         
into its structure sudden impressions from the outer world, in such          
a manner as to represent a gradually approaching catastrophe                 
(Hildebrandt). "In former years," this author relates, "I occasionally       
made use of an alarm-clock in order to wake punctually at a certain          
hour in the morning. It probably happened hundreds of times that the         
sound of this instrument fitted into an apparently very long and             
connected dream, as though the entire dream had been especially              
designed for it, as though it found in this sound its appropriate            
and logically indispensable climax, its inevitable denouement."              
  I shall presently have occasion to cite three of these alarm-clock         
dreams in a different connection.                                            
  Volkelt (p. 68) relates: "A composer once dreamed that he was              
teaching a class, and was just explaining something to his pupils.           
When he had finished he turned to one of the boys with the question:         
'Did you understand me?' The boy cried out like one possessed 'Oh,           
ja!' Annoyed by this, he reprimanded his pupil for shouting. But now         
the entire class was screaming 'Orja,' then 'Eurjo,' and finally             
'Feuerjo.' He was then aroused by the actual fire alarm in the               
street."                                                                     
  Garnier (Traite des facultes de l'ame, 1865), on the authority of          
Radestock, relates that Napoleon I, while sleeping in a carriage,            
was awakened from a dream by an explosion which took him back to the         
crossing of the Tagliamento and the bombardment of the Austrians, so         
that he started up, crying, "We have been undermined."                       
  The following dream of Maury's has become celebrated: He was ill           
in bed; his mother was sitting beside him. He dreamed of the Reign           
of Terror during the Revolution. He witnessed some terrible scenes           
of murder, and finally he himself was summoned before the Tribunal.          
There he saw Robespierre, Marat, Fouquier-Tinville, and all the              
sorry heroes of those terrible days; he had to give an account of            
himself, and after all manner of incidents which did not fix                 
themselves in his memory, he was sentenced to death. Accompanied by an       
enormous crowd, he was led to the place of execution. He mounted the         
scaffold; the executioner tied him to the plank, it tipped over, and         
the knife of the guillotine fell. He felt his head severed from his          
trunk, and awakened in terrible anxiety, only to find that the               
head-board of the bed had fallen, and had actually struck the cervical       
vertebrae just where the knife of the guillotine would have fallen.          
  This dream gave rise to an interesting discussion, initiated by Le         
Lorrain and Egger in the Revue Philosophique, as to whether, and             
how, it was possible for the dreamer to crowd together an amount of          
dream-content apparently so large in the short space of time                 
elapsing between the perception of the waking stimulus and the               
moment of actual waking.                                                     
  Examples of this nature show that objective stimuli occurring in           
sleep are among the most firmly-established of all the sources of            
dreams; they are, indeed, the only stimuli of which the layman knows         
anything whatever. If we ask an educated person who is not familiar          
with the literature of dreams how dreams originate, he is certain to         
reply by a reference to a case known to him in which a dream has             
been explained after waking by a recognized objective stimulus.              
Science, however, cannot stop here, but is incited to further                
investigation by the observation that the stimulus influencing the           
senses during sleep does not appear in the dream at all in its true          
form, but is replaced by some other representation, which is in some         
way related to it. But the relation existing between the stimulus            
and the resulting dream is, according to Maury, "une affinite                
quelconque mais qui n'est pas unique et exclusive" * (p. 72). If we          
read, for example, three of Hildebrandt's "alarm-clock dreams," we           
shall be compelled to ask why the same casual stimulus evoked so             
many different results, and why just these results and no others.            
-                                                                            
  * A sort of relation which is, however, neither unique nor                 
exclusive.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  (p. 37): "I am taking a walk on a beautiful spring morning. I stroll       
through the green meadows to a neighbouring village, where I see             
numbers of the inhabitants going to church, wearing their best clothes       
and carrying their hymn-books under their arms. I remember that it           
is Sunday, and that the morning service will soon begin. I decide to         
attend it, but as I am rather overheated I think I will wait in the          
churchyard until I am cooler. While reading the various epitaphs, I          
hear the sexton climbing the church-tower, and I see above me the            
 
small bell which is about to ring for the beginning of service. For          
a little while it hangs motionless; then it begins to swing, and             
suddenly its notes resound so clearly and penetratingly that my              
sleep comes to an end. But the notes of the bell come from the               
alarm-clock."                                                                
  "A second combination. It is a bright winter day; the streets are          
deep in snow. I have promised to go on a sleigh-ride, but I have to          
wait some time before I am told that the sleigh is at the door. Now          
I am preparing to get into the sleigh. I put on my furs, the                 
foot-warmer is put in, and at last I have taken my seat. But still           
my departure is delayed. At last the reins are twitched, the horses          
start, and the sleigh bells, now violently shaken, strike up their           
familiar music with a force that instantly tears the gossamer of my          
dream. Again it is only the shrill note of my alarm-clock."                  
  "Yet a third example. I see the kitchen-maid walking along the             
passage to the dining-room, with a pile of several dozen plates. The         
porcelain column in her arms seems to me to be in danger of losing its       
equilibrium. 'Take care,' I exclaim, 'you will drop the whole pile!'         
The usual retort is naturally made- that she is used to such things,         
etc. Meanwhile I continue to follow her with my anxious gaze, and            
behold, at the threshold the fragile plates fall and crash and roll          
across the floor in hundreds of pieces. But I soon perceive that the         
endless din is not really a rattling but a true ringing, and with this       
ringing the dreamer now becomes aware that the alarm-clock has done          
its duty."                                                                   
  The question why the dreaming mind misjudges the nature of the             
objective sensory stimulus has been answered by Strumpell, and in an         
almost identical fashion by Wundt; their explanation is that the             
reaction of the mind to the stimulus attacking sleep is complicated          
and confused by the formation of illusions. A sensory impression is          
recognized by us and correctly interpreted- that is, it is classed           
with the memory-group to which it belongs according to all previous          
experience if the impression is strong, clear, and sufficiently              
prolonged, and if we have sufficient time to submit it to those mental       
processes. But if these conditions are not fulfilled we mistake the          
object which gives rise to the impression, and on the basis of this          
impression we construct an illusion. "If one takes a walk in an open         
field and perceives indistinctly a distant object, it may happen             
that one will at first take it for a horse." On closer inspection            
the image of a cow, resting, may obtrude itself, and the picture may         
finally resolve itself with certainty into a group of people sitting         
on the ground. The impressions which the mind receives during sleep          
from external stimuli are of a similarly indistinct nature; they             
give rise to illusions because the impression evokes a greater or            
lesser number of memory-images, through which it acquires its                
psychic value. As for the question, in which of the many possible            
spheres of memory the corresponding images are aroused, and which of         
the possible associative connections are brought into play, that- to         
quote Strumpell again- is indeterminable, and is left, as it were,           
to the caprices of the mind.                                                 
  Here we may take our choice. We may admit that the laws of                 
dream-formation cannot really be traced any further, and so refrain          
from asking whether or not the interpretation of the illusion evoked         
by the sensory impression depends upon still other conditions; or we         
may assume that the objective sensory stimulus encroaching upon              
sleep plays only a modest role as a dream-source, and that other             
factors determine the choice of the memory-image to be evoked. Indeed,       
on carefully examining Maury's experimentally produced dreams, which I       
have purposely cited in detail, one is inclined to object that his           
investigations trace the origin of only one element of the dreams, and       
that the rest of the dream-content seems too independent and too             
full of detail to be explained by a single requirement, namely, that         
it must correspond with the element experimentally introduced. Indeed,       
one even begins to doubt the illusion theory, and the power of               
objective impressions to shape the dream, when one realizes that             
such impressions are sometimes subjected to the most peculiar and            
far-fetched interpretations in our dreams. Thus M. Simon tells of a          
dream in which he saw persons of gigantic stature * seated at a table,       
and heard distinctly the horrible clattering produced by the impact of       
their jaws as they chewed their food. On waking he heard the clatter         
of a horse's hooves as it galloped past his window. If in this case          
the sound of the horse's hooves had revived ideas from the                   
memory-sphere of Gulliver's Travels, the sojourn with the giants of          
Brobdingnag, and the virtuous horse-like creatures- as I should              
perhaps interpret the dream without any assistance on the author's           
part- ought not the choice of a memory-sphere so alien to the stimulus       
to be further elucidated by other motives?                                   
-                                                                            
  * Gigantic persons in a dream justify the assumption that the              
dream is dealing with a scene from the dreamer's childhood. This             
interpretation of the dream as a reminiscence of Gulliver's Travels          
is, by the way, a good example of how an interpretation should not           
be made. The dream-interpreter should not permit his own                     
intelligence to operate in disregard of the dreamer's impressions.           
-                                                                            
  2. Internal (subjective) sensory stimuli                                   
-                                                                            
  All objections to the contrary notwithstanding, we must admit that         
the role of the objective sensory stimuli as producers of dreams has         
been indisputably established, and if, having regard to their nature         
and their frequency, these stimuli seem perhaps insufficient to              
explain all dream-pictures, this indicates that we should look for           
other dream-sources which act in a similar fashion. I do not know            
where the idea first arose that together with the external sensory           
stimuli the internal (subjective) stimuli should also be considered,         
but as a matter of fact this has been done more or less explicitly           
in all the more recent descriptions of the aetiology of dreams. "I           
believe," says Wundt (p. 363), "that an important part is played in          
dream-illusions by those subjective sensations of sight and hearing          
which are familiar to us in the waking state as a luminous chaos in          
the dark field of the vision, and a ringing, buzzing, etc., of the           
ears, and in especial, subjective irritations of the retina. This            
explains the remarkable tendency of dreams to delude the eyes with           
numbers of similar or identical objects. Thus we see outspread               
before our eyes innumerable birds, butterflies, fishes, coloured             
beads, flowers, etc. Here the luminous dust in the dark field of             
vision has assumed fantastic forms, and the many luminous points of          
which it consists are embodied in our dreams in as many single images,       
which, owing to the mobility of the luminous chaos, are seen as moving       
objects. This is perhaps the reason of the dream's decided                   
preference for the most varied animal forms, for owing to the                
multiplicity of such forms they can readily adapt themselves to the          
subjective luminous images."                                                 
  The subjective sensory stimuli as a source of dreams have the              
obvious advantage that, unlike objective stimuli, they are independent       
of external accidents. They are, so to speak, at the disposal of the         
interpretation whenever they are required. But they are inferior to          
the objective sensory stimuli by the fact that their claim to the role       
of dream-inciters- which observation and experiment have established         
in the case of objective stimuli- can in their case be verified with         
difficulty or not at all. The main proof of the dream-inciting power         
of subjective sensory stimuli is afforded by the so-called                   
hypnogogic hallucinations, which have been described by Johann               
Muller as "phantastic visual manifestations." They are those very            
vivid and changeable pictures which with many people occur                   
constantly during the period of falling asleep, and which may linger         
for a while even after the eyes have been opened. Maury, who was             
very subject to these pictures, made a thorough study of them, and           
maintained that they were related to or rather identical with                
dream-images. This had already been asserted by Johann Muller. Maury         
maintains that a certain psychic passivity is necessary for their            
origin; that it requires a relaxation of the intensity of attention          
(p. 59). But one may perceive a hypnogogic hallucination in any              
frame of mind if one falls into such a lethargy for a moment, after          
which one may perhaps wake up, until this oft-repeated process               
terminates in sleep. According to Maury, if one wakes up shortly after       
such an experience, it is often possible to trace in the dream the           
images which one has perceived before falling asleep as hypnogogic           
hallucinations (p. 134). Thus Maury on one occasion saw a series of          
images of grotesque figures with distorted features and curiously            
dressed hair, which obtruded themselves upon him with incredible             
importunity during the period of falling asleep, and which, upon             
waking, he recalled having seen in his dream. On another occasion,           
while suffering from hunger, because he was subjecting himself to a          
rather strict diet, he saw in one of his hypnogogic states a plate,          
and a hand armed with a fork taking some food from the plate. In his         
dream he found himself at a table abundantly supplied with food, and         
heard the clatter of the diner's forks. On yet another occasion, after       
falling asleep with strained and painful eyes, he had a hypnogogic           
hallucination of microscopically small characters, which he was able         
to decipher, one by one, only with a great effort; and on waking             
from sleep an hour later he recalled a dream in which there was an           
open book with very small letters, which he was obliged to read              
through with laborious effort.                                               
  Not only pictures, but auditory hallucinations of words, names,            
etc., may also occur hypnogogically, and then repeat themselves in the       
dream, like an overture announcing the principal motif of the opera          
which is to follow.                                                          
  A more recent observer of hypnogogic hallucinations, G. Trumbull           
Ladd, follows the same lines as Johann Muller and Maury. By dint of          
practice he succeeded in acquiring the faculty of suddenly arousing          
himself, without opening his eyes, two to five minutes after gradually       
falling asleep. This enabled him to compare the disappearing retinal         
sensations with the dream-images remaining in his memory. He assures         
us that an intimate relation between the two can always be recognized,       
inasmuch as the luminous dots and lines of light spontaneously               
perceived by the retina produce, so to speak, the outline or scheme of       
the psychically perceived dream-images. For example, a dream in              
which he saw before him clearly printed lines, which he read and             
studied, corresponded with a number of luminous spots arranged in            
parallel lines; or, to express it in his own words: The clearly              
printed page resolved itself into an object which appeared to his            
waking perception like part of an actual printed page seen through a         
small hole in a sheet of paper, but at a distance too great to               
permit of its being read. Without in any way underestimating the             
central element of the phenomenon, Ladd believes that hardly any             
visual dream occurs in our minds that is not based on material               
furnished by this internal condition of retinal irritability. This           
is particularly true of dreams which occur shortly after falling             
asleep in a dark room, while dreams occurring in the morning, near the       
period of waking, receive their stimulus from the objective light            
penetrating the eye in a brightly-lit room. The shifting and                 
infinitely variable character of the spontaneous luminous                    
excitations of the retina exactly corresponds with the fitful                
succession of images presented to us in our dreams. If we attach any         
importance to Ladd's observations, we cannot underrate the                   
productiveness of this subjective source of stimuli; for visual              
images, as we know, are the principal constituents of our dreams.            
The share contributed by the other senses, excepting, perhaps, the           
sense of hearing, is relatively insignificant and inconstant.                
-                                                                            
  3. Internal (organic) physical stimuli                                     
-                                                                            
  If we are disposed to look for the sources of dreams not outside but       
inside the organism, we must remember that almost all our internal           
organs, which in a state of health hardly remind us of their                 
existence, may, in states of excitation- as we call them- or in              
disease, become a source of the most painful sensations, and must            
therefore be put on a par with the external excitants of pain and            
sensation. Strumpell, for example, gives expression to a long-familiar       
experience when he declares that "during sleep the psyche becomes            
far more deeply and broadly conscious of its coporality than in the          
waking state, and it is compelled to receive and to be influenced by         
certain stimulating impressions originating in parts of the body,            
and in alterations of the body, of which it is unconscious in the            
waking state." Even Aristotle declares it to be quite possible that          
a dream may draw our attention to incipient morbid conditions which we       
have not noticed in the waking state (owing to the exaggerated               
intensity of the impressions experienced in the dream; and some              
medical authors, who certainly did not believe in the prophetic nature       
of dreams, have admitted the significance of dreams, at least in so          
far as the predicting of disease is concerned. [Cf. M. Simon, p. 31,         
and many earlier writers.] *                                                 
-                                                                            
  * In addition to the diagnostic valuation of dreams (e.g., by              
Hippocrates) mention must also be made of their therapeutic                  
significance in antiquity.                                                   
  Among the Greeks there were dream oracles, which were vouchsafed           
to patients in quest of recovery. The patient betook himself to the          
temple of Apollo or Aesculapius; there he was subjected to various           
ceremonies, bathed, rubbed and perfumed. A state of exaltation               
having been thus induced, he was made to lie down in the temple on the       
skin of a sacrificial ram. He fell asleep and dreamed of remedies,           
which he saw in their natural form, or in symbolic images which the          
priests afterwards interpreted.                                              
  For further references concerning the remedial dreams of the Greeks,       
cf. Lehmann, i, 74; Bouche-Leclerq; Hermann, Gottesd. Altert. d.             
Gr., SS 41; Privataltert. SS 38, 16; Bottinger in Sprengel's Beitr. z.       
Gesch. d. Med., ii, p. 163, et seq.; W. Lloyd, Magnetism and Mesmerism       
in Antiquity, London, 1877; Dollinger, Heidentum und Judentum, p. 130.       
-                                                                            
  Even in our days there seems to be no lack of authenticated examples       
of such diagnostic achievements on the part of dreams. Thus Tissie           
cites from Artigues (Essai sur la valeur semeiologique des Reves)            
the history of a woman of forty-three, who, during several years of          
apparently perfect health, was troubled with anxiety-dreams, and in          
whom a medical examination subsequently revealed an incipient                
affection of the heart, to which she presently succumbed.                    
  Serious derangements of the internal organs clearly excite dreams in       
quite a number of persons. The frequency of anxiety-dreams in diseases       
of the heart and lungs has been generally realized; indeed, this             
function of the dream-life is emphasized by so many writers that I           
shall here content myself with a reference to the literature of the          
subject (Radestock, Spitta, Maury, M. Simon, Tissie). Tissie even            
believes that the diseased organs impress upon the dream-content its         
characteristic features. The dreams of persons suffering from diseases       
of the heart are generally very brief, and end in a terrified                
awakening; death under terrible circumstances almost always find a           
place in their content. Those suffering from diseases of the lungs           
dream of suffocation, of being crushed, and of flight, and a great           
many of them are subject to the familiar nightmare- which, by the way,       
Borner has succeeded in inducing experimentally by lying on the face         
and covering the mouth and nostrils. In digestive disturbances the           
dream contains ideas from the sphere of gustatory enjoyment and              
disgust. Finally, the influence of sexual excitement on the                  
dream-content is obvious enough in everyone's experience, and provides       
the strongest confirmation of the whole theory of dream-instigation by       
organic sensation.                                                           
  Moreover, if we study the literature of dreams it becomes quite            
evident that some writers (Maury, Weygandt) have been led to the study       
of dream-problems by the influence their own pathological state has          
had on the content of their dreams.                                          
  The enlargement of the number of dream-sources by such undeniably          
established facts is, however, not so important as one might be led to       
suppose; for dreams are, after all, phenomena which occur in healthy         
persons- perhaps in all persons, and every night- and a pathological         
state of the organs is evidently not one of the indispensable                
conditions. For us, however, the question is not whence particular           
dreams originate, but rather: what is the exciting cause of ordinary         
dreams in normal people?                                                     
  But we have only to go a step farther to find a source of dreams           
which is more prolific than any of those mentioned above, and which          
promises indeed to be inexhaustible. If it is established that the           
bodily organs become, in sickness, an exciting source of dreams, and         
if we admit that the mind, when diverted during sleep from the outer         
world, can devote more of its attention to the interior of the body,         
we may readily assume that the organs need not necessarily become            
diseased in order to permit stimuli, which in one way or another             
grow into dream-images, to reach the sleeping mind. What in the waking       
state we vaguely perceive as a general sensation, perceptible by its         
quality alone- a sensation to which, in the opinion of physicians, all       
the organic systems contribute their share- this general sensation           
would at night attain a greater potency, and, acting through its             
individual components, would constitute the most prolific as well as         
the most usual source of dream-representations. We should then have to       
discover the laws by which organic stimuli are translated into               
dream-representations.                                                       
  This theory of the origin of dreams is the one most favoured by            
all medical writers. The obscurity which conceals the essence of our         
being- the "moi splanchnique" as Tissie terms it- from our                   
knowledge, and the obscurity of the origin of dreams, correspond so          
closely that it was inevitable that they should be brought into              
relation with one another. The theory according to which the organic         
sensations are responsible for dreams has, moreover, another                 
attraction for the physician, inasmuch as it favours the                     
aetiological union of the dream with mental derangement, both of which       
reveal so many points of agreement in their manifestations, since            
changes in the general organic massive sensation and in the stimuli          
emanating from the internal organs are also considered to have a             
far-reaching significance as regards the origin of the psychoses. It         
is therefore not surprising that the organic stimulus theory can be          
traced to several writers who have propounded this theory                    
independently.                                                               
  A number of writers have followed the train of thought developed           
by Schopenhauer in 1851. Our conception of the universe has its origin       
in the recasting by the intellect of the impressions which reach it          
from without in the moulds of time, space and causality. During the          
day the stimuli proceeding from the interior of the organism, from the       
sympathetic nervous system, exert at most an unconscious influence           
on our mood. At night, however, when the overwhelming effect of the          
impressions of the day is no longer operative, the impressions that          
surge upward from within are able to force themselves on our                 
attention- just as in the night we hear the rippling of the brook that       
was drowned in the clamour of the day. But how else can the                  
intellect react to these stimuli than by transforming them in                
accordance with its own function into things which occupy space and          
time and follow the lines of causality?- and so a dream originates.          
Thus Scherner, and after him Volkelt, endeavoured to discover the more       
intimate relations between physical sensations and dream-pictures; but       
we shall reserve the discussion of this point for our chapter on the         
theory of dreams.                                                            
  As a result of a singularly logical analysis, the psychiatrist             
Krauss referred the origin of dreams, and also of deliria and                
delusions, to the same element, namely, to organically determined            
sensations. According to him, there is hardly any part of the organism       
which might not become the starting-point of a dream or a delusion.          
Organically determined sensations, he says, "may be divided into two         
classes: (1) general sensations- those affecting the whole system; (2)       
specific sensations- those that are immanent in the principal                
systems of the vegetative organism, and which may in turn be                 
subdivided into five groups: (a) the muscular, (b) the pneumatic,            
(c) the gastric, (d) the sexual, (e) the peripheral sensations (p.           
33 of the second article)."                                                  
  The origin of the dream-image from physical sensations is                  
conceived by Krauss as follows: The awakened sensation, in                   
accordance with some law of association, evokes an idea or image             
bearing some relation to it, and combines with this idea or image,           
forming an organic structure, towards which, however, the                    
consciousness does not maintain its normal attitude. For it does not         
bestow any attention on the sensation, but concerns itself entirely          
with the accompanying ideas; and this explains why the facts of the          
case have been so long misunderstood (p. 11 ff.). Krauss even gives          
this process the special name of "transubstantiation of the sensations       
into dream-images" (p. 24).                                                  
  The influence of organic physical stimuli on the formation of dreams       
is today almost universally admitted, but the question as to the             
nature of the law underlying this relation is answered in various            
ways, and often obscurely. On the basis of the theory of physical            
excitation the special task of dream-interpretation is to trace back         
the content of a dream to the causative organic stimulus, and if we do       
not accept the rules of interpretation advanced by Scherner, we              
shall often find ourselves confronted by the awkward fact that the           
organic source of excitation reveals itself only in the content of the       
dream.                                                                       
  A certain agreement, however, appears in the interpretation of the         
various forms of dreams which have been designated as "typical,"             
because they recur in so many persons with almost the same content.          
Among these are the well-known dreams of falling from a height, of the       
dropping out of teeth, of flying, and of embarrassment because one           
is naked or scantily clad. This last type of dream is said to be             
caused simply by the dreamer's perception, felt in his sleep, that           
he has thrown off the bedclothes and is uncovered. The dream that            
one's teeth are dropping out is explained by "dental irritation,"            
which does not, however, of necessity imply a morbid condition of            
irritability in the teeth. According to Strumpell, the flying dream is       
the adequate image employed by the mind to interpret the quantum of          
stimulus emanating from the rising and sinking of the pulmonary              
lobes when the cutaneous sensation of the thorax has lapsed into             
insensibility. This latter condition causes the sensation which              
gives rise to images of hovering in the air. The dream of falling from       
a height is said to be due to the fact that an arm falls away from the       
body, or a flexed knee is suddenly extended, after unconsciousness           
of the sensation of cutaneous pressure has supervened, whereupon             
this sensation returns to consciousness, and the transition from             
unconsciousness to consciousness embodies itself psychically as a            
dream of falling (Strumpell, p. 118). The weakness of these fairly           
plausible attempts at explanation clearly lies in the fact that              
without any further elucidation they allow this or that group of             
organic sensations to disappear from psychic perception, or to obtrude       
themselves upon it, until the constellation favourable for the               
explanation has been established. Later on, however, I shall have            
occasion to return to the subject of typical dreams and their origin.        
  From a comparison of a series of similar dreams, M. Simon                  
endeavoured to formulate certain rules governing the influence of            
organic sensations on the nature of the resulting dream. He says (p.         
34): "If during sleep any organic apparatus, which normally                  
participates in the expression of an affect, for any reason enters           
into the state of excitation to which it is usually aroused by the           
affect, the dream thus produced will contain representations which           
harmonize with that affect."                                                 
  Another rule reads as follows (p. 35): "If, during sleep, an organic       
apparatus is in a state of activity, stimulation, or disturbance,            
the dream will present ideas which correspond with the nature of the         
organic function performed by that apparatus."                               
  Mourly Vold has undertaken to prove the supposed influence of bodily       
sensation on the production of dreams by experimenting on a single           
physiological territory. He changed the positions of a sleeper's             
limbs, and compared the resulting dreams with these changes. He              
recorded the following results:                                              
  1. The position of a limb in a dream corresponds approximately to          
that of reality, i.e., we dream of a static condition of the limb            
which corresponds with the actual condition.                                 
  2. When one dreams of a moving limb it always happens that one of          
the positions occurring in the execution of this movement                    
corresponds with the actual position.                                        
  3. The position of one's own limb may in the dream be attributed           
to another person.                                                           
  4. One may also dream that the movement in question is impeded.            
  5. The limb in any particular position may appear in the dream as an       
animal or monster, in which case a certain analogy between the two           
is established.                                                              
  6. The behaviour of a limb may in the dream incite ideas which             
bear some relation or other to this limb. Thus, for example, if we are       
using our fingers we dream of numerals.                                      
  Results such as these would lead me to conclude that even the theory       
of organic stimulation cannot entirely abolish the apparent freedom of       
the determination of the dream-picture which will be evoked. *               
-                                                                            
  * See below for a further discussion of the two volumes of records         
of dreams since published by this writer.                                    
-                                                                            
  4. Psychic sources of excitation                                           
-                                                                            
  When considering the relation of dreams to waking life, and the            
provenance of the material of dreams, we learned that the earliest           
as well as the most recent investigators are agreed that men dream           
of what they do during the day, and of the things that interest them         
in the waking state. This interest, continued from waking life into          
sleep, is not only a psychic bond, joining the dream to life, but it         
is also a source of dreams whose importance must not be                      
underestimated, and which, taken together with those stimuli which           
become active and of interest during sleep, suffices to explain the          
origin of all dream-images. Yet we have also heard the very contrary         
of this asserted; namely, that dreams bear the sleeper away from the         
interests of the day, and that in most cases we do not dream of things       
which have occupied our attention during the day until after they have       
lost, for our waking life, the stimulating force of belonging to the         
present. Hence in the analysis of dream-life we are reminded at              
every step that it is inadmissible to frame general rules without            
making provision for qualifications by introducing such terms as             
"frequently," "as a rule," "in most cases," and without being prepared       
to admit the validity of exceptions.                                         
  If interest during the waking state together with the internal and         
external stimuli that occur during sleep, sufficed to cover the              
whole aetiology of dreams, we should be in a position to give a              
satisfactory account of the origin of all the elements of a dream; the       
problem of the dream-sources would then be solved, leaving us only the       
task of discriminating between the part played by the psychic and that       
played by the somatic dream-stimuli in individual dreams. But as a           
matter of fact no such complete solution of a dream has ever been            
achieved in any case, and everyone who has attempted such a solution         
has found that components of the dream- and usually a great many of          
them- are left whose source he is unable to trace. The interests of          
the day as a psychic source of dreams are obviously not so influential       
as to justify the confident assertion that every dreamer continues the       
activities of his waking life in his dreams.                                 
  Other dream-sources of a psychic nature are not known. Hence, with         
the exception perhaps of the explanation of dreams given by                  
Scherner, to which reference will be made later on, all the                  
explanations found in the literature of the subject show a                   
considerable hiatus whenever there is a question of tracing the images       
and ideas which are the most characteristic material of dreams. In           
this dilemma the majority of authors have developed a tendency to            
belittle as far as possible the share of the psychic factor, which           
is so difficult to determine, in the evocation of dreams. To be              
sure, they distinguish as major divisions the nerve-stimulus dream and       
the association-dream, and assert that the latter has its source             
exclusively in reproduction (Wundt, p. 365), but they cannot dismiss         
the doubt as to "whether they appear without any impulsion from              
organic stimuli" (Volkelt, p. 127). And even the characteristic              
quality of the pure association-dream disappears. To quote Volkelt (p.       
118): "In the association-dream proper, there is no longer any               
question of such a stable nucleus. Here the loose grouping                   
penetrates even to the very centre of the dream. The imaginative life,       
already released from the control of reason and intellect, is here           
no longer held together by the more important psychical and physical         
stimuli, but is left to its own uncontrolled and confused                    
divagations." Wundt, too, attempts to belittle the psychic factor in         
the evocation of dreams by asserting that "the phantasms of the              
dream are perhaps unjustly regarded as pure hallucinations. Probably         
most dream-representations are really illusions, inasmuch as they            
emanate from the slight sensory impressions which are never                  
extinguished during sleep" (p. 359, et seq.). Weygandt has adopted           
this view, and generalizes upon it. He asserts that "the most                
immediate causes of all dream-representations are sensory stimuli to         
which reproductive associations then attach themselves" (p. 17).             
Tissie goes still further in suppressing the psychic sources of              
excitation (p. 183): "Les reves d'origine absolument psychique               
n'existent pas"; * and elsewhere (p. 6), "Les pensees de nos reves           
nous viennent de dehors...." *(2)                                            
-                                                                            
  * Dreams do not exist whose origin is totally psychic.                     
  *(2) The thoughts of our dreams come from outside.                         
-                                                                            
  Those writers who, like the eminent philosopher Wundt, adopt a             
middle course, do not hesitate to assert that in most dreams there           
is a cooperation of the somatic stimuli and psychic stimuli which            
are either unknown or are identified with the interests of the day.          
  We shall learn later that the problem of dream-formation may be            
solved by the disclosure of an entirely unsuspected psychic source           
of excitation. In the meanwhile we shall not be surprised at the             
over-estimation of the influence of those stimuli which do not               
originate in the psychic life. It is not merely because they alone may       
easily be found, and even confirmed by experiment, but because the           
somatic conception of the origin of dreams entirely corresponds with         
the mode of thought prevalent in modern psychiatry. Here, it is              
true, the mastery of the brain over the organism is most                     
emphatically stressed; but everything that might show that the psychic       
life is independent of demonstrable organic changes, or spontaneous in       
its manifestations, is alarming to the contemporary psychiatrist, as         
though such an admission must mean a return to the old-world natural         
philosophy and the metaphysical conception of the nature of the              
soul. The distrust of the psychiatrist has placed the psyche under           
tutelage, so to speak; it requires that none of the impulses of the          
psyche shall reveal an autonomous power. Yet this attitude merely            
betrays a lack of confidence in the stability of the causal                  
concatenation between the physical and the psychic. Even where on            
investigation the psychic may be recognized as the primary cause of          
a phenomenon, a more profound comprehension of the subject will one          
day succeed in following up the path that leads to the organic basis         
of the psychic. But where the psychic must, in the present state of          
our knowledge, be accepted as the terminus, it need not on that              
account be disavowed.                                                        
                                                                             
I|D                                                                          
               D. Why Dreams Are Forgotten After Waking                      
-                                                                            
  That a dream fades away in the morning is proverbial. It is, indeed,       
possible to recall it. For we know the dream, of course, only by             
recalling it after waking; but we very often believe that we                 
remember it incompletely, that during the night there was more of it         
than we remember. We may observe how the memory of a dream which in          
the morning was still vivid fades in the course of the day, leaving          
only a few trifling remnants. We are often aware that we have been           
dreaming, but we do not know of what we have dreamed; and we are so          
well used to this fact- that the dream is liable to be forgotten- that       
we do not reject as absurd the possibility that we may have been             
dreaming even when, in the morning, we know nothing either of the            
content of the dream or of the fact that we have dreamed. On the other       
hand, it often happens that dreams manifest an extraordinary power           
of maintaining themselves in the memory. I have had occasion to              
analyse, with my patients, dreams which occurred to them twenty-five         
years or more previously, and I can remember a dream of my own which         
is divided from the present day by at least thirty-seven years, and          
yet has lost nothing of its freshness in my memory. All this is very         
remarkable, and for the present incomprehensible.                            
  The forgetting of dreams is treated in the most detailed manner by         
Strumpell. This forgetting is evidently a complex phenomenon; for            
Strumpell attributes it not to a single cause, but to quite a number         
of causes.                                                                   
  In the first place, all those factors which induce forgetfulness           
in the waking state determine also the forgetting of dreams. In the          
waking state we commonly very soon forget a great many sensations            
and perceptions because they are too slight to remember, and because         
they are charged with only a slight amount of emotional feeling.             
This is true also of many dream-images; they are forgotten because           
they are too weak, while the stronger images in their neighbourhood          
are remembered. However, the factor of intensity is in itself not            
the only determinant of the preservation of dream-images; Strumpell,         
as well as other authors (Calkins), admits that dream-images are often       
rapidly forgotten although they are known to have been vivid, whereas,       
among those that are retained in the memory, there are many that are         
very shadowy and unmeaning. Besides, in the waking state one is wont         
to forget rather easily things that have happened only once, and to          
remember more readily things which occur repeatedly. But most                
dream-images are unique experiences, * and this peculiarity would            
contribute towards the forgetting of all dreams equally. Of much             
greater significance is a third cause of forgetting. In order that           
feelings, representations, ideas and the like should attain a                
certain degree of memorability, it is important that they should not         
remain isolated, but that they should enter into connections and             
associations of an appropriate nature. If the words of a verse of            
poetry are taken and mixed together, it will be very difficult to            
remember them. "Properly placed, in a significant sequence, one word         
helps another, and the whole, making sense, remains and is easily            
and lastingly fixed in the memory. Contradictions, as a rule, are            
retained with just as much difficulty and just as rarely as things           
that are confused and disorderly." Now dreams, in most cases, lack           
sense and order. Dream-compositions, by their very nature, are               
insusceptible of being remembered, and they are forgotten because as a       
rule they fall to pieces the very next moment. To be sure, these             
conclusions are not entirely consistent with Radestock's observation         
(p. 168), that we most readily retain just those dreams which are most       
peculiar.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  * Periodically recurrent dreams have been observed repeatedly.             
Compare the collection made by Chabaneix.                                    
-                                                                            
  According to Strumpell, other factors, deriving from the relation of       
the dream to the waking state, are even more effective in causing us         
to forget our dreams. The forgetfulness of dreams manifested by the          
waking consciousness is evidently merely the counterpart of the fact         
already mentioned, namely, that the dream hardly ever takes over an          
orderly series of memories from the waking state, but only certain           
details of these memories, which it removes from the habitual                
psychic connections in which they are remembered in the waking               
state. The dream-composition, therefore, has no place in the community       
of the psychic series which fill the mind. It lacks all mnemonic aids.       
"In this manner the dream-structure rises, as it were, from the soil         
of our psychic life, and floats in psychic space like a cloud in the         
sky, quickly dispelled by the first breath of reawakening life" (p.          
87). This situation is accentuated by the fact that on waking the            
attention is immediately besieged by the inrushing world of sensation,       
so that very few dream-images are capable of withstanding its force.         
They fade away before the impressions of the new day like the stars          
before the light of the sun.                                                 
  Finally, we should remember that the fact that most people take            
but little interest in their dreams is conducive to the forgetting           
of dreams. Anyone who for some time applies himself to the                   
investigation of dreams, and takes a special interest in them, usually       
dreams more during that period than at any other; he remembers his           
dreams more easily and more frequently.                                      
  Two other reasons for the forgetting of dreams, which Bonatelli            
(cited by Benini) adds to those adduced by Strumpell, have already           
been included in those enumerated above; namely, (1) that the                
difference of the general sensation in the sleeping and the waking           
state is unfavourable to mutual reproduction, and (2) that the               
different arrangement of the material in the dream makes the dream           
untranslatable, so to speak, for the waking consciousness.                   
  It is therefore all the more remarkable, as Strumpell himself              
observes, that, in spite of all these reasons for forgetting the             
dream, so many dreams are retained in the memory. The continual              
efforts of those who have written on the subject to formulate laws for       
the remembering of dreams amount to an admission that here, too, there       
is something puzzling and unexplained. Certain peculiarities                 
relating to the remembering of dreams have attracted particular              
attention of late; for example, the fact that the dream which is             
believed to be forgotten in the morning may be recalled in the               
course of the day on the occasion of some perception which                   
accidentally touches the forgotten content of the dream (Radestock,          
Tissie). But the whole recollection of dreams is open to an                  
objection which is calculated greatly to depreciate its value in             
critical eyes. One may doubt whether our memory, which omits so much         
from the dream, does not falsify what it retains.                            
  This doubt as to the exactness of the reproduction of dreams is            
expressed by Strumpell when he says: "It may therefore easily happen         
that the waking consciousness involuntarily interpolates a great             
many things in the recollection of the dream; one imagines that one          
has dreamt all sorts of things which the actual dream did not                
contain."                                                                    
  Jessen (p. 547) expresses himself in very decided terms:                   
"Moreover, we must not lose sight of the fact, hitherto little heeded,       
that in the investigation and interpretation of coherent and logical         
dreams we almost always take liberties with the truth when we recall a       
dream to memory. Unconsciously and unintentionally we fill up the gaps       
and supplement the dream-images. Rarely, and perhaps never, has a            
connected dream been as connected as it appears to us in memory.             
Even the most truth-loving person can hardly relate a dream without          
exaggerating and embellishing it in some degree. The human mind so           
greatly tends to perceive everything in a connected form that it             
intentionally supplies the missing links in any dream which is in some       
degree incoherent."                                                          
  The observations of V. Eggers, though of course independently              
conceived, read almost like a translation of Jessen's words:                 
  "...L'observation des reves a ses difficultes speciales et le seul         
moyen d'eviter toute erreur en pareille matiere est de confier au            
papier sans le moindre retard ce que l'on vient d'eprouver et de             
remarquer; sinon, l'oubli vient vite ou total ou partiel; l'oubli            
total est sans gravite; mais l'oubli partiel est perfide: car si             
l'on se met ensuite a raconter ce que l'on n'a pas oublie, on est            
expose a completer par imagination les fragments incoherents et              
disjoints fourni par la memoire... on devient artiste a son insu, et         
le recit, periodiquement repete s'impose a la creance de son auteur,         
qui, de bonne foi, le presente comme un fait authentique, dument             
etabli selon les bonnes methodes...." *                                      
-                                                                            
  * ...The observation of dreams has its special difficulties, and the       
only way to avoid all error in such matter is to put on paper                
without the least delay what has just been experienced and noticed;          
otherwise, totally or partially the dream is quickly forgotten;              
total forgetting is without seriousness; but partial forgetting is           
treacherous: for, if one then starts to recount what has not been            
forgotten, one is likely to supplement from the imagination the              
incoherent and disjointed fragments provided by the memory....               
unconsciously one becomes an artist, and the story, repeated from time       
to time, imposes itself on the belief of its author, who, in good            
faith, tells it as authentic fact, regularly established according           
to proper methods....                                                        
-                                                                            
  Similarly Spitta, who seems to think that it is only in the                
attempt to reproduce the dream that we bring order and arrangement           
into loosely associated dream-elements- "turning juxtaposition into          
concatenation; that is, adding the process of logical connection which       
is absent in the dream."                                                     
  Since we can test the reliability of our memory only by objective          
means, and since such a test is impossible in the case of dreams,            
which are our own personal experience, and for which we know no              
other source than our memory, what value do our recollections of our         
dreams possess?                                                              
                                                                             
I|E                                                                          
             E. The Psychological Peculiarities of Dreams                    
-                                                                            
  In our scientific investigation of dreams we start with the                
assumption that dreams are a phenomenon of our own psychic activity;         
yet the completed dream appears to us as something alien, whose              
authorship we are so little inclined to recognize that we should be          
just as willing to say "A dream came to me," as "I dreamed." Whence          
this "psychic strangeness" of dreams? According to our exposition of         
the sources of dreams, we must assume that it is not determined by the       
material which finds its way into the dream-content, since this is for       
the most part common both to dream-life and waking life. We might            
ask ourselves whether this impression is not evoked by modifications         
of the psychic processes in dreams, and we might even attempt to             
suggest that the existence of such changes is the psychological              
characteristic of dreams.                                                    
  No one has more strongly emphasized the essential difference between       
dream-life and waking life and drawn more far reaching conclusions           
from this difference than G. Th. Fechner in certain observations             
contained in his Elemente der Psychophysik (Part II, p. 520). He             
believes that "neither the simple depression of conscious psychic life       
under the main threshold," nor the distraction of the attention from         
the influences of the outer world, suffices to explain the                   
peculiarities of dream-life as compared with waking life. He believes,       
rather, that the arena of dreams is other than the arena of the waking       
life of the mind. "If the arena of psychophysical activity were the          
same during the sleeping and the waking state, the dream, in my              
opinion, could only be a continuation of the waking ideational life at       
a lower degree of intensity, so that it would have to partake of the         
form and material of the latter. But this is by no means the case."          
  What Fechner really meant by such a transposition of the psychic           
activity has never been made clear, nor has anybody else, to my              
knowledge, followed the path which he indicates in this remark. An           
anatomical interpretation in the sense of physiological localization         
in the brain, or even a histological stratification of the cerebral          
cortex, must of course be excluded. The idea might, however, prove           
ingenious and fruitful if it could refer to a psychical apparatus            
built up of a number of successive and connected systems.                    
  Other authors have been content to give prominence to this or that         
palpable psychological peculiarity of the dream-life, and even to take       
this as a starting-point for more comprehensive attempts at                  
explanation.                                                                 
  It has been justly remarked that one of the chief peculiarities of         
dream-life makes its appearance even in the state of falling asleep,         
and may be defined as the sleep-heralding phenomenon. According to           
Schleiermacher (p. 351), the distinguishing characteristic of the            
waking state is the fact that its psychic activity occurs in the             
form of ideas rather than in that of images. But the dream thinks            
mainly in visual images, and it may be noted that with the approach of       
sleep the voluntary activities become impeded in proportion as               
involuntary representations make their appearance, the latter                
belonging entirely to the category of images. The incapacity for             
such ideational activities as we feel to be deliberately willed, and         
the emergence of visual images, which is regularly connected with this       
distraction- these are two constant characteristics of dreams, and           
on psychological analysis we are compelled to recognize them as              
essential characteristics of dream-life. As for the images themselves-       
the hypnogogic hallucinations- we have learned that even in their            
content they are identical with dream-images. *                              
-                                                                            
  * Silberer has shown by excellent examples how in the state of             
falling asleep even abstract thoughts may be changed into visible            
plastic images, which, of course, express them. (Jahrbuch,                   
Bleuler-Freud, vol. i, 1900.) I shall return to the discussion of            
his findings later on.                                                       
-                                                                            
  Dreams, then, think preponderantly, but not exclusively, in visual         
images. They make use also of auditory images, and, to a lesser              
extent, of the other sensory impressions. Moreover, in dreams, as in         
the waking state, many things are simply thought or imagined (probably       
with the help of remnants of verbal conceptions). Characteristic of          
dreams, however, are only those elements of their contents which             
behave like images, that is, which more closely resemble perceptions         
than mnemonic representations. Without entering upon a discussion of         
the nature of hallucinations- a discussion familiar to every                 
psychiatrist- we may say, with every well-informed authority, that the       
dream hallucinates- that is, that it replaces thoughts by                    
hallucinations. In this respect visual and acoustic impressions behave       
in the same way. It has been observed that the recollection of a             
succession of notes heard as we are falling asleep becomes                   
transformed, when we have fallen asleep, into a hallucination of the         
same melody, to give place, each time we wake, to the fainter and            
qualitatively different representations of the memory, and resuming,         
each time we doze off again, its hallucinatory character.                    
  The transformation of an idea into a hallucination is not the only         
departure of the dream from the more or less corresponding waking            
thought. From these images the dream creates a situation; it                 
represents something as actually present; it dramatizes an idea, as          
Spitta (p. 145) puts it. But the peculiar character of this aspect           
of the dream-life is completely intelligible only if we admit that           
in dreaming we do not as a rule (the exceptions call for special             
examination) suppose ourselves to be thinking, but actually                  
experiencing; that is, we accept the hallucination in perfectly good         
faith. The criticism that one has experienced nothing, but that one          
has merely been thinking in a peculiar manner- dreaming- occurs to           
us only on waking. It is this characteristic which distinguishes the         
genuine dream from the day-dream, which is never confused with               
reality.                                                                     
  The characteristics of the dream-life thus far considered have             
been summed up by Burdach (p. 476) as follows: "As characteristic            
features of the dream we may state (a) that the subjective activity of       
our psyche appears as objective, inasmuch as our perceptive                  
faculties apprehend the products of phantasy as though they were             
sensory activities... (b) that sleep abrogates our voluntary action;         
hence falling asleep involves a certain degree of passivity... The           
images of sleep are conditioned by the relaxation of our powers of           
will."                                                                       
  It now remains to account for the credulity of the mind in respect         
to the dream-hallucinations which are able to make their appearance          
only after the suspension of certain voluntary powers. Strumpell             
asserts that in this respect the psyche behaves correctly and in             
conformity with its mechanism. The dream-elements are by no means mere       
representations, but true and actual experiences of the psyche,              
similar to those which come to the waking state by way of the senses         
(p. 34). Whereas in the waking state the mind thinks and imagines by         
means of verbal images and language, in dreams it thinks and                 
imagines in actual perceptual images (p. 35). Dreams, moreover, reveal       
a spatial consciousness, inasmuch as in dreams, just as in the               
waking state, sensations and images are transposed into outer space          
(p. 36). It must therefore be admitted that in dreams the mind               
preserves the same attitude in respect of images and perceptions as in       
the waking state (p. 43). And if it forms erroneous conclusions in           
respect of these images and perceptions, this is due to the fact             
that in sleep it is deprived of that criterion which alone can               
distinguish between sensory perceptions emanating from within and            
those coming from without. It is unable to subject its images to those       
tests which alone can prove their objective reality. Further, it             
neglects to differentiate between those images which can be                  
exchanged at will and those in respect of which there is no free             
choice. It errs because it cannot apply the law of causality to the          
content of its dreams (p. 58). In brief, its alienation from the outer       
world is the very reason for its belief in its subjective dream-world.       
  Delboeuf arrives at the same conclusion through a somewhat different       
line of argument. We believe in the reality of dream-pictures                
because in sleep we have no other impressions with which to compare          
them; because we are cut off from the outer world. But it is not             
because we are unable, when asleep, to test our hallucinations that we       
believe in their reality. Dreams can make us believe that we are             
applying such tests- that we are touching, say, the rose that we see         
in our dream; and yet we are dreaming. According to Delboeuf there           
is no valid criterion that can show whether something is a dream or          
a waking reality, except- and that only pragmatically- the fact of           
waking. "I conclude that all that has been experienced between falling       
asleep and waking is a delusion, if I find on waking that I am lying         
undressed in bed" (p. 84). "I considered the images of my dream real         
while I was asleep on account of the unsleeping mental habit of              
assuming an outer world with which I can contrast my ego." *                 
-                                                                            
  * Haffner, like Delboeuf, has attempted to explain the act of              
dreaming by the alteration which an abnormally introduced condition          
must have upon the otherwise correct functioning of the intact psychic       
apparatus; but he describes this condition in somewhat different             
terms. He states that the first distinguishing mark of dreams is the         
abolition of time and space, i.e., the emancipation of the                   
representation from the individual's position in the spatial and             
temporal order. Associated with this is the second fundamental               
character of dreams, the mistaking of the hallucinations,                    
imaginations, and phantasy-combinations for objective perceptions.           
"The sum-total of the higher psychic functions, particularly the             
formation of concepts, judgments, and conclusions on the one hand, and       
free self-determination on the other hand, combine with the sensory          
phantasy-images, and at all times have these as a substratum. These          
activities too, therefore, participate in the erratic nature of the          
dream-representations. We say they participate, for our faculties of         
judgment and will are in themselves unaltered during sleep. As far           
as their activity is concerned, we are just as shrewd and just as free       
as in the waking state. A man cannot violate the laws of thought; that       
is, even in a dream he cannot judge things to be identical which             
present themselves to him as opposites. He can desire in a dream             
only that which he regards as a good (sub ratione boni). But in this         
application of the laws of thought and will the human intellect is led       
astray in dreams by confusing one notion with another. Thus it happens       
that in dreams we formulate and commit the greatest of contradictions,       
while, on the other hand, we display the shrewdest judgment and arrive       
at the most logical conclusions, and are able to make the most               
virtuous and sacred resolutions. The lack of orientation is the              
whole secret of our flights of phantasy in dreams, and the lack of           
critical reflection and agreement with other minds is the main               
source of the reckless extravagances of our judgments, hopes and             
wishes in dreams" (p. 18).                                                   
-                                                                            
  If the turning-away from the outer world is accepted as the decisive       
cause of the most conspicuous characteristics of our dreams, it will         
be worth our while to consider certain subtle observations of                
Burdach's, which will throw some light on the relation of the sleeping       
psyche to the outer world, and at the same time serve to prevent our         
over-estimating the importance of the above deductions. "Sleep,"             
says Burdach, "results only under the condition that the mind is not         
excited by sensory stimuli... yet it is not so much a lack of                
sensory stimuli that conditions sleep as a lack of interest in them; *       
some sensory impressions are even necessary in so far as they serve to       
calm the mind; thus the miller can fall asleep only when he hears            
the clatter of his mill, and he who finds it necessary, as a matter of       
precaution, to burn a light at night, cannot fall asleep in the              
dark" (p. 457).                                                              
-                                                                            
  * Compare with this the element of "Desinteret," in which                  
Claparede (1905) finds the mechanism of falling asleep.                      
-                                                                            
  "During sleep the psyche isolates itself from the outer world, and         
withdraws from the periphery.... Nevertheless, the connection is not         
entirely broken; if one did not hear and feel during sleep, but only         
after waking, one would assuredly never be awakened at all. The              
continuance of sensation is even more plainly shown by the fact that         
we are not always awakened by the mere force of the sensory                  
impression, but by its relation to the psyche. An indifferent word           
does not arouse the sleeper, but if called by name he wakes... so that       
even in sleep the psyche discriminates between sensations.... Hence          
one may even be awakened by the obliteration of a sensory stimulus, if       
this is related to anything of imagined importance. Thus one man wakes       
when the nightlight is extinguished, and the miller when his mill            
comes to a standstill; that is, waking is due to the cessation of a          
sensory activity, and this presupposes that the activity has been            
perceived, but has not disturbed the mind, its effect being                  
indifferent, or actually reassuring" (p. 46, etc.).                          
  Even if we are willing to disregard these by no means trifling             
objections, we must yet admit that the qualities of dream-life               
hitherto considered, which are attributed to withdrawal from the outer       
world, cannot fully account for the strangeness of dreams. For               
otherwise it would be possible to reconvert the hallucinations of            
the dream into mental images, and the situations of the dream into           
thoughts, and thus to achieve the task of dream-interpretation. Now          
this is precisely what we do when we reproduce a dream from memory           
after waking, and no matter whether we are fully or only partially           
successful in this retranslation, the dream still remains as                 
mysterious as before.                                                        
  Furthermore, all writers unhesitatingly assume that still other            
and profounder changes take place in the plastic material of waking          
life. Strumpell seeks to isolate one of these changes as follows:            
(p. 17) "With the cessation of active sensory perception and of normal       
consciousness, the psyche is deprived of the soil in which its               
feelings, desires, interests, and activities are rooted. Those psychic       
states, feelings, interests, and valuations, which in the waking state       
adhere to memory-images, succumb to an obscuring pressure, in                
consequence of which their connection with these images is severed;          
the perceptual images of things, persons, localities, events and             
actions of the waking state are, individually, abundantly                    
reproduced, but none of these brings with it its psychic value.              
Deprived of this, they hover in the mind dependent on their own              
resources..."                                                                
  This annihilation of psychic values, which is in turn referred to          
a turning away from the outer world, is, according to Strumpell,             
very largely responsible for the impression of strangeness with              
which the dream is coloured in our memory.                                   
  We have seen that the very fact of falling asleep involves a               
renunciation of one of the psychic activities- namely, the voluntary         
guidance of the flow of ideas. Thus the supposition obtrudes itself          
(though it is in any case a natural one) that the state of sleep may         
extend even to the psychic functions. One or another of these                
functions is perhaps entirely suspended; we have now to consider             
whether the rest continue to operate undisturbed, whether they are           
able to perform their normal work under the circumstances. The idea          
occurs to us that the peculiarities of the dream may be explained by         
the restricted activity of the psyche during sleep, and the impression       
made by the dream upon our waking judgment tends to confirm this view.       
The dream is incoherent; it reconciles, without hesitation, the              
worst contradictions; it admits impossibilities; it disregards the           
authoritative knowledge of the waking state, and it shows us as              
ethically and morally obtuse. He who should behave in the waking state       
as his dreams represent him as behaving would be considered insane. He       
who in the waking state should speak as he does in his dreams, or            
relate such things as occur in his dreams, would impress us as a             
feeble-minded or muddle-headed person. It seems to us, then, that we         
are merely speaking in accordance with the facts of the case when we         
rate psychic activity in dreams very low, and especially when we             
assert that in dreams the higher intellectual activities are suspended       
or at least greatly impaired.                                                
  With unusual unanimity (the exceptions will be dealt with elsewhere)       
the writers on the subject have pronounced such judgments as lead            
immediately to a definite theory or explanation of dream-life. It is         
now time to supplement the resume which I have just given by a               
series of quotations from a number of authors- philosophers and              
physicians- bearing upon the psychological characteristics of the            
dream.                                                                       
  According to Lemoine, the incoherence of the dream-images is the           
sole essential characteristic of the dream.                                  
  Maury agrees with him (Le Sommeil, p. 163): "Il n'y a pas des              
reves absolument raisonnables et qui ne contiennent quelque                  
incoherence, quelque absurdite." *                                           
-                                                                            
  * There are no dreams which are absolutely reasonable which do not         
contain some incoherence, some absurdity.                                    
-                                                                            
  According to Hegel, quoted by Spitta, the dream lacks any                  
intelligible objective coherence.                                            
  Dugas says: "Les reve, c'est l'anarchie psychique, affective et            
mentale, c'est le jeu des fonctions livrees a elles-memes et                 
s'exercant sans controle et sans but; dans le reve l'esprit est un           
automate spirituel." *                                                       
-                                                                            
  * The dream is psychic anarchy, emotional and intellectual, the            
playing of functions, freed of themselves and performing without             
control and without end; in the dream, the mind is a spiritual               
automaton.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  "The relaxation, dissolution, and promiscuous confusion of the world       
of ideas and images held together in waking life by the logical              
power of the central ego" is conceded even by Volkelt (p. 14),               
according to whose theory the psychic activity during sleep appears to       
be by no means aimless.                                                      
  The absurdity of the associations of ideas which occur in dreams can       
hardly be more strongly stigmatized than it was by Cicero (De                
Divinatione, II. lxxi): "Nihil tam praepostere, tam incondite, tam           
monstruose cogitari potest, quod non possimus somniare." *                   
-                                                                            
  * There is no imaginable thing too absurd, too involved, or too            
abnormal for us to dream about.                                              
-                                                                            
  Fechner says (p. 522): "It is as though the psychological activity         
of the brain of a reasonable person were to migrate into that of a           
fool."                                                                       
  Radestock (p. 145): "It seems indeed impossible to recognize any           
stable laws in this preposterous behaviour. Withdrawing itself from          
the strict policing of the rational will that guides our waking ideas,       
and from the processes of attention, the dream, in crazy sport, whirls       
all things about in kaleidoscopic confusion."                                
  Hildebrandt (p. 45): "What wonderful jumps the dreamer permits             
himself, for instance, in his chain of reasoning! With what                  
unconcern he sees the most familiar laws of experience turned upside         
down! What ridiculous contradictions he is able to tolerate in the           
order of nature and of society, before things go too far, and the very       
excess of nonsense leads to an awakening! Sometimes we quite                 
innocently calculate that three times three make twenty; and we are          
not in the least surprised if a dog recites poetry to us, if a dead          
person walks to his grave, or if a rock floats on the water. We              
solemnly go to visit the duchy of Bernburg or the principality of            
Liechtenstein in order to inspect its navy; or we allow ourselves to         
be recruited as a volunteer by Charles XII just before the battle of         
Poltava."                                                                    
  Binz (p. 33), referring to the theory of dreams resulting from these       
impressions, says: "Of ten dreams nine at least have an absurd               
content. We unite in them persons or things which do not bear the            
slightest relation to one another. In the next moment, as in a               
kaleidoscope, the grouping changes to one, if possible, even more            
nonsensical and irrational than before; and so the shifting play of          
the drowsy brain continues, until we wake, put a hand to our forehead,       
and ask ourselves whether we still really possess the faculty of             
rational imagination and thought."                                           
  Maury, Le Sommeil (p. 50) makes, in respect of the relation of the         
dream-image to the waking thoughts, a comparison which a physician           
will find especially impressive: "La production de ces images que chez       
l'homme eveille fait le plus souvent naitre la volonte, correspond,          
pour l'intelligence, a ce que sont pour la motilite certains                 
mouvements que nous offrent la choree et les affections                      
paralytiques...." * For the rest, he considers the dream "toute une          
serie de degradations de la faculte pensante et raisonnante" *(2)            
(p. 27).                                                                     
-                                                                            
  * The production of those images which, in the waking man, most            
often excite the will, correspond, for the mind, to those which are,         
for the motility, certain movements that offer St. Vitus' dance and          
paralytic affections...                                                      
  *(2) A whole series of degradations of the faculty of thinking and         
reasoning.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  It is hardly necessary to cite the utterances of those authors who         
repeat Maury's assertion in respect of the higher individual psychic         
activities.                                                                  
  According to Strumpell, in dreams- and even, of course, where the          
nonsensical nature of the dream is not obvious- all the logical              
operations of the mind, based on relations and associations, recede          
into the background (p. 26). According to Spitta (p. 148) ideas in           
dreams are entirely withdrawn from the laws of causality; while              
Radestock and others emphasize the feebleness of judgment and                
logical inference peculiar to dreams. According to Jodl (p. 123),            
there is no criticism in dreams, no correcting of a series of                
perceptions by the content of consciousness as a whole. The same             
author states that "All the activities of consciousness occur in             
dreams, but they are imperfect, inhibited, and mutually isolated." The       
contradictions of our conscious knowledge which occur in dreams are          
explained by Stricker and many others on the ground that facts are           
forgotten in dreams, or that the logical relations between ideas are         
lost (p. 98), etc., etc.                                                     
  Those authors who, in general, judge so unfavourably of the                
psychic activities of the dreamer nevertheless agree that dreams do          
retain a certain remnant of psychic activity. Wundt, whose teaching          
has influenced so many other investigators of dream-problems,                
expressly admits this. We may ask, what are the nature and composition       
of the remnants of normal psychic life which manifest themselves in          
dreams? It is pretty generally acknowledged that the reproductive            
faculty, the memory, seems to be the least affected in dreams; it may,       
indeed, show a certain superiority over the same function in waking          
life (see chapter I, B), even though some of the absurdities of dreams       
are to be explained by the forgetfulness of dream-life. According to         
Spitta, it is the sentimental life of the psyche which is not affected       
by sleep, and which thus directs our dreams. By sentiment (Gemut) he         
means "the constant sum of the emotions as the inmost subjective             
essence of the man" (p. 84).                                                 
  Scholz (p. 37) sees in dreams a psychic activity which manifests           
itself in the "allegorizing interpretation" to which the                     
dream-material is subjected. Siebeck (p. 11) likewise perceives in           
dreams a "supplementary interpretative activity" of the psyche,              
which applies itself to all that is observed and perceived. Any              
judgment of the part played in dreams by what is presumed to be the          
highest psychical function, i.e., consciousness, presents a peculiar         
difficulty. Since it is only through consciousness that we can know          
anything of dreams, there can be no doubt as to its being retained.          
Spitta, however, believes that only consciousness is retained in the         
dream, but not self-consciousness. Delboeuf confesses that he is             
unable to comprehend this distinction.                                       
  The laws of association which connect our mental images hold good          
also for what is represented in dreams; indeed, in dreams the                
dominance of these laws is more obvious and complete than in the             
waking state. Strumpell (p. 70) says: "Dreams would appear to                
proceed either exclusively in accordance with the laws of pure               
representation, or in accordance with the laws of organic stimuli            
accompanied by such representations; that is, without being influenced       
by reflection, reason, aesthetic taste, or moral judgment." The              
authors whose opinions I here reproduce conceive the formation of            
the dream somewhat as follows: The sum of sensory stimuli of varying         
origin (discussed elsewhere) that are operative in sleep at first            
awaken in the psyche a number of images which present themselves as          
hallucinations (according to Wundt, it is more correct to say "as            
illusions," because of their origin in external and internal stimuli).       
These combine with one another in accordance with the known laws of          
association, and, in accordance with the same laws, they in turn evoke       
a new series of representations (images). The whole of this material         
is then elaborated as far as possible by the still active remnant of         
the thinking and organizing faculties of the psyche (cf. Wundt and           
Weygandt). Thus far, however, no one has been successful in discerning       
the motive which would decide what particular law of association is to       
be obeyed by those images which do not originate in external stimuli.        
  But it has been repeatedly observed that the associations which            
connect the dream-images with one another are of a particular kind,          
differing from those found in the activities of the waking mind.             
Thus Volkelt (p. 15): "In dreams the ideas chase and seize upon one          
another on the strength of accidental similarities and barely                
perceptible connections. All dreams are pervaded by casual and               
unconstrained associations of this kind." Maury attaches great value         
to this characteristic of the connection of ideas, for it allows him         
to draw a closer analogy between the dream-life and certain mental           
derangements. He recognizes two main characteristics of "deliria":           
"(1) une action spontanee et comme automatique de l'esprit; (2) une          
association vicieuse et irreguliere des idees" * (p. 126). Maury gives       
us two excellent examples from his own dreams, in which the mere             
similarity of sound decides the connection between the                       
dream-representations. Once he dreamed that he was on a pilgrimage           
(pelerinage) to Jerusalem, or to Mecca. After many adventures he found       
himself in the company of the chemist Pelletier; the latter, after           
some conversation, gave him a galvanized shovel (pelle) which became         
his great broadsword in the next portion of the dream (p. 137). In           
another dream he was walking along a highway where he read the               
distances on the kilometre-stones; presently he found himself at a           
grocer's who had a large pair of scales; a man put kilogramme                
weights into the scales, in order to weigh Maury; the grocer then said       
to him: "You are not in Paris, but on the island Gilolo." This was           
followed by a number of pictures, in which he saw the flower                 
lobelia, and then General Lopez, of whose death he had read a little         
while previously. Finally he awoke as he was playing a game of               
lotto. *(2)                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * (1) An action of the mind spontaneous and as though automatic;           
(2) a defective and irregular association of ideas.                          
  *(2) Later on we shall be able to understand the meaning of dreams         
like these which are full of words with similar sounds or the same           
initial letters.                                                             
-                                                                            
  We are, indeed, quite well aware that this low estimate of the             
psychic activities of the dream has not been allowed to pass without         
contradiction from various quarters. Yet here contradiction would seem       
rather difficult. It is not a matter of much significance that one           
of the depreciators of dream-life, Spitta (p. 118), should assure us         
that the same psychological laws which govern the waking state rule          
the dream also, or that another (Dugas) should state: "Le reve n'est         
pas deraison ni meme irraison pure," * so long as neither of them            
has attempted to bring this opinion into harmony with the psychic            
anarchy and dissolution of all mental functions in the dream which           
they themselves have described. However, the possibility seems to have       
dawned upon others that the madness of the dream is perhaps not              
without its method- that it is perhaps only a disguise, a dramatic           
pretence, like that of Hamlet, to whose madness this perspicacious           
judgment refers. These authors must either have refrained from judging       
by appearances, or the appearances were, in their case, altogether           
different.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  * The dream is neither pure derangement nor pure irrationality.            
-                                                                            
  Without lingering over its superficial absurdity, Havelock Ellis           
considers the dream as "an archaic world of vast emotions and                
imperfect thoughts," the study of which may acquaint us with the             
primitive stages of the development of mental life. J. Sully (p.             
362) presents the same conception of the dream in a still more               
comprehensive and penetrating fashion. His statements deserve all            
the more consideration when it is added that he, perhaps more than any       
other psychologist, was convinced of the veiled significance of the          
dream. "Now our dreams are a means of conserving these successive            
personalities. When asleep we go back to the old ways of looking at          
things and of feeling about them, to impulses and activities which           
long ago dominated us." A thinker like Delboeuf asserts- without,            
indeed, adducing proof in the face of contradictory data, and hence          
without real justification- "Dans le sommeil, hormis la perception,          
toutes les facultes de l'esprit, intelligence, imagination, memoire,         
volonte, moralite, restent intactes dans leur essence; seulement,            
elles s'appliquent a des objets imaginaires et mobiles. Le songeur est       
un acteur qui joue a volonte les fous et les sages, les bourreaux et         
les victimes, les nains et les geants, les demons et les anges" *            
(p. 222). The Marquis Hervey, *(2) who is flatly contradicted by             
Maury, and whose essay I have been unable to obtain despite all my           
efforts, appears emphatically to protest against the                         
under-estimation of the psychic capacity in the dream. Maury speaks of       
him as follows (p. 19): "M. le Marquis Hervey prete a l'intelligence         
durant le sommeil toute sa liberte d'action et d'attention, et il ne         
semble faire consister le sommeil que dans l'occlusion des sens,             
dans leur fermeture au monde exterieur; en sorte que l'homme qui             
dort ne se distingue guere, selon sa maniere de voir, de l'homme qui         
laisse vaguer sa pensee en se bouchant les sens; toute la difference         
qui separe alors la pensee ordinaire du celle du dormeur c'est que,          
chez celui-ci, l'idee prend une forme visible, objective, et                 
ressemble, a s'y meprendre, a la sensation determinee par les objets         
exterieurs; le souvenir revet l'apparence du fait present." *(3)             
-                                                                            
  * In sleep, excepting perception, all the faculties of the mind-           
intellect, imagination, memory, will, morality- remain intact in their       
essence; only, they are applied to imaginary and variable objects. The       
dreamer is an actor who plays at will the mad and the wise,                  
executioner and victim, dwarf and giant, devil and angel.                    
  *(2) Hervey de St. Denys.                                                  
  *(3) The Marquis Hervey attributes to the intelligence during              
sleep all its freedom of action and attention, and he seems to make          
sleep consist only of the shutting of the senses, of their closing           
to the outside world; except for his manner of seeing, the man               
asleep is hardly distinguishable from the man who allows his mind to         
wander while he obstructs his senses; the whole difference, then,            
between ordinary thought and that of the sleeper, is that with the           
latter the idea takes an objective and visible shape, which resembles,       
to all appearances, sensation determined by exterior objects; memory         
takes on the appearance of present fact.                                     
-                                                                            
  Maury adds, however, "qu'il y a une difference de plus et capitale a       
savoir que les facultes intellectuelles de l'homme endormi n'offrent         
pas l'equilibre qu'elles gardent chez l'homme eveille." *                    
-                                                                            
  * That there is a further and important difference in that the             
mental faculties of the sleeping man do not offer the equilibrium            
which they keep in the waking state.                                         
-                                                                            
  In Vaschide, who gives us fully information as to Hervey's book,           
we find that this author expresses himself as follows, in respect to         
the apparent incoherence of dreams: "L'image du reve est la copie de         
l'idee. Le principal est l'idee; la vision n'est pas qu'accessoire.          
Ceci etabli, il faut savoir suivre la marche des idees, il faut savoir       
analyser le tissu des reves; l'incoherence devient alors                     
comprehensible, les conceptions les plus fantasques deviennent des           
faits simples et parfaitement logiques" * (p. 146). And (p. 147): "Les       
reves les plus bizarres trouvent meme une explication des plus               
logiques quand on sait les analyser." *(2)                                   
-                                                                            
  * The image in a dream is a copy of an idea. The main thing is the         
idea; the vision is only accessory. This established, it is                  
necessary to know how to follow the progression of ideas, how to             
analyse the texture of the dreams; incoherence then is understandable,       
the most fantastic concepts become simple and perfectly logical facts.       
  *(2) Even the most bizarre dreams find a most logical explanation          
when one knows how to analyse them.                                          
-                                                                            
  J. Starke has drawn attention to the fact that a similar solution of       
the incoherence of dreams was put forward in 1799 by an old writer,          
Wolf Davidson, who was unknown to me (p. 136): "The peculiar leaps           
of our imaginings in the dream-state all have their cause in the             
laws of association, but this connection often occurs very obscurely         
in the soul, so that we frequently seem to observe a leap of the             
imagination where none really exists."                                       
  The evaluation of the dream as a psychic product in the literature         
of the subject varies over a very wide scale; it extends from the            
extreme of under-estimation, as we have already seen, through                
premonitions that it may have a value as yet unrevealed, to an               
exaggerated over-estimation, which sets the dream-life far above the         
capacities of waking life. In his psychological characterization of          
dream-life, Hildebrandt, as we know, groups it into three                    
antinomies, and he combines in the third of these antinomies the two         
extreme points of this scale of values (p. 19): "It is the contrast          
between, on the one hand, an enhancement, an increase of potentiality,       
which often amounts to virtuosity, and on the other hand a decided           
diminution and enfeeblement of the psychic life, often to a                  
sub-human level."                                                            
  "As regards the first, who is there that cannot confirm from his own       
experience the fact that in the workings and weavings of the genius of       
dreams, there are sometimes exhibited a profundity and sincerity of          
emotion, a tenderness of feeling, a clearness of view, a subtlety of         
observation and a readiness of wit, such as we should have modestly to       
deny that we always possessed in our waking life? Dreams have a              
wonderful poetry, an apposite allegory, an incomparable sense of             
humour, a delightful irony. They see the world in the light of a             
peculiar idealization, and often intensify the effect of their               
phenomena by the most ingenious understanding of the reality                 
underlying them. They show us earthly beauty in a truly heavenly             
radiance, the sublime in its supremest majesty, and that which we know       
to be terrible in its most frightful form, while the ridiculous              
becomes indescribably and drastically comical. And on waking we are          
sometimes still so full of one of these impressions that it will occur       
to us that such things have never yet been offered to us by the real         
world."                                                                      
  One might here ask oneself: do these depreciatory remarks and              
these enthusiastic praises really refer to the self-same phenomenon?         
Have some writers overlooked the foolish and others the profound and         
sensitive dreams? And if both kinds of dreams do occur- that is,             
dreams that merit both these judgments- does it not seem idle to             
seek a psychological characterization of the dream? Would it not             
suffice to state that everything is possible in the dream, from the          
lowest degradation of the psychic life to its flight to heights              
unknown in the waking state? Convenient as such a solution might be,         
it has this against it: that behind the efforts of all the                   
investigators of dreams there seems to lurk the assumption that              
there is in dreams some characteristic which is universally valid in         
its essential features, and which must eliminate all these                   
contradictions.                                                              
  It is unquestionably true that the mental capacities of dreams found       
readier and warmer recognition in the intellectual period now lying          
behind us, when philosophy rather than exact natural science ruled the       
more intelligent minds. Statements like that of Schubert, to the             
effect that the dream frees the mind from the power of external              
nature, that it liberates the soul from the chains of sensory life,          
together with similar opinions expressed by the younger Fichte * and         
others, who represent dreams as a soaring of the mind to a higher            
plane- all these seem hardly conceivable to us today; they are               
repeated at present only by mystics and devotees. *(2) With the              
advance of a scientific mode of thought a reaction took place in the         
estimation of dreams. It is the medical writers who are most                 
inclined to underrate the psychic activity in dreams, as being               
insignificant and valueless; while philosophers and unprofessional           
observers- amateur psychologists- whose contributions to the subject         
in especial must not be overlooked, have for the most part, in               
agreement with popular belief, laid emphasis on the psychological            
value of dreams. Those who are inclined to underrate the psychic             
activity of dreams naturally show a preference for the somatic sources       
of excitation in the aetiology of the dream; those who admit that            
the dreaming mind may retain the greater part of its waking                  
faculties naturally have no motive for denying the existence of              
autonomous stimulations                                                      
-                                                                            
  * Cf. Haffner and Spitta.                                                  
  *(2) That brilliant mystic, Du Prel, one of the few writers for            
the omission of whose name in earlier editions of this book I should         
like to apologize, has said that, so far as the human mind is                
concerned, it is not the waking state but dreams which are the gateway       
to metaphysics (Philosophie der Mystik, p. 59).                              
-                                                                            
  Among the superior accomplishments which one may be tempted, even on       
a sober comparison, to ascribe to the dream-life, that of memory is          
the most impressive. We have fully discussed the by no means rare            
experiences which prove this superiority. Another privilege of the           
dream-life, often extolled by the older writers- namely, the fact that       
it can overstep the limitations of time and space- is easily                 
recognized as an illusion. This privilege, as Hildebrandt remarks,           
is merely illusory; dreams disregard time and space only as does             
waking thought, and only because dreaming is itself a form of                
thinking. Dreams are supposed to enjoy a further advantage in                
respect of time- to be independent of the passage of time in yet             
another sense. Dreams like Maury's dream of his execution (p. 147            
above) seem to show that the perceptual content which the dream can          
compress into a very short space of time far exceeds that which can be       
mastered by our psychic activity in its waking thoughts. These               
conclusions have, however, been disputed. The essays of Le Lorrain and       
Egger on The Apparent Duration of Dreams gave rise to a long and             
interesting discussion, which in all probability has not yet found the       
final explanation of this profound and delicate problem. *                   
-                                                                            
  * For the further literature of the subject, and a critical                
discussion of these problems, the reader is referred to Tobowolska's         
dissertation (Paris, 1900).                                                  
-                                                                            
  That dreams are able to continue the intellectual activities of            
the day and to carry them to a point which could not be arrived at           
during the day, that they may resolve doubts and problems, and that          
they may be the source of fresh inspiration in poets and composers,          
seems, in the light of numerous records, and of the collection of            
instances compiled by Chabaneix, to be proved beyond question. But           
even though the facts may be beyond dispute, their interpretation is         
subject to many doubts on wider grounds. *                                   
-                                                                            
  * Compare Havelock Ellis's criticism in The World of Dreams, p. 268.       
-                                                                            
  Finally, the alleged divinatory power of the dream has become a            
subject of contention in which almost insuperable objections are             
confronted by obstinate and reiterated assertions. It is, of course,         
right that we should refrain from denying that this view has any basis       
whatever in fact, since it is quite possible that a number of such           
cases may before long be explained on purely natural psychological           
grounds.                                                                     
                                                                             
I|F                                                                          
                    F. The Ethical Sense in Dreams                           
-                                                                            
  For reasons which will be intelligible only after a consideration of       
my own investigations of dreams, I have isolated from the psychology         
of the dream the subsidiary problem as to whether and to what extent         
the moral dispositions and feelings of waking life extend into               
dream-life. The same contradictions which we were surprised to observe       
in the descriptions by various authors of all the other psychic              
activities will surprise us again here. Some writers flatly assert           
that dreams know nothing of moral obligations; others as decidedly           
declare that the moral nature of man persists even in his dream-life.        
  Our ordinary experience of dreams seems to confirm beyond all              
doubt the correctness of the first assertion. Jessen says (p. 553):          
"Nor does one become better or more virtuous during sleep; on the            
contrary, it seems that conscience is silent in our dreams, inasmuch         
as one feels no compassion and can commit the worst crimes, such as          
theft, murder, and homicide, with perfect indifference and without           
subsequent remorse."                                                         
  Radestock (p. 146) says: "It is to be noted that in dreams                 
associations are effected and ideas combined without being in any            
way influenced by reflection, reason, aesthetic taste, and moral             
judgment; the judgment is extremely weak, and ethical indifference           
reigns supreme."                                                             
  Volkelt (p. 23) expresses himself as follows: "As every one knows,         
dreams are especially unbridled in sexual matters. Just as the dreamer       
himself is shameless in the extreme, and wholly lacking in moral             
feeling and judgment, so likewise does he see others, even the most          
respected persons, doing things which, even in his thoughts, he              
would blush to associate with them in his waking state."                     
  Utterances like those of Schopenhauer, that in dreams every man acts       
and talks in complete accordance with his character, are in sharpest         
contradiction to those mentioned above. R. Ph. Fischer * maintains           
that the subjective feelings and desires, or affects and passions,           
manifest themselves in the wilfulness of the dream-life, and that            
the moral characteristics of a man are mirrored in his dreams.               
-                                                                            
  * Grundzuge des Systems der Anthropologie. Erlangen, 1850 (quoted by       
Spitta).                                                                     
-                                                                            
  Haffner says (p. 25): "With rare exceptions... a virtuous man will         
be virtuous also in his dreams; he will resist temptation, and show no       
sympathy for hatred, envy, anger, and all other vices; whereas the           
sinful man will, as a rule, encounter in his dreams the images which         
he has before him in the waking state."                                      
  Scholz (p. 36): "In dreams there is truth; despite all camouflage of       
nobility or degradation, we recognize our own true selves.... The            
honest man does not commit a dishonouring crime even in his dreams,          
or, if he does, he is appalled by it as by something foreign to his          
nature. The Roman emperor who ordered one of his subjects to be              
executed because he dreamed that he had cut off the emperor's head was       
not far wrong in justifying his action on the ground that he who has         
such dreams must have similar thoughts while awake. Significantly            
enough, we say of things that find no place even in our intimate             
thoughts: 'I would never even dream of such a thing.'"                       
  Plato, on the other hand, considers that they are the best men who         
only dream the things which other men do.                                    
  Plaff, * varying a familiar proverb, says: "Tell me your dreams            
for a time and I will tell you what you are within."                         
-                                                                            
  * Das Traumleben und seine Deutung, 1868 (cited by Spitta, p. 192).        
-                                                                            
  The little essay of Hildebrandt's from which I have already taken so       
many quotations (the best-expressed and most suggestive contribution         
to the literature of the dream-problem which I have hitherto                 
discovered), takes for its central theme the problem of morality in          
dreams. For Hildebrandt, too, it is an established rule that the purer       
the life, the purer the dream; the impurer the life, the impurer the         
dream.                                                                       
  The moral nature of man persists even in dreams. "But while we are         
not offended or made suspicious by an arithmetical error, no matter          
how obvious, by a reversal of scientific fact, no matter how romantic,       
or by an anachronism, no matter how ridiculous, we nevertheless do not       
lose sight of the difference between good and evil, right and wrong,         
virtue and vice. No matter how much of that which accompanies us             
during the day may vanish in our hours of sleep, Kant's categorical          
imperative dogs our steps as an inseparable companion, of whom we            
cannot rid ourselves even in our slumber.... This can be explained           
only by the fact that the fundamental element of human nature, the           
moral essence, is too firmly fixed to be subjected to the                    
kaleidoscopic shaking-up to which phantasy, reason, memory, and              
other faculties of the same order succumb in our dreams" (p. 45,             
etc.).                                                                       
  In the further discussion of the subject we find in both these             
groups of authors remarkable evasions and inconsequences. Strictly           
speaking, all interest in immoral dreams should be at an end for those       
who assert that the moral personality of the individual falls to             
pieces in his dreams. They could as coolly reject all attempts to hold       
the dreamer responsible for his dreams, or to infer from the                 
immorality of his dreams that there is an immoral strain in his              
nature, as they have rejected the apparently analogous attempt to            
prove from the absurdity of his dreams the worthlessness of his              
intellectual life in the waking state. The others, according to whom         
the categorical imperative extends even into the dream, ought to             
accept in toto the notion of full responsibility for immoral dreams;         
and we can only hope that their own reprehensible dreams do not lead         
them to abandon their otherwise firm belief in their own moral worth.        
  As a matter of fact, however, it would seem that although no one           
is positively certain just how good or how bad he is, he can hardly          
deny that he can recollect immoral dreams of his own. That there are         
such dreams no one denies; the only question is: how do they                 
originate? So that, in spite of their conflicting judgments of               
dream-morality, both groups of authors are at pains to explain the           
genesis of the immoral dream; and here a new conflict arises, as to          
whether its origin is to be sought in the normal functions of the            
psychic life, or in the somatically conditioned encroachments upon           
this life. The nature of the facts compels both those who argue for          
and those who argue against moral responsibility in dream-life to            
agree in recognizing a special psychic source for the immorality of          
dreams.                                                                      
  Those who maintain that morality continues to function in our              
dream-life nevertheless refrain from assuming full responsibility            
for their dreams. Haffner says (p. 24): "We are not responsible for          
our dreams, because that basis which alone gives our life truth and          
reality is withdrawn from our thoughts and our will. Hence the               
wishes and actions of our dreams cannot be virtuous or sinful." Yet          
the dreamer is responsible for the sinful dream in so far as                 
indirectly he brings it about. Thus, as in waking life, it is his            
duty, just before going to sleep, morally to cleanse his mind.               
  The analysis of this admixture of denial and recognition of                
responsibility for the moral content of dreams is carried much further       
by Hildebrandt. After arguing that the dramatic method of                    
representation characteristic of dreams, the condensation of the             
most complicated processes of reflection into the briefest periods           
of time, and the debasement and confusion of the imaginative                 
elements of dreams, which even he admits must be allowed for in              
respect of the immoral appearance of dreams, he nevertheless confesses       
that there are the most serious objections to flatly denying all             
responsibility for the lapses and offenses of which we are guilty in         
our dreams.                                                                  
  (p. 49): "If we wish to repudiate very decisively any sort of unjust       
accusation, and especially one which has reference to our intentions         
and convictions, we use the expression: 'We should never have dreamt         
of such a thing.' By this, it is true, we mean on the one hand that we       
consider the region of dreams the last and remotest place in which           
we could be held responsible for our thoughts, because there these           
thoughts are so loosely and incoherently connected with our real being       
that we can, after all, hardly regard them as our own; but inasmuch as       
we feel impelled expressly to deny the existence of such thoughts even       
in this region, we are at the same time indirectly admitting that            
our justification would not be complete unless it extended even thus         
far. And I believe that here, although unconsciously, we are                 
speaking the language of truth."                                             
  (p. 52): "No dream-action can be imagined whose first beginnings           
have not in some shape already passed through the mind during our            
waking hours, in the form of wish, desire, or impulse." Concerning           
this original impulse we must say: The dream has not discovered it- it       
has only imitated and extended it; it has only elaborated into               
dramatic form a scrap of historical material which it found already          
existing within us; it brings to our mind the words of the Apostle-          
that he who hates his brother is a murderer. And though, after we            
wake, being conscious of our moral strength, we may smile at the whole       
widely elaborated structure of the depraved dream, yet the original          
material out of which we formed it cannot be laughed away. One feels         
responsible for the transgressions of one's dreaming self; not for the       
whole sum of them, but yet for a certain percentage. "In short, if           
in this sense, which can hardly be impugned, we understand the words         
of Christ, that out of the heart come evil thoughts, then we can             
hardly help being convinced that every sin committed in our dreams           
brings with it at least a vague minimum of guilt."                           
  Thus Hildebrandt finds the source of the immorality of dreams in the       
germs and hints of evil impulses which pass through our minds during         
the day as mental temptations, and he does not hesitate to include           
these immoral elements in the ethical evaluation of the personality.         
These same thoughts, and the same evaluation of these thoughts,              
have, as we know, caused devout and holy men of all ages to lament           
that they were wicked sinners. *                                             
-                                                                            
  * It is not uninteresting to consider the attitude of the                  
Inquisition to this problem. In the Tractatus de Officio                     
sanctissimae Inquisitionis of Thomas Carena (Lyons edit., 1659) one          
finds the following passage: "Should anyone utter heresies in his            
dreams, the inquisitors shall consider this a reason for investigating       
his conduct in life, for that is wont to return in sleep which               
occupies a man during the day" (Dr. Ehniger, St. Urban, Switzerland).        
-                                                                            
  The general occurrence of these contrasting thoughts in the majority       
of men, and even in other regions than the ethical, is of course             
established beyond a doubt. They have sometimes been judged in a             
less serious spirit. Spitta quotes a relevant passage from A. Zeller         
(Article "Irre," in the Allgemeine Encyklopadie der Wissenschaften,          
Ersch and Gruber, p. 144): "An intellect is rarely so happily                
organized as to be in full command of itself at all times and seasons,       
and never to be disturbed in the lucid and constant processes of             
thought by ideas not merely unessential, but absolutely grotesque            
and nonsensical; indeed, the greatest thinkers have had cause to             
complain of this dream-like, tormenting and distressing rabble of            
ideas, which disturbs their profoundest contemplations and their             
most pious and earnest meditations."                                         
  A clearer light is thrown on the psychological meaning of these            
contrasting thoughts by a further observation of Hildebrandt's, to the       
effect that dreams permit us an occasional glimpse of the deepest            
and innermost recesses of our being, which are generally closed to           
us in our waking state (p. 55). A recognition of this fact is betrayed       
by Kant in his Anthropology, when he states that our dreams may              
perhaps be intended to reveal to us not what we are but what we              
might have been if we had had another upbringing; and by Radestock (p.       
84), who suggests that dreams disclose to us what we do not wish to          
admit to ourselves, and that we therefore unjustly condemn them as           
lying and deceptive. J. E. Erdmann asserts: "A dream has never told me       
what I ought to think of a person, but, to my great surprise, a              
dream has more than once taught me what I do really think of him and         
feel about him." And J. H. Fichte expresses himself in a like                
manner: "The character of our dreams gives a far truer reflection of         
our general disposition than anything that we can learn by                   
self-observation in the waking state." Such remarks as this of               
Benini's call our attention to the fact that the emergence of impulses       
which are foreign to our ethical consciousness is merely analogous           
to the manner, already familiar to us, in which the dream disposes           
of other representative material: "Certe nostre inclinazioni che si          
credevano soffocate e spente da un pezzo, si ridestano; passioni             
vecchie e sepolte revivono; cose e persone a cui non pensiamo mai,           
ci vengono dinanzi" (p. 149). Volkelt expresses himself in a similar         
fashion: "Even ideas which have entered into our consciousness               
almost unnoticed, and which, perhaps, it has never before called out         
of oblivion, often announce their presence in the mind through a             
dream" (p 105). Finally, we may remember that according to                   
Schleiermacher the state of falling asleep is accompanied by the             
appearance of undesired imaginings.                                          
  We may include in such "undesired imaginings" the whole of that            
imaginative material the occurrence of which surprises us in immoral         
as well as in absurd dreams. The only important difference consists in       
the fact that the undesired imaginings in the moral sphere are in            
opposition to our usual feelings, whereas the others merely appear           
strange to us. So far nothing has been done to enable us to                  
reconcile this difference by a profounder understanding.                     
  But what is the significance of the emergence of undesired                 
representations in dreams? What conclusions can the psychology of            
the waking and dreaming mind draw from these nocturnal                       
manifestations of contrasting ethical impulses? Here we find a fresh         
diversity of opinion, and also a different grouping of the authors who       
have treated of the subject. The line of thought followed by                 
Hildebrandt, and by others who share his fundamental opinion, cannot         
be continued otherwise than by ascribing to the immoral impulses, even       
in the waking state, a latent vitality, which is indeed inhibited from       
proceeding to action, and by asserting that during sleep something           
falls away from us which, having the effect of an inhibition, has kept       
us from becoming aware of the existence of such impulses. Dreams             
therefore, reveal the true, if not the whole, nature of the dreamer,         
and are one means of making the hidden life of the psyche accessible         
to our understanding. It is only on such hypotheses that Hildebrandt         
can attribute to the dream the role of a monitor who calls our               
attention to the secret mischief in the soul, just as, according to          
the physicians, it may announce a hitherto unobserved physical               
disorder. Spitta, too, must be influenced by this conception when he         
refers, for example, to the stream of excitations which flow in upon         
the psyche during puberty, and consoles the dreamer by assuring him          
that he has done all that is in his power to do if he has led a              
strictly virtuous life during his waking state, if he has made an            
effort to suppress the sinful thoughts as often as they arise, and has       
kept them from maturing and turning into action. According to this           
conception, we might designate as "undesired imaginings" those that          
are suppressed during the day, and we must recognize in their                
emergence a genuine psychic phenomenon.                                      
  According to certain other authors, we have no right to draw this          
last inference. For Jessen (p. 360) the undesired ideas and images, in       
the dream as in the waking state, and also in the delirium of fever,         
etc., possess "the character of a voluntary activity laid to rest, and       
of a procession, to some extent mechanical, of images and ideas evoked       
by inner impulses." An immoral dream proves nothing in respect of            
the psychic life of the dreamer except that he has somehow become            
cognizant of the imaginative content in question; it is certainly no         
proof of a psychic impulse of his own mind. Another writer, Maury,           
makes us wonder whether he, too, does not ascribe to the dream-state         
the power of dividing the psychic activity into its components,              
instead of aimlessly destroying it. He speaks as follows of dreams           
in which one oversteps the bounds of morality: "Ce sont nos                  
penchants qui parlent et qui nous font agir, sans que la conscience          
nous retienne, bien que parfois elle nous avertisse. J'ai mes                
defauts et mes penchants vicieux; a l'etat de veille, je tache de            
lutter contre eux, et il m'arrive assez souvent de n'y pas                   
succomber. Mais dans mes songes j'y succombe toujours, ou pour mieux         
dire j'agis par leur impulsion, sans crainte et sans remords....             
Evidemment les visions qui se deroulent devant ma pensee, et qui             
constituent le reve, me sont suggerees par les incitations que je            
ressens et que ma volonte absente ne cherche pas a refouler."- * Le          
Sommeil (p. 113).                                                            
-                                                                            
  * Our tendencies speak and make us act, without being restrained           
by our conscience, although it sometimes warns us. I have my faults          
and vicious tendencies; awake I try to fight against them, and often         
enough I do not succumb to them. But in my dreams I always succumb,          
or, rather, I act at their direction, without fear or remorse....            
Evidently, the visions which unfold in my thoughts, and which                
constitute the dream, are suggested by the stimuli which I feel and          
which my absent will does not try to repel.                                  
-                                                                            
  If one believed in the power of the dream to reveal an actually            
existing, but suppressed or concealed, immoral disposition of the            
dreamer, one could not express one's opinion more emphatically than in       
the words of Maury (p. 115): "En reve l'homme se revele donc tout            
entier a soi-meme dans sa nudite et sa misere natives. Des qu'il             
suspend l'exercise de sa volonte, il devient le jouet de toutes les          
passions contre lesquelles, a l'etat de veille, la conscience, le            
sentiment d'honneur, la crainte nous defendent." * In another place          
makes the striking assertion (p. 462): "Dans le reve, c'est surtout          
l'homme instinctif que se revele.... L'homme revient pour ainsi dire         
l'etat de nature quand il reve; mais moins les idees acquises ont            
penetre dans son esprit, plus 'les penchants en desaccord' avec              
elles conservent encore sur lui d'influence dans le rive." *(2) He           
then mentions, as an example, that his own dreams often reveal him           
as a victim of just those superstitions which he has most vigorously         
attacked in his writings.                                                    
-                                                                            
  * In a dream, a man is totally revealed to himself in his naked            
and wretched state. As he suspends the exercise of his will, he              
becomes the toy of all the passions from which, when awake, our              
conscience, horror, and fear defend us.                                      
  *(2) In a dream, it is above all the instinctive man who is                
revealed.... Man returns, so to speak, to the natural state when he          
dreams; but the less acquired ideas have penetrated into his mind, the       
more his "tendencies to disagreement" with them keep their hold on him       
in his dreams.                                                               
-                                                                            
  The value of all these acute observations is, however, impaired in         
Maury's case, because he refuses to recognize in the phenomena which         
he has so accurately observed anything more than a proof of the              
automatisme psychologique which in his own opinion dominates the             
dream-life. He conceives this automatism as the complete opposite of         
psychic activity.                                                            
  A passage in Stricker's Studien uber das Bewusstsein reads:                
"Dreams do not consist purely and simply of delusions; for example, if       
one is afraid of robbers in a dream, the robbers indeed are imaginary,       
but the fear is real." Our attention is here called to the fact that         
the affective development of a dream does not admit of the judgment          
which one bestows upon the rest of the dream-content, and the                
problem then arises: What part of the psychic processes in a dream may       
be real? That is to say, what part of them may claim to be enrolled          
among the psychic processes of the waking state?                             
                                                                             
I|G                                                                          
           G. Dream-Theories and the Function of the Dream                   
-                                                                            
  A statement concerning the dream which seeks to explain as many as         
possible of its observed characteristics from a single point of              
view, and which at the same time defines the relation of the dream           
to a more comprehensive sphere of phenomena, may be described as a           
theory of the dream. The individual theories of the dream will be            
distinguished from one another by their designating as essential             
this or that characteristic of dreams, and relating thereto their data       
and their explanations. It is not absolutely necessary that we               
should deduce from the theory of the dream a function, i.e., a use           
or any such similar role, but expectation, being as a matter of              
habit teleologically inclined, will nevertheless welcome those               
theories which afford us some insight into a function of dreams.             
  We have already become acquainted with many conceptions of the             
dream, which in this sense are more or less deserving of the name of         
dream-theories. The belief of the ancients that dreams were sent by          
the gods in order to guide the actions of man was a complete theory of       
the dream, which told them all that was worth knowing about dreams.          
Since dreams have become an object of biological research we have a          
greater number of theories, some of which, however, are very                 
incomplete.                                                                  
  Provided we make no claim to completeness, we might venture on the         
following rough grouping of dream-theories, based on their fundamental       
conception of the degree and mode of the psychic activity in dreams:-        
  1. Theories, like those of Delboeuf, which allow the full psychic          
activity of the waking state to continue in our dreams. Here the             
psyche does not sleep; its apparatus remains intact; but under the           
conditions of the sleeping state, which differ from those of the             
waking state, it must in its normal functioning give results which           
differ from those of the waking state. As regards these theories, it         
may be questioned whether their authors are in a position to derive          
the distinction between dreaming and waking thought entirely from            
the conditions of the sleeping state. Moreover, they lack one possible       
access to a function of dreams; one does not understand to what              
purpose one dreams- why the complicated mechanism of the psychic             
apparatus should continue to operate even when it is placed under            
conditions to which it does not appear to be adapted. There are only         
two purposeful reactions in the place of the reaction of dreaming:           
to sleep dreamlessly, or to wake when affected by disturbing stimuli.        
  2. Theories which, on the contrary, assume for the dream a                 
diminution of the psychic activity, a loosening of connections, and an       
impoverishment of the available material. In accordance with these           
theories, one must assume for sleep a psychological character entirely       
different from that given by Delboeuf. Sleep encroaches widely upon          
the psyche; it does not consist in the mere shutting it off from the         
outer world; on the contrary, it enters into its mechanism, and              
makes it for the time being unserviceable. If I may draw a                   
comparison from psychiatry, I would say that the first group of              
theories construes the dream like a paranoia, while the second               
represents it as a type of mental deficiency or amentia.                     
  The theory that only a fragment of the psychic activity paralysed by       
sleep finds expression in dreams is that by far the most favoured by         
medical writers, and by scientists in general. In so far as one may          
presuppose a general interest in dream-interpretation, one may               
indeed describe it as the most popular theory of dreams. It is               
remarkable how nimbly this particular theory avoids the greatest             
danger that threatens every dream-interpretation; that is, shipwreck         
on one of the contrasts incorporated in dreams. Since this theory            
regards dreams as the result of a partial waking (or, as Herbart             
puts it in his Psychologie uber den Traum, "a gradual, partial, and at       
the same time very anomalous waking"), it is able to cover the whole         
series, from the inferior activities of dreams, which betray                 
themselves by their absurdity, to fully concentrated intellectual            
activity, by a series of states of progressive awakening, ending in          
complete wakefulness.                                                        
  Those who find the physiological mode of expression indispensable,         
or who deem it more scientific, will find this theory of dreams              
summarized in Binz's description (p. 43):-                                   
  "This state (of torpor), however, gradually comes to an end in the         
hours of early morning. The accumulated products of fatigue in the           
albumen of the brain gradually diminish. They are slowly decomposed,         
or carried away by the constantly flowing blood-stream. Here and there       
individual groups of cells can be distinguished as being awake,              
while around them all is still in a state of torpidity. The isolated         
work of the individual groups now appears before our clouded                 
consciousness, which is still powerless to control other parts of            
the brain, which govern the associations. Hence the pictures                 
created, which for the most part correspond to the objective                 
impressions of the immediate past, combine with one another in a             
wild and uncontrolled fashion. As the number of brain-cells set free         
constantly increases, the irrationality of the dream becomes                 
constantly less."                                                            
  The conception of the dream as an incomplete, partial waking               
state, or traces of the influence of this conception, will of course         
be found in the works of all the modern physiologists and                    
philosophers. It is most completely represented by Maury. It often           
seems as though this author conceives the state of being awake or            
asleep as susceptible of shifting from one anatomical region to              
another; each anatomical region seeming to him to be connected with          
a definite psychic function. Here I will merely suggest that even if         
the theory of partial waking were confirmed, its finer                       
superstructure would still call for exhaustive consideration.                
  No function of dreams, of course, can emerge from this conception of       
the dream-life. On the contrary, Binz, one of the chief proponents           
of this theory, consistently enough denies that dreams have any status       
or importance. He says (p. 357): "All the facts, as we see them,             
urge us to characterize the dream as a physical process, in all              
cases useless, and in many cases definitely morbid."                         
  The expression physical in reference to dreams (the word is                
emphasized by the author) points, of course, in more than one                
direction. In the first place, it refers to the aetiology of dreams,         
which was of special interest to Binz, as he was studying the                
experimental production of dreams by the administration of drugs. It         
is certainly in keeping with this kind of dream-theory to ascribe            
the incitement to dreaming, whenever possible, exclusively to                
somatic origins. Presented in the most extreme form the theory is as         
follows: After we have put ourselves to sleep by the banishment of           
stimuli, there would be no need to dream, and no reason for dreaming         
until the morning, when the gradual awakening through the fresh              
invasion of stimuli might be reflected in the phenomenon of                  
dreaming. But, as a matter of fact, it is not possible to protect            
our sleep from stimuli; like the germs of life of which Mephistopheles       
complained, stimuli come to the sleeper from all directions- from            
without, from within, and even from all those bodily regions which           
never trouble us during the waking state. Thus our sleep is disturbed;       
now this, now that little corner of the psyche is jogged into the            
waking state, and the psyche functions for a while with the awakened         
fraction, yet is thankful to fall asleep again. The dream is the             
reaction to the disturbance of sleep caused by the stimulus, but it          
is, when all is said, a purely superfluous reaction.                         
  The description of the dream- which, after all, remains an                 
activity of the psychic organ- as a physical process has yet another         
connotation. So to describe it is to deny that the dream has the             
dignity of a psychic process. The old simile of "the ten fingers of          
a person ignorant of music running over the keyboard of an instrument"       
perhaps best illustrates in what esteem the dream is commonly held           
by the representatives of exact science. Thus conceived, it becomes          
something wholly insusceptible of interpretation. How could the ten          
fingers of a player ignorant of music perform a musical composition?         
  The theory of partial wakefulness did not escape criticism even by         
the earlier writers. Thus Burdach wrote in 1830: "If we say that             
dreaming is a partial waking, then, in the first place, neither the          
waking nor the sleeping state is explained thereby; secondly, this           
amounts only to saying that certain powers of the mind are active in         
dreams while others are at rest. But such irregularities occur               
throughout life..." (p. 482).                                                
  The prevailing dream-theory which conceives the dream as a                 
"physical" process finds a certain support in a very interesting             
conception of the dream which was first propounded by Robert in              
1866, and which is seductive because it assigns to the dream a               
function or a useful result. As the basis of his theory Robert takes         
two objectively observable facts which we have already discussed in          
our consideration of dream-material (chapter I., B). These facts             
are: (1) that one very often dreams about the most insignificant             
impressions of the day; and (2) that one rarely carries over into            
the dream the absorbing interests of the day. Robert asserts as an           
indisputable fact that those matters which have been fully settled and       
solved never evoke dreams, but only such as lie incompleted in the           
mind, or touch it merely in passing (p. 10). "For this reason we             
cannot usually explain our dreams, since their causes are to be              
found in sensory impressions of the preceding day which have not             
attained sufficient recognition on the part of the dreamer." The             
condition permitting an impression to reach the dream is, therefore,         
that this impression has been disturbed in its elaboration, or that it       
was too insignificant to lay claim to such elaboration.                      
  Robert therefore conceives the dream "as a physical process of             
elimination which in its psychic reaction reaches the                        
consciousness." Dreams are eliminations of thoughts nipped in the bud.       
"A man deprived of the capacity for dreaming would in time become            
mentally unbalanced, because an immense number of unfinished and             
unsolved thoughts and superficial impressions would accumulate in            
his brain, under the pressure of which all that should be incorporated       
in the memory as a completed whole would be stifled." The dream acts         
as a safety-valve for the over-burdened brain. Dreams possess a              
healing and unburdening power (p. 32).                                       
  We should misunderstand Robert if we were to ask him how                   
representation in the dream could bring about an unburdening of the          
mind. The writer apparently concluded from these two peculiarities           
of the dream-material that during sleep such an elimination of               
worthless impressions is effected somehow as a somatic process; and          
that dreaming is not a special psychic process, but only the                 
information which we receive of such elimination. Moreover,                  
elimination is not the only thing that takes place in the mind               
during sleep. Robert himself adds that the stimuli of the day are            
likewise elaborated, and "what cannot be eliminated from the                 
undigested thought-material lying in the mind is bound up into a             
completed whole by mental clues borrowed from the imagination, and           
is thus enrolled in the memory as a harmless phantasy-picture" (p.           
23).                                                                         
  But it is in his criticism of the sources of dreams that Robert is         
most flatly opposed to the prevailing theory. Whereas according to           
this theory there would be no dream if the external and internal             
sensory stimuli did not repeatedly wake the mind, according to               
Robert the impulse to dream lies in the mind itself. It lies in the          
overloading of the mind, which demands discharge, and Robert                 
considers, quite consistently, that those causes conditioning the            
dream which depend on the physical condition assume a subordinate            
rank, and could not incite dreams in a mind which contained no               
material for dream-formation derived from the waking consciousness. It       
is admitted, however, that the phantasy-images originating in the            
depths of the mind may be influenced by nervous stimuli (p. 48). Thus,       
according to Robert, dreams are not, after all, wholly dependent on          
the somatic element. Dreaming is, of course, not a psychic process,          
and it has no place among the psychic processes of the waking state;         
it is a nocturnal somatic process in the apparatus of mental activity,       
and has a function to perform, viz., to guard this apparatus against         
excessive strain, or, if we may be allowed to change the comparison,         
to cleanse the mind.                                                         
  Another author, Yves Delage, bases his theory on the same                  
characteristics of the dream- characteristics which are perceptible in       
the selection of the dream-material, and it is instructive to                
observe how a trifling twist in the conception of the same things            
gives a final result entirely different in its bearings.                     
  Delage, having lost through death a person very dear to him, found         
that we either do not dream at all of what occupies us intently during       
the day, or that we begin to dream of it only after it is overshadowed       
by the other interests of the day. His investigations in respect of          
other persons corroborated the universality of this state of                 
affairs. Concerning the dreams of newly-married people, he makes a           
comment which is admirable if it should prove to be generally true:          
"S'ils ont ete fortement epris, presque jamais ils n'ont reve l'un           
de l'autre avant le mariage ou pendant la lune de miel; et s'ils ont         
reve d'amour c'est pour etre infideles avec quelque personne                 
indifferente ou odieuse." * But of what does one dream? Delage               
recognizes that the material of our dreams consists of fragments and         
remnants of impressions, both from the last few days and from                
earlier periods. All that appears in our dreams, all that we may at          
first be inclined to consider the creation of the dream-life, proves         
on closer investigation to be unrecognized reproduction, "souvenir           
inconscient." But this representative material reveals one common            
characteristic; it originates from impressions which have probably           
affected our senses more forcibly than our mind, or from which the           
attention has been deflected soon after their occurrence. The less           
conscious, and at the same time the stronger an impression, the              
greater the prospect of its playing a part in our next dream.                
-                                                                            
  * If they are very much in love, they have almost never dreamed of         
each other before the marriage or during the honeymoon; and if they          
have dreamed of love, it was to be unfaithful with someone unimportant       
or distasteful.                                                              
-                                                                            
  These two categories of impressions- the insignificant and the             
undisposed-of- are essentially the same as those which were emphasized       
by Robert, but Delage gives them another significance, inasmuch as           
he believes that these impressions are capable of exciting dreams            
not because they are indifferent, but because they are not disposed          
of. The insignificant impressions also are, in a sense, not fully            
disposed of; they, too, owing to their character of new impressions,         
are "autant de ressorts tendus," * which will be relaxed during sleep.       
Still more entitled to a role in the dream than a weak and almost            
unnoticed impression is a vivid impression which has been accidentally       
retarded in its elaboration, or intentionally repressed. The psychic         
energy accumulated during the day by inhibition or suppression becomes       
the mainspring of the dream at night. In dreams psychically suppressed       
material achieves expression. *(2)                                           
-                                                                            
  * So many taut lines.                                                      
  *(2) A novelist, Anatole France, expresses himself to a similar            
effect (Le Lys Rouge): "Ce que nous voyons la nuit ce sont les               
restes malheureux que nous avons neglige dans la veille. Le reve est         
souvent la revanche des choses qu'on meprise ou le reproche des              
etres abandonnes." [What we see at night are the unhappy relics that         
we neglected while awake. The dream is often the revenge of things           
scorned or the reproach of beings deserted.]                                 
-                                                                            
  Unfortunately Delage does not pursue this line of thought any              
farther; he is able to ascribe only the most insignificant role in our       
dreams to an independent psychic activity, and thus, in his theory           
of dreams, he reverts to the prevailing doctrine of a partial                
slumber of the brain: "En somme le reve est le produit de la pensee          
errante, sans but et sans direction, se fixant successivement sur            
les souvenirs, qui ont garde assez d'intensite pour se placer sur sa         
route et l'arreter au passage, etablissant entre eux un lien tantot          
faible et indecis, tantot plus fort et plus serre, selon que                 
l'activite actuelle du cerveau est plus ou moins abolie par le               
sommeil." *                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * In short, the dream is the product of wandering thought, without         
end or direction, successively fixing on memories which have                 
retained sufficient intensity to put themselves in the way and block         
the passage, establishing between themselves a connection sometimes          
weak and loose, sometimes stronger and closer, according to whether          
the actual work of the brain is more or less suppressed by sleep.            
-                                                                            
  3. In a third group we may include those dream-theories which              
ascribe to the dreaming mind the capacity for and propensity to              
special psychic activities, which in the waking state it is able to          
exert either not at all or imperfectly. In most cases the                    
manifestation of these activities is held to result in a useful              
function of dreams. The evaluations of dreams by the earlier                 
psychologists fall chiefly within this category. I shall content             
myself, however, with quoting in their stead the assertion of Burdach,       
to the effect that dreaming "is the natural activity of the mind,            
which is not limited by the power of the individuality, nor                  
disturbed by self-consciousness, nor directed by self-determination,         
but is the vitality of the sensible focus indulging in free play"            
(p. 486).                                                                    
  Burdach and others evidently consider this revelling in the free use       
of its own powers as a state in which the mind refreshes itself and          
gathers fresh strength for the day's work; something, indeed, after          
the fashion of a vacation. Burdach therefore cites with approval the         
admirable words in which the poet Novalis lauds the power of the             
dream: "The dream is a bulwark against the regularity and                    
commonplace character of life, a free recreation of the fettered             
phantasy, in which it intermingles all the images of life and                
interrupts the constant seriousness of the adult by the joyful play of       
the child. Without the dream we should surely grow old earlier, so           
that the dream may be considered, if not precisely as a gift from            
above, yet as a delightful exercise, a friendly companion on our             
pilgrimage to the grave."                                                    
  The refreshing and healing activity of dreams is even more                 
impressively described by Purkinje (p. 456). "The productive dreams in       
particular would perform these functions. These are the                      
unconstrained play of the imagination, and have no connection with the       
events of the day. The mind is loth to continue the tension of the           
waking life, but wishes to relax it and recuperate from it. It               
creates, in the first place conditions opposed to those of the               
waking state. It cures sadness by joy, worry by hope and cheerfully          
distracting images, hatred by love and friendliness, and fear by             
courage and confidence; it appeases doubt by conviction and firm             
belief, and vain expectation by realization. Sleep heals many sore           
spots in the mind, which the day keeps continually open, by covering         
them and guarding them against fresh irritation. On this depends in          
some degree the consoling action of time." We all feel that sleep is         
beneficial to the psychic life, and the vague surmise of the popular         
consciousness is apparently loth to surrender the notion that dreaming       
is one of the ways in which sleep bestows its benefits.                      
  The most original and most comprehensive attempt to explain dreaming       
as a special activity of the mind, which can freely unfold itself only       
in the sleeping state, is that made by Scherner in 1861. Scherner's          
book is written in a heavy and bombastic style and is inspired by an         
almost intoxicated enthusiasm for the subject, which is bound to repel       
us unless it can carry us away with it. It places so many difficulties       
in the way of an analysis that we gladly resort to the clearer and           
conciser presentation of Scherner's theories made by the philosopher         
Volkelt: "From these mystical conglomerations, from all these                
outbursts of splendour and radiance, there indeed flashes and shines         
an ominous semblance of meaning; but the path of the philosopher is          
not illumined thereby." Such is the criticism of Scherner's exposition       
by one of his own followers.                                                 
  Scherner is not one of those writers for whom the mind carries its         
undiminished faculties into the dream-life. He even explains how, in         
our dreams, the centrality and spontaneous energy of the ego become          
enervated; how cognition, feeling, will, and imagination are                 
transformed by this decentralization; how the remnant of these psychic       
forces has not a truly intellectual character, but is rather of the          
nature of a mechanism. But, on the other hand, that activity of the          
psyche which may be described as phantasy, freed from all rational           
governance, and hence no longer strictly controlled, rises to absolute       
supremacy in our dreams. To be sure, it borrows all its                      
building-material from the memory of the waking state, but with this         
material it builds up structures which differ from those of the waking       
state as day differs from night. In our dreams it reveals itself as          
not only reproductive but also productive. Its peculiarities give            
the dream-life its singular character. It shows a preference for the         
unlimited, the exaggerated, the prodigious; but by its liberation from       
 
the inhibiting categories of thought, it gains a greater flexibility         
and agility, and indulges in pleasurable turns. It is excessively            
sensitive to the delicate emotional stimuli of the mind, to its              
stirring and disturbing affects, and it rapidly recasts the inner life       
into an external, plastic visibility. The dream-phantasy lacks the           
language of concepts. What it wishes to say it must express in visible       
form; and since in this case the concept does not exert an                   
inhibitory control, it depicts it in all the fulness, power, and             
breadth of visible form. But hereby its language, plain though it            
is, becomes cumbersome, awkward, and prolix. Plain speaking is               
rendered especially difficult by the fact that it dislikes                   
expressing an object by its actual image, but prefers to select an           
alien image, if only the latter is able to express that particular           
aspect of the object which it is anxious to represent. Such is the           
symbolizing activity of the phantasy.... It is, moreover, very               
significant that the dream-phantasy reproduces objects not in                
detail, but only in outline, and in the freest possible manner. Its          
paintings, therefore, are like light and brilliant sketches. The             
dream-phantasy, however, does not stop at the mere representation of         
the object, but feels an internal urge to implicate the dream-ego to         
some extent with the object, and thus to give rise to action. The            
visual dream, for example, depicts gold coins lying in the street; the       
dreamer picks them up, rejoices, and carries them away.                      
  According to Scherner, the material upon which the dream-phantasy          
exerts its artistic activity consists preponderantly of the organic          
sensory stimuli which are so obscure during the day (cf. p. 151              
above); hence it is that the over-fantastic theory of Scherner, and          
perhaps too matter-of-fact theories of Wundt and other                       
physiologists, though otherwise diametrically opposed to each other,         
are in perfect agreement in their assumptions with regard to                 
dream-sources and dream-stimuli. But whereas, according to the               
physiological theory, the psychic reaction to the inner physical             
stimuli becomes exhausted with the arousing of any of the ideas              
appropriate to these stimuli (as these ideas then, by way of                 
association, call to their aid other ideas, so that on reaching this         
stage the chain of psychic processes appears to terminate),                  
according to Scherner, on the other hand, the physical stimuli               
merely supply the psyche with material which it may utilize in               
fulfilling its phantastic intentions. For Scherner dream-formation           
begins where, according to the views of other writers, it comes to           
an end.                                                                      
  What the dream-phantasy does with the physical stimuli cannot, of          
course, be regarded as purposeful. The phantasy plays a tantalizing          
game with them, and represents the organic source of the stimuli of          
the dream in question by any sort of plastic symbolism. Indeed,              
Scherner holds- though here Volkelt and others differ from him- that         
the dream-phantasy has a certain favourite symbol for the organism           
as a whole: namely, the house. Fortunately, however, for its                 
representations, it does not seem to limit itself to this material; it       
may also employ a whole series of houses to designate a single               
organ; for example, very long streets of houses for the intestinal           
stimulus. In other dreams particular parts of the house may actually         
represent particular regions of the body, as in the headache-dream,          
when the ceiling of the room (which the dream sees covered with              
disgusting toad-like spiders) represents the head.                           
  Quite apart from the symbol of the house, any other suitable               
object may be employed to represent those parts of the body which            
excite the dream. "Thus the breathing lungs find their symbol in the         
flaming stove with its windy roaring, the heart in hollow chests and         
baskets, the bladder in round, ball-shaped, or simply hollow                 
objects. The man's dreams, when due to the sexual stimulus, make the         
dreamer find in the street the upper portion of a clarinet, or the           
mouthpiece of a tobacco-pipe, or, again, a piece of fur. The                 
clarinet and tobacco-pipe represent the approximate form of the male         
sexual organ, while the fur represents the pubic hair. In the sexual         
dreams of the female, the tightness of the closed thighs may be              
symbolized by a narrow courtyard surrounded by houses, and the               
vagina by a very narrow, slippery and soft footpath, leading through         
the courtyard, upon which the dreamer is obliged to walk, in order           
perhaps to carry a letter to a man" (Volkelt, p. 39). It is                  
particularly noteworthy that at the end of such a physically                 
stimulated dream the phantasy, as it were, unmasks itself by                 
representing the exciting organ or its function unconcealed. Thus            
the "tooth-excited dream" usually ends with the dreamer taking a tooth       
out of his mouth.                                                            
  The dream-phantasy may, however, direct its attention not merely           
to the form of the exciting organ, but may even make the substance           
contained therein the object of symbolization. Thus, for example,            
the dream excited by the intestinal stimuli may lead us through              
muddy streets, the dream due to stimuli from the bladder to foaming          
water. Or the stimulus as such, the nature of its excitation, and            
the object which it covets, are represented symbolically. Or, again,         
the dream-ego enters into a concrete association with the                    
symbolization of its own state; as, for example, when in the case of         
painful stimuli we struggle desperately with vicious dogs or raging          
bulls, or when in a sexual dream the dreamer sees herself pursued by a       
naked man. Disregarding all the possible prolixity of elaboration, a         
phantastic symbolizing activity remains as the central force of              
every dream. Volkelt, in his fine and enthusiastic essay, attempted to       
penetrate still further into the character of this phantasy, and to          
assign to the psychic activity thus recognized its position in a             
system of philosophical ideas, which, however, remains altogether            
too difficult of comprehension for anyone who is not prepared by             
previous training for the intuitive comprehension of philosophical           
modes of thought.                                                            
  Scherner attributes no useful function to the activity of the              
symbolizing phantasy in dreams. In dreams the psyche plays with the          
stimuli which are offered to it. One might conjecture that it plays in       
a mischievous fashion. And we might be asked whether our detailed            
consideration of Scherner's dream-theory, the arbitrariness of               
which, and its deviation from the rules of all forms of research are         
only too obvious, can lead to any useful results. We might fitly reply       
that to reject Scherner's theory without previous examination would be       
imposing too arrogant a veto. This theory is based on the                    
impressions produced by his dreams on a man who paid close attention         
to them, and who would appear to be personally very well equipped            
for tracing obscure psychic phenomena. Furthermore, it treats of a           
subject which (though rich in its contents and relations) has for            
thousands of years appeared mysterious to humanity, and to the               
elucidation of which science, strictly so called, has, as it                 
confesses, contributed nothing beyond attempting- in uncompromising          
opposition to popular sentiment- to deny its content and significance.       
Finally, let us frankly admit that it seems as though we cannot very         
well avoid the phantastical in our attempts to explain dreams. We must       
remember also that there is such a thing as a phantasy of ganglion           
cells; the passage cited (p. 87) from a sober and exact investigator         
like Binz, which describes how the dawn of awakening floods the              
dormant cell-masses of the cerebral cortex, is not a whit less               
fanciful and improbable than Scherner's attempts at interpretation.          
I hope to be able to demonstrate that there is something real                
underlying these attempts, though the phenomena which he describes           
have been only vaguely recognized, and do not possess the character of       
universality that should entitle them to be the basis of a theory of         
dreams. For the present, Scherner's theory of dreams, in contrast to         
the medical theory, may perhaps lead us to realize between what              
extremes the explanation of dream-life is still unsteadily                   
vacillating.                                                                 
                                                                             
I|H                                                                          
          H. The Relation between Dreams and Mental Diseases                 
-                                                                            
  When we speak of the relation of dreams to mental derangement, we          
may mean three different things: (1) aetiological and clinical               
relations, as when a dream represents or initiates a psychotic               
condition, or occurs subsequently to such a condition; (2) changes           
which the dream-life undergoes in cases of mental disease; (3) inner         
relations between dreams and psychoses, analogies which point to an          
intimate relationship. These manifold relations between the two series       
of phenomena were in the early days of medical science- and are once         
more at the present time- a favourite theme of medical writers, as           
we may learn from the literature on the subject collated by Spitta,          
Radestock, Maury, and Tissie. Recently Sante de Sanctis has directed         
his attention to this relationship. * For the purposes of our                
discussion it will suffice merely to glance at this important subject.       
-                                                                            
  * Among the more recent authors who have occupied themselves with          
these relations are: Fere, Ideler, Lasegue, Pichon, Regis Vespa,             
Giessler, Kazodowsky, Pachantoni, and others.                                
-                                                                            
  As to the clinical and aetiological relations between dreams and the       
psychoses, I will report the following observations as examples:             
Hohnbaum asserts (see Krauss) that the first attack of insanity is           
frequently connected with a terrifying anxiety-dream, and that the           
predominating idea is related to this dream. Sante de Sanctis                
adduces similar observations in respect of paranoiacs, and declares          
the dream to be, in some of them, "la vraie cause determinante de la         
folie." * The psychosis may come to life quite suddenly,                     
simultaneously with the dream that contains its effective and delusive       
explanation, or it may develop slowly through subsequent dreams that         
have still to struggle against doubt. In one of de Sanctis's cases           
an intensively moving dream was accompanied by slight hysterical             
attacks, which, in their turn, were followed by an anxious melancholic       
state. Fere (cited by Tissie) refers to a dream which was followed           
by hysterical paralysis. Here the dream is presented as the                  
aetiology of mental derangement, although we should be making a              
statement equally consistent with the facts were we to say that the          
first manifestation of the mental derangement occurred in the                
dream-life, that the disorder first broke through in the dream. In           
other instances, the morbid symptoms are included in the dream-life,         
or the psychosis remains confined to the dream-life. Thus Thomayer           
calls our attention to anxiety-dreams which must be conceived as the         
equivalent of epileptic attacks. Allison has described cases of              
nocturnal insanity (see Radestock), in which the subjects are                
apparently perfectly well in the day-time, while hallucinations,             
fits of frenzy, and the like regularly make their appearance at night.       
De Sanctis and Tissie record similar observations (the equivalent of a       
paranoic dream in an alcoholic, voices accusing a wife of infidelity).       
Tissie records many observations of recent date in which behaviour           
of a pathological character (based on delusory hypotheses, obsessive         
impulses) had their origin in dreams. Guislain describes a case in           
which sleep was replaced by an intermittent insanity.                        
-                                                                            
  * The real determining cause of the madness.                               
-                                                                            
  We cannot doubt that one day the physician will concern himself            
not only with the psychology, but also with the psycho-pathology of          
dreams.                                                                      
  In cases of convalescence from insanity, it is often especially            
obvious that while the functions may be healthy by day the                   
dream-life may still partake of the psychosis. Gregory is said to have       
been the first to call attention to such cases (see Krauss). Macario         
(cited by Tissie) gives an account of a maniac who, a week after his         
complete recovery, once more experienced in dreams the flux of ideas         
and the unbridled impulses of his disease.                                   
  Concerning the changes which the dream-life undergoes in chronic           
psychotics, little research has been undertaken as yet. On the other         
hand, early attention was given to the inner relationship between            
dreams and mental disturbances, a relationship which is demonstrated         
by the complete agreement of the manifestations occurring in each.           
According to Maury, Cabanis, in his Rapports du Physique et du               
Moral, was the first to call attention to this relationship; he was          
followed by Lelut, J. Moreau, and more particularly the philosopher          
Maine de Biran. The comparison between the two is of course older            
still. Radestock begins the chapter in which he deals with the subject       
by citing a number of opinions which insist on the analogy between           
insanity and dreaming. Kant says somewhere: "The lunatic is a                
dreamer in the waking state." According to Krauss, "Insanity is a            
dream in which the senses are awake." Schopenhauer terms the dream a         
brief insanity, and insanity a long dream. Hagen describes delirium as       
a dream-life which is inducted not by sleep but by disease. Wundt,           
in his Physiologische Psychologie, declares: "As a matter of fact we         
ourselves may in dreams experience almost all the manifestations which       
we observe in the asylums for the insane."                                   
  The specific points of agreement in consequence of which such a            
comparison commends itself to our judgment are enumerated by Spitta,         
who groups them (very much as Maury has done) as follows: "(1)               
Suspension, or at least retardation of self-consciousness, and               
consequently ignorance of the condition as such, the impossibility           
of astonishment, and a lack of moral consciousness. (2) Modified             
perception of the sensory organs; that is, perception is as a rule           
diminished in dreams, and greatly enhanced in insanity. (3) Mutual           
combination of ideas exclusively in accordance with the laws of              
association and reproduction, hence automatic series-formations: hence       
again a lack of proportion in the relations between ideas                    
(exaggerations, phantasms); and the results of all this: (4) Changes         
in- for example, inversions of- the personality, and sometimes of            
the idiosyncrasies of the character (perversities)."                         
  Radestock adds a few additional data concerning the analogous nature       
of the material of dreams and of mental derangement: "The greatest           
number of hallucinations and illusions are found in the sphere of            
the senses of sight and hearing and general sensation. As in dreams,         
the fewest elements are supplied by the senses of smell and taste. The       
fever-patient, like the dreamer, is assailed by reminiscences from the       
remote past; what the waking and healthy man seems to have forgotten         
is recollected in sleep and in disease." The analogy between dreams          
and the psychoses receives its full value only when, like a family           
resemblance, it is extended to the subtler points of mimicry, and even       
the individual peculiarities of facial expression.                           
  "To him who is tortured by physical and mental sufferings the              
dream accords what has been denied him by reality, to wit, physical          
well-being, and happiness; so, too, the insane see radiant images of         
happiness, eminence, and wealth. The supposed possession of estates          
and the imaginary fulfilment of wishes, the denial or destruction of         
which have actually been a psychic cause of the insanity, often form         
the main content of the delirium. The woman who has lost a dearly            
beloved child experiences in her delirium the joys of maternity; the         
man who has suffered reverses of fortune deems himself immensely             
wealthy; and the jilted girl sees herself tenderly beloved."                 
  (This passage from Radestock is an abstract of a brilliant                 
exposition of Griesinger's (p. 111), which reveals, with the                 
greatest clarity, wish-fulfilment as a characteristic of the                 
imagination common to dreams and to the psychoses. My own                    
investigations have taught me that here is to be found the key to a          
psychological theory of dreams and of the psychoses.)                        
  "Absurd combinations of ideas and weakness of judgment are the             
main characteristics of the dream and of insanity." The                      
over-estimation of one's own mental capacity, which appears absurd           
to sober judgment, is found alike in both, and the rapid flux of             
imaginings in the dream corresponds to the flux of ideas in the              
psychoses. Both are devoid of any measure of time. The splitting of          
the personality in dreams, which, for instance, distributes one's            
own knowledge between two persons, one of whom, the strange person,          
corrects one's own ego in the dream, entirely corresponds with the           
well-known splitting of the personality in hallucinatory paranoia; the       
dreamer, too, hears his own thoughts expressed by strange voices. Even       
the constant delusive ideas find their analogy in the stereotyped            
and recurring pathological dream (reve obsedant). After recovering           
from delirium, patients not infrequently declare that the whole period       
of their illness appeared to them like an uncomfortable dream; indeed,       
they inform us that sometimes during their illness they have suspected       
that they were only dreaming, just as often happens in the                   
sleep-dream.                                                                 
  In view of all this, it is not surprising that Radestock should            
summarize his own opinion, and that of many others, in the following         
words: "Insanity, an abnormal morbid phenomenon, is to be regarded           
as an enhancement of the periodically recurring normal dream-state"          
(p. 228).                                                                    
  Krauss attempted to base the relationship between the dream and            
insanity upon their aetiology (or rather upon the sources of                 
excitation), thus, perhaps, making the relationship even more intimate       
than was possible on the basis of the analogous nature of the                
phenomena manifested. According to him, the fundamental element common       
to both is, as we have already learned, the organically conditioned          
sensation, the sensation of physical stimuli, the general sensation          
arising out of contributions from all the organs (cf. Peisse, cited by       
Maury, p. 52).                                                               
  The undeniable agreement between dreams and mental derangement,            
extending even to characteristic details, constitutes one of the             
strongest confirmations of the medical theory of dream-life, according       
to which the dream is represented as a useless and disturbing process,       
and as the expression of a diminished psychic activity. One cannot           
expect, for the present, to derive the final explanation of the              
dream from the psychic derangements, since, as is well known, our            
understanding of the origin of the latter is still highly                    
unsatisfactory. It is very probable, however, that a modified                
conception of the dream must also influence our views regarding the          
inner mechanism of mental disorders, and hence we may say that we            
are working towards the explanation of the psychoses when we endeavour       
to elucidate the mystery of dreams.                                          
-                                                                            
                            ADDENDUM 1909                                    
-                                                                            
  I shall have to justify myself for not extending my summary of the         
literature of dream-problems to cover the period between the first           
appearance of this book and the publication of the second edition.           
This justification may not seem very satisfactory to the reader;             
none the less, to me it was decisive. The motives which induced me           
to summarize the treatment of dreams in the literature of the                
subject have been exhausted by the foregoing introduction; to have           
continued this would have cost me a great deal of effort and would not       
have been particularly useful or instructive. For the interval in            
question- a period of nine years- has yielded nothing new or                 
valuable as regards the conception of dreams, either in actual               
material or in novel points of view. In most of the literature which         
has appeared since the publication of my own work the latter has not         
been mentioned or discussed; it has, of course, received the least           
attention from the so-called "research-workers on dreams," who have          
thus afforded a brilliant example of the aversion to learning anything       
new so characteristic of the scientist. "Les savants ne sont pas             
curieux," * said the scoffer Anatole France. If there were such a            
thing in science as the right of revenge, I in my turn should be             
justified in ignoring the literature which has appeared since the            
publication of this book. The few reviews which have appeared in the         
scientific journals are so full of misconceptions and lack of                
comprehension that my only possible answer to my critics would be a          
request that they should read this book over again- or perhaps               
merely that they should read it!                                             
-                                                                            
  * The learned are not inquisitive.                                         
-                                                                            
  In the works of those physicians who make use of the psycho-analytic       
method of treatment a great many dreams have been recorded and               
interpreted in accordance with my directions. In so far as these works       
go beyond the confirmation of my own assertions, I have noted their          
results in the context of my exposition. A supplementary                     
bibliography at the end of this volume comprises the most important of       
these new publications. The comprehensive work on the dream by Sante         
de Sanctis, of which a German translation appeared soon after its            
publication, was produced simultaneously with my own, so that I              
could not review his results, nor could he comment upon mine. I am           
sorry to have to express the opinion that this laborious work is             
exceedingly poor in ideas, so poor that one could never divine from it       
the possibility of the problems which I have treated in these pages.         
  I can think of only two publications which touch on my own treatment       
of the dream-problems. A young philosopher, H. Swoboda, who has              
ventured to extend W. Fliess's discovery of biological periodicity (in       
series of twenty-three and twenty-eight days) to the psychic field,          
has produced an imaginative essay, * in which, among other things,           
he has used this key to solve the riddle of dreams. Such a solution,         
however, would be an inadequate estimate of the significance of              
dreams. The material content of dreams would be explained by the             
coincidence of all those memories which, on the night of the dream,          
complete one of these biological periods for the first or the nth            
time. A personal communication of the author's led me to assume that         
he himself no longer took this theory very seriously. But it seems           
that I was mistaken in this conclusion: I shall record in another            
place some observations made with reference to Swoboda's thesis, which       
did not, however, yield convincing results. It gave me far greater           
pleasure to find by chance, in an unexpected quarter, a conception           
of the dream which is in complete agreement with the essence of my           
own. The relevant dates preclude the possibility that this                   
conception was influenced by reading my book: I must therefore hail          
this as the only demonstrable concurrence with the essentials of my          
theory of dreams to be found in the literature of the subject. The           
book which contains the passage that I have in mind was published            
(in its second edition) in 1910, by Lynkeus, under the title                 
Phantasien eines Realisten.                                                  
-                                                                            
  * H. Swoboda, Die Perioden des Menschlichen Organismus, 1904.              
-                                                                            
                            ADDENDUM 1914                                    
-                                                                            
  The above apologia was written in 1909. Since then, the state of           
affairs has certainly undergone a change; my contribution to the             
"interpretation of dreams" is no longer ignored in the literature of         
the subject. But the new situation makes it even more impossible to          
continue the foregoing summary. The Interpretation of Dreams has             
evoked a whole series of new contentions and problems, which have been       
expounded by the authors in the most varied fashions. But I cannot           
discuss these works until I have developed the theories to which their       
authors have referred. Whatever has appeared to me as valuable in this       
recent literature I have accordingly reviewed in the course of the           
following exposition.                                                        
                                                                             
II                                                                           
                II. THE METHOD OF DREAM INTERPRETATION                       
-                                                                            
                   The Analysis of a Specimen Dream                          
-                                                                            
  THE epigraph on the title-page of this volume indicates the                
tradition to which I prefer to ally myself in my conception of the           
dream. I am proposing to show that dreams are capable of                     
interpretation; and any contributions to the solution of the                 
problems which have already been discussed will emerge only as               
possible by-products in the accomplishment of my special task. On            
the hypothesis that dreams are susceptible of interpretation, I at           
once find myself in disagreement with the prevailing doctrine of             
dreams- in fact, with all the theories of dreams, excepting only             
that of Scherner, for to interpret a dream is to specify its                 
meaning, to replace it by something which takes its position in the          
concatenation of our psychic activities as a link of definite                
importance and value. But, as we have seen, the scientific theories of       
the dream leave no room for a problem of dream-interpretation;               
since, in the first place, according to these theories, dreaming is          
not a psychic activity at all, but a somatic process which makes             
itself known to the psychic apparatus by means of symbols. Lay opinion       
has always been opposed to these theories. It asserts its privilege of       
proceeding illogically, and although it admits that dreams are               
incomprehensible and absurd, it cannot summon up the courage to deny         
that dreams have any significance. Led by a dim intuition, it seems          
rather to assume that dreams have a meaning, albeit a hidden one; that       
they are intended as a substitute for some other thought-process,            
and that we have only to disclose this substitute correctly in order         
to discover the hidden meaning of the dream.                                 
  The unscientific world, therefore, has always endeavoured to               
interpret dreams, and by applying one or the other of two                    
essentially different methods. The first of these methods envisages          
the dream-content as a whole, and seeks to replace it by another             
content, which is intelligible and in certain respects analogous. This       
is symbolic dream-interpretation; and of course it goes to pieces at         
the very outset in the case of those dreams which are not only               
unintelligible but confused. The construction which the biblical             
Joseph placed upon the dream of Pharaoh furnishes an example of this         
method. The seven fat kine, after which came seven lean ones that            
devoured the former, were a symbolic substitute for seven years of           
famine in the land of Egypt, which according to the prediction were to       
consume all the surplus that seven fruitful years had produced. Most         
of the artificial dreams contrived by the poets * are intended for           
some such symbolic interpretation, for they reproduce the thought            
conceived by the poet in a guise not unlike the disguise which we            
are wont to find in our dreams.                                              
-                                                                            
  * In a novel Gradiva, by the poet W. Jensen, I chanced to discover         
several fictitious dreams, which were perfectly correct in their             
construction, and could be interpreted as though they had not been           
invented, but had been dreamt by actual persons. The poet declared,          
upon my inquiry, that he was unacquainted with my theory of dreams.          
I have made use of this agreement between my investigations and the          
creations of the poet as a proof of the correctness of my method of          
dream-analysis (Der Wahn und die Traume in W. Jenson's Gradiva, vol. i       
of the Schriften zur angewandten Seelenkunde, 1906, edited by                
myself, Ges. Schriften, vol. ix).                                            
-                                                                            
  The idea that the dream concerns itself chiefly with the future,           
whose form it surmises in advance- a relic of the prophetic                  
significance with which dreams were once invested- now becomes the           
motive for translating into the future the meaning of the dream              
which has been found by means of symbolic interpretation.                    
  A demonstration of the manner in which one arrives at such a               
symbolic interpretation cannot, of course, be given. Success remains a       
matter of ingenious conjecture, of direct intuition, and for this            
reason dream-interpretation has naturally been elevated into an art          
which seems to depend upon extraordinary gifts. * The second of the          
two popular methods of dream-interpretation entirely abandons such           
claims. It might be described as the cipher method, since it treats          
the dream as a kind of secret code in which every sign is translated         
into another sign of known meaning, according to an established key.         
For example, I have dreamt of a letter, and also of a funeral or the         
like; I consult a "dream-book," and I find that "letter" is to be            
translated by "vexation" and "funeral" by "engagement." It now remains       
to establish a connection, which I am again to assume as pertaining to       
the future, by means of the rigmarole which I have deciphered. An            
interesting variant of this cipher procedure, a variant in which its         
character of purely mechanical transference is to a certain extent           
corrected, is presented in the work on dream-interpretation by               
Artemidoros of Daldis. *(2) Here not only the dream-content, but             
also the personality and social position of the dreamer are taken into       
consideration, so that the same dream-content has a significance for         
the rich man, the married man, or the orator, which is different             
from that which applies to the poor man, the bachelor, or, let us say,       
the merchant. The essential point, then, in this procedure is that the       
work of interpretation is not applied to the entirety of the dream,          
but to each portion of the dream-content severally, as though the            
dream were a conglomerate in which each fragment calls for special           
treatment. Incoherent and confused dreams are certainly those that           
have been responsible for the invention of the cipher method. *(3)           
-                                                                            
  * Aristotle expressed himself in this connection by saying that            
the best interpreter of dreams is he who can best grasp                      
similarities. For dream-pictures, like pictures in water, are                
disfigured by the motion (of the water), so that he hits the target          
best who is able to recognize the true picture in the distorted one          
(Buchsenschutz, p. 65).                                                      
  *(2) Artemidoros of Daldis, born probably in the beginning of the          
second century of our calendar, has furnished us with the most               
complete and careful elaboration of dream-interpretation as it existed       
in the Graeco-Roman world. As Gompertz has emphasized, he ascribed           
great importance to the consideration that dreams ought to be                
interpreted on the basis of observation and experience, and he drew          
a definite line between his own art and other methods, which he              
considered fraudulent. The principle of his art of interpretation            
is, according to Gompertz, identical with that of magic: i.e., the           
principle of association. The thing dreamed meant what it recalled           
to the memory- to the memory, of course, of the dream-interpreter!           
This fact- that the dream may remind the interpreter of various              
things, and every interpreter of different things- leads, of course,         
to uncontrollable arbitrariness and uncertainty. The technique which I       
am about to describe differs from that of the ancients in one                
essential point, namely, in that it imposes upon the dreamer himself         
the work of interpretation. Instead of taking into account whatever          
may occur to the dream-interpreter, it considers only what occurs to         
the dreamer in connection with the dream-element concerned.                  
According to the recent records of the missionary, Tfinkdjit                 
(Anthropos, 1913), it would seem that the modern dream-interpreters of       
the Orient likewise attribute much importance to the co-operation of         
the dreamer. Of the dream-interpreters among the Mesopotamian Arabs          
this writer relates as follows: "Pour interpreter exactement un              
songe les oniromanciens les plus habiles s'informent de ceux qui les         
consultent de toutes les circonstances qu'ils regardent necessaires          
pour la bonne explication.... En un mot, nos oniromanciens ne laissent       
aucune circonstance leur echapper et ne donnent l'interpretation             
desiree avant d'avoir parfaitement saisi et recu toutes les                  
interrogations desirables." [To interpret a dream exactly, the most          
practised interpreters of dreams learn from those who consult them all       
circumstances which they regard as necessary for a good                      
explanation.... In a word, our interpreters allow no circumstance to         
be overlooked and do not give the desired interpretation before              
perfectly taking and apprehending all desirable questions.] Among            
these questions one always finds demands for precise information in          
respect to near relatives (parents, wife, children) as well as the           
following formula: habistine in hoc nocte copulam conjugalem ante            
vel post somnium [Did you this night have conjugal copulation before         
or after the dream?] "L'idee dominante dans l'interpretation des             
songes consiste a expliquer le reve par son oppose." [The dominant           
idea in the interpretation of dreams consists in explaining the              
dream by its opposite.]                                                      
  *(3) Dr. Alfred Robitsek calls my attention to the fact that               
Oriental dream-books, of which ours are pitiful plagiarisms,                 
commonly undertake the interpretation of dream-elements in                   
accordance with the assonance and similarity of words. Since these           
relationships must be lost by translation into our language, the             
incomprehensibility of the equivalents in our popular "dream-books" is       
hereby explained. Information as to the extraordinary significance           
of puns and the play upon words in the old Oriental cultures may be          
found in the writings of Hugo Winckler. The finest example of a              
dream-interpretation which has come down to us from antiquity is based       
on a play upon words. Artemidoros relates the following (p. 225): "But       
it seems to me that Aristandros gave a most happy interpretation to          
Alexander of Macedon. When the latter held Tyros encompassed and in          
a state of siege, and was angry and depressed over the great waste           
of time, he dreamed that he saw a Satyr dancing on his shield. It            
happened that Aristandros was in the neighbourhood of Tyros, and in          
the escort of the king, who was waging war on the Syrians. By dividing       
the word Satyros into sa and turos, he induced the king to become more       
aggressive in the siege. And thus Alexander became master of the             
city." (Sa Turos = Thine is Tyros.) The dream, indeed, is so                 
intimately connected with verbal expression that Ferenczi justly             
remarks that every tongue has its own dream-language. A dream is, as a       
rule, not to be translated into other languages.                             
-                                                                            
  The worthlessness of both these popular methods of interpretation          
does not admit of discussion. As regards the scientific treatment of         
the subject, the symbolic method is limited in its application, and is       
not susceptible of a general exposition. In the cipher method                
everything depends upon whether the key, the dream-book, is                  
reliable, and for that all guarantees are lacking. So that one might         
be tempted to grant the contention of the philosophers and                   
psychiatrists, and to dismiss the problem of dream-interpretation as         
altogether fanciful. *                                                       
-                                                                            
  * After the completion of my manuscript, a paper by Stumpf came to         
my notice which agrees with my work in attempting to prove that the          
dream is full of meaning and capable of interpretation. But the              
interpretation is undertaken by means of an allegorizing symbolism,          
and there is no guarantee that the procedure is generally applicable.        
-                                                                            
  I have, however, come to think differently. I have been forced to          
perceive that here, once more, we have one of those not infrequent           
cases where an ancient and stubbornly retained popular belief seems to       
have come nearer to the truth of the matter than the opinion of modern       
science. I must insist that the dream actually does possess a meaning,       
and that a scientific method of dream-interpretation is possible. I          
arrived at my knowledge of this method in the following manner:              
  For years I have been occupied with the resolution of certain              
psycho-pathological structures- hysterical phobias, obsessional ideas,       
and the like- with therapeutic intentions. I have been so occupied, in       
fact, ever since I heard the significant statement of Joseph Breuer,         
to the effect that in these structures, regarded as morbid symptoms,         
solution and treatment go hand in hand. * Where it has been possible         
to trace a pathological idea back to those elements in the psychic           
life of the patient to which it owed its origin, this idea has               
crumbled away, and the patient has been relieved of it. In view of the       
failure of our other therapeutic efforts, and in the face of the             
mysterious character of these pathological conditions, it seemed to me       
tempting, in spite of all the difficulties, to follow the method             
initiated by Breuer until a complete elucidation of the subject had          
been achieved. I shall have occasion elsewhere to give a detailed            
account of the form which the technique of this procedure has                
finally assumed, and of the results of my efforts. In the course of          
these psycho-analytic studies, I happened upon the question of               
dream-interpretation. My patients, after I had pledged them to               
inform me of all the ideas and thoughts which occurred to them in            
connection with a given theme, related their dreams, and thus taught         
me that a dream may be interpolated in the psychic concatenation,            
which may be followed backwards from a pathological idea into the            
patient's memory. The next step was to treat the dream itself as a           
symptom, and to apply to it the method of interpretation which had           
been worked out for such symptoms.                                           
-                                                                            
  * Studien uber Hysterie, 1895. [Compare page 26 above.]                    
-                                                                            
  For this a certain psychic preparation on the part of the patient is       
necessary. A twofold effort is made, to stimulate his attentiveness in       
respect of his psychic perceptions, and to eliminate the critical            
spirit in which he is ordinarily in the habit of viewing such thoughts       
as come to the surface. For the purpose of self-observation with             
concentrated attention it is advantageous that the patient should take       
up a restful position and close his eyes; he must be explicitly              
instructed to renounce all criticism of the thought-formations which         
he may perceive. He must also be told that the success of the                
psycho-analysis depends upon his noting and communicating everything         
that passes through his mind, and that he must not allow himself to          
suppress one idea because it seems to him unimportant or irrelevant to       
the subject, or another because it seems nonsensical. He must preserve       
an absolute impartiality in respect to his ideas; for if he is               
unsuccessful in finding the desired solution of the dream, the               
obsessional idea, or the like, it will be because he permits himself         
to be critical of them.                                                      
  I have noticed in the course of my psycho-analytical work that the         
psychological state of a man in an attitude of reflection is                 
entirely different from that of a man who is observing his psychic           
processes. In reflection there is a greater play of psychic activity         
than in the most attentive self-observation; this is shown even by the       
tense attitude and the wrinkled brow of the man in a state of                
reflection, as opposed to the mimic tranquillity of the man                  
observing himself. In both cases there must be concentrated attention,       
but the reflective man makes use of his critical faculties, with the         
result that he rejects some of the thoughts which rise into                  
consciousness after he has become aware of them, and abruptly                
interrupts others, so that he does not follow the lines of thought           
which they would otherwise open up for him; while in respect of yet          
other thoughts he is able to behave in such a manner that they do            
not become conscious at all- that is to say, they are suppressed             
before they are perceived. In self-observation, on the other hand,           
he has but one task- that of suppressing criticism; if he succeeds           
in doing this, an unlimited number of thoughts enter his consciousness       
which would otherwise have eluded his grasp. With the aid of the             
material thus obtained- material which is new to the self-observer- it       
is possible to achieve the interpretation of pathological ideas, and         
also that of dream-formations. As will be seen, the point is to induce       
a psychic state which is in some degree analogous, as regards the            
distribution of psychic energy (mobile attention), to the state of the       
mind before falling asleep- and also, of course, to the hypnotic             
state. On falling asleep the undesired ideas emerge, owing to the            
slackening of a certain arbitrary (and, of course, also critical)            
action, which is allowed to influence the trend of our ideas; we are         
accustomed to speak of fatigue as the reason of this slackening; the         
emerging undesired ideas are changed into visual and auditory                
images. In the condition which it utilized for the analysis of               
dreams and pathological ideas, this activity is purposely and                
deliberately renounced, and the psychic energy thus saved (or some           
part of it) is employed in attentively tracking the undesired thoughts       
which now come to the surface- thoughts which retain their identity as       
ideas (in which the condition differs from the state of falling              
asleep). Undesired ideas are thus changed into desired ones.                 
  There are many people who do not seem to find it easy to adopt the         
required attitude toward the apparently "freely rising" ideas, and           
to renounce the criticism which is otherwise applied to them. The            
"undesired ideas" habitually evoke the most violent resistance,              
which seeks to prevent them from coming to the surface. But if we            
may credit our great poet-philosopher Friedrich Schiller, the                
essential condition of poetical creation includes a very similar             
attitude. In a certain passage in his correspondence with Korner             
(for the tracing of which we are indebted to Otto Rank), Schiller            
replies in the following words to a friend who complains of his lack         
of creative power: "The reason for your complaint lies, it seems to          
me, in the constraint which your intellect imposes upon your                 
imagination. Here I will make an observation, and illustrate it by           
an allegory. Apparently it is not good- and indeed it hinders the            
creative work of the mind- if the intellect examines too closely the         
ideas already pouring in, as it were, at the gates. Regarded in              
isolation, an idea may be quite insignificant, and venturesome in            
the extreme, but it may acquire importance from an idea which                
follows it; perhaps, in a certain collocation with other ideas,              
which may seem equally absurd, it may be capable of furnishing a             
very serviceable link. The intellect cannot judge all these ideas            
unless it can retain them until it has considered them in connection         
with these other ideas. In the case of a creative mind, it seems to          
me, the intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the gates, and the         
ideas rush in pell-mell, and only then does it review and inspect            
the multitude. You worthy critics, or whatever you may call                  
yourselves, are ashamed or afraid of the momentary and passing madness       
which is found in all real creators, the longer or shorter duration of       
which distinguishes the thinking artist from the dreamer. Hence your         
complaints of unfruitfulness, for you reject too soon and discriminate       
too severely" (letter of December 1, 1788).                                  
  And yet, such a withdrawal of the watchers from the gates of the           
intellect, as Schiller puts it, such a translation into the                  
condition of uncritical self-observation, is by no means difficult.          
  Most of my patients accomplish it after my first instructions. I           
myself can do so very completely, if I assist the process by writing         
down the ideas that flash through my mind. The quantum of psychic            
energy by which the critical activity is thus reduced, and by which          
the intensity of self-observation may be increased, varies                   
considerably according to the subject-matter upon which the                  
attention is to be fixed.                                                    
  The first step in the application of this procedure teaches us             
that one cannot make the dream as a whole the object of one's                
attention, but only the individual components of its content. If I ask       
a patient who is as yet unpractised: "What occurs to you in connection       
with this dream?" he is unable, as a rule, to fix upon anything in his       
psychic field of vision. I must first dissect the dream for him; then,       
in connection with each fragment, he gives me a number of ideas              
which may be described as the thoughts behind this part of the               
dream. In this first and important condition, then, the method of            
dream-interpretation which I employ diverges from the popular,               
historical and legendary method of interpretation by symbolism and           
approaches more nearly to the second or cipher method. Like this, it         
is an interpretation in detail, not en masse; like this, it                  
conceives the dream, from the outset, as something built up, as a            
conglomerate of psychic formations.                                          
  In the course of my psycho-analysis of neurotics I have already            
subjected perhaps more than a thousand dreams to interpretation, but I       
do not wish to use this material now as an introduction to the               
theory and technique of dream-interpretation. For quite apart from the       
fact that I should lay myself open to the objection that these are the       
dreams of neuropaths, so that the conclusions drawn from them would          
not apply to the dreams of healthy persons, there is another reason          
that impels me to reject them. The theme to which these dreams point         
is, of course, always the history of the malady that is responsible          
for the neurosis. Hence every dream would require a very long                
introduction, and an investigation of the nature and aetiological            
conditions of the psychoneuroses, matters which are in themselves            
novel and exceedingly strange, and which would therefore distract            
attention from the dream-problem proper. My purpose is rather to             
prepare the way, by the solution of the dream-problem, for the               
solution of the more difficult problems of the psychology of the             
neuroses. But if I eliminate the dreams of neurotics, which constitute       
my principal material, I cannot be too fastidious in my treatment of         
the rest. Only those dreams are left which have been incidentally            
related to me by healthy persons of my acquaintance, or which I find         
given as examples in the literature of dream-life. Unfortunately, in         
all these dreams I am deprived of the analysis without which I               
cannot find the meaning of the dream. My mode of procedure is, of            
course, less easy than that of the popular cipher method, which              
translates the given dream-content by reference to an established key;       
I, on the contrary, hold that the same dream-content may conceal a           
different meaning in the case of different persons, or in different          
connections. I must, therefore, resort to my own dreams as a source of       
abundant and convenient material, furnished by a person who is more or       
less normal, and containing references to many incidents of everyday         
life. I shall certainly be confronted with doubts as to the                  
trustworthiness of these self-analyses and it will be said that              
arbitrariness is by no means excluded in such analyses. In my own            
judgment, conditions are more likely to be favourable in                     
self-observation than in the observation of others; in any case, it is       
permissible to investigate how much can be accomplished in the               
matter of dream-interpretation by means of self-analysis. There are          
other difficulties which must be overcome in my own inner self. One          
has a comprehensible aversion to exposing so many intimate details           
of one's own psychic life, and one does not feel secure against the          
misinterpretations of strangers. But one must be able to transcend           
such considerations. "Tout psychologiste," writes Delboeuf, "est             
oblige de faire l'aveu meme de ses faiblesses s'il croit par la              
jeter du jour sur quelque probleme obscur." * And I may assume for the       
reader that his initial interest in the indiscretions which I must           
commit will very soon give way to an exclusive engrossment in the            
psychological problems elucidated by them.' *(2)                             
-                                                                            
  * Every psychologist is obliged to admit even his own weaknesses, if       
he thinks by that he may throw light on a difficult problem.                 
  *(2) However, I will not omit to mention, in qualification of the          
above statement, that I have practically never reported a complete           
interpretation of a dream of my own. And I was probably right not to         
trust too far to the reader's discretion.                                    
-                                                                            
  I shall therefore select one of my own dreams for the purpose of           
elucidating my method of interpretation. Every such dream necessitates       
a preliminary statement; so that I must now beg the reader to make           
my interests his own for a time, and to become absorbed, with me, in         
the most trifling details of my life; for an interest in the hidden          
significance of dreams imperatively demands just such a transference.        
-                                                                            
                        PRELIMINARY STATEMENT                                
-                                                                            
  In the summer of 1895 I had treated psycho-analytically a young lady       
who was an intimate friend of mine and of my family. It will be              
understood that such complicated relations may excite manifold               
feelings in the physician, and especially the psychotherapist. The           
personal interest of the physician is greater, but his authority less.       
If he fails, his friendship with the patient's relatives is in               
danger of being undermined. In this case, however, the treatment ended       
in partial success; the patient was cured of her hysterical anxiety,         
but not of all her somatic symptoms. At that time I was not yet              
quite sure of the criteria which denote the final cure of an                 
hysterical case, and I expected her to accept a solution which did not       
seem acceptable to her. In the midst of this disagreement, we                
discontinued the treatment for the summer holidays. One day a                
younger colleague, one of my most intimate friends, who had visited          
the patient- Irma- and her family in their country residence, called         
upon me. I asked him how Irma was, and received the reply: "She is           
better, but not quite well." I realize that these words of my friend         
Otto's, or the tone of voice in which they were spoken, annoyed me.          
I thought I heard a reproach in the words, perhaps to the effect             
that I had promised the patient too much, and- rightly or wrongly- I         
attributed Otto's apparent taking sides against me to the influence of       
the patient's relatives, who, I assumed, had never approved of my            
treatment. This disagreeable impression, however, did not become clear       
to me, nor did I speak of it. That same evening I wrote the clinical         
history of Irma's case, in order to give it, as though to justify            
myself, to Dr. M, a mutual friend, who was at that time the leading          
personality in our circle. During the night (or rather in the early          
morning) I had the following dream, which I recorded immediately after       
waking. *                                                                    
-                                                                            
  * This is the first dream which I subjected to an exhaustive               
interpretation.                                                              
-                                                                            
                      DREAM OF JULY 23- 24, 1895                             
-                                                                            
  A great hall- a number of guests, whom we are receiving- among             
them Irma, whom I immediately take aside, as though to answer her            
letter, and to reproach her for not yet accepting the "solution." I          
say to her: "If you still have pains, it is really only your own             
fault."- She answers: "If you only knew what pains I have now in the         
throat, stomach, and abdomen- I am choked by them." I am startled, and       
look at her. She looks pale and puffy. I think that after all I must         
be overlooking some organic affection. I take her to the window and          
look into her throat. She offers some resistance to this, like a woman       
who has a set of false teeth. I think, surely, she doesn't need them.-       
The mouth then opens wide, and I find a large white spot on the right,       
and elsewhere I see extensive grayish-white scabs adhering to                
curiously curled formations, which are evidently shaped like the             
turbinal bones of the nose.- I quickly call Dr. M, who repeats the           
examination and confirms it.... Dr. M looks quite unlike his usual           
self; he is very pale, he limps, and his chin is clean-shaven....            
Now my friend Otto, too, is standing beside her, and my friend Leopold       
percusses her covered chest, and says "She has a dullness below, on          
the left," and also calls attention to an infiltrated portion of             
skin on the left shoulder (which I can feel, in spite of the                 
dress).... M says: "There's no doubt that it's an infection, but it          
doesn't matter; dysentery will follow and the poison will be                 
eliminated." ... We know, too, precisely how the infection originated.       
My friend Otto, not long ago, gave her, when she was feeling unwell,         
an injection of a preparation of propyl... propyls... propionic              
acid... trimethylamin (the formula of which I see before me, printed         
in heavy type).... One doesn't give such injections so rashly....            
Probably, too, the syringe was not clean.                                    
-                                                                            
  This dream has an advantage over many others. It is at once                
obvious to what events of the preceding day it is related, and of what       
subject it treats. The preliminary statement explains these matters.         
The news of Irma's health which I had received from Otto, and the            
clinical history, which I was writing late into the night, had               
occupied my psychic activities even during sleep. Nevertheless, no one       
who had read the preliminary report, and had knowledge of the                
content of the dream, could guess what the dream signified. Nor do I         
myself know. I am puzzled by the morbid symptoms of which Irma               
complains in the dream, for they are not the symptoms for which I            
treated her. I smile at the nonsensical idea of an injection of              
propionic acid, and at Dr. M's attempt at consolation. Towards the end       
the dream seems more obscure and quicker in tempo than at the                
beginning. In order to learn the significance of all these details I         
resolve to undertake an exhaustive analysis.                                 
-                                                                            
                               Analysis                                      
-                                                                            
  The hall- a number of guests, whom we are receiving. We were               
living that summer at Bellevue, an isolated house on one of the              
hills adjoining the Kahlenberg. This house was originally built as a         
place of entertainment, and therefore has unusually lofty, hall-like         
rooms. The dream was dreamed in Bellevue, a few days before my               
wife's birthday. During the day my wife had mentioned that she               
expected several friends, and among them Irma, to come to us as guests       
for her birthday. My dream, then, anticipates this situation: It is my       
wife's birthday, and we are receiving a number of people, among them         
Irma, as guests in the large hall of Bellevue.                               
  I reproach Irma for not having accepted the "solution." I say, "If         
you still have pains, it is really your own fault." I might even             
have said this while awake; I may have actually said it. At that             
time I was of the opinion (recognized later to be incorrect) that my         
task was limited to informing patients of the hidden meaning of              
their symptoms. Whether they then accepted or did not accept the             
solution upon which success depended- for that I was not                     
responsible. I am grateful to this error, which, fortunately, has            
now been overcome, since it made life easier for me at a time when,          
with all my unavoidable ignorance, I was expected to effect successful       
cures. But I note that, in the speech which I make to Irma in the            
dream, I am above all anxious that I shall not be blamed for the pains       
which she still suffers. If it is Irma's own fault, it cannot be mine.       
Should the purpose of the dream be looked for in this quarter?               
  Irma's complaints- pains in the neck, abdomen, and stomach; she is         
choked by them. Pains in the stomach belonged to the symptom-complex         
of my patient, but they were not very prominent; she complained rather       
of qualms and a feeling of nausea. Pains in the neck and abdomen and         
constriction of the throat played hardly any part in her case. I             
wonder why I have decided upon this choice of symptoms in the dream;         
for the moment I cannot discover the reason.                                 
  She looks pale and puffy. My patient had always a rosy complexion. I       
suspect that here another person is being substituted for her.               
  I am startled at the idea that I may have overlooked some organic          
affection. This, as the reader will readily believe, is a constant           
fear with the specialist who sees neurotics almost exclusively, and          
who is accustomed to ascribe to hysteria so many manifestations              
which other physicians treat as organic. On the other hand, I am             
haunted by a faint doubt- I do not know whence it comes- whether my          
alarm is altogether honest. If Irma's pains are indeed of organic            
origin, it is not my duty to cure them. My treatment, of course,             
removes only hysterical pains. It seems to me, in fact, that I wish to       
find an error in the diagnosis; for then I could not be reproached           
with failure to effect a cure.                                               
  I take her to the window in order to look into her throat. She             
resists a little, like a woman who has false teeth. I think to myself,       
she does not need them. I had never had occasion to inspect Irma's           
oral cavity. The incident in the dream reminds me of an examination,         
made some time before, of a governess who at first produced an               
impression of youthful beauty, but who, upon opening her mouth, took         
certain measures to conceal her denture. Other memories of medical           
examinations, and of petty secrets revealed by them, to the                  
embarrassment of both physician and patient, associate themselves with       
this case.- "She surely does not need them," is perhaps in the first         
place a compliment to Irma; but I suspect yet another meaning. In a          
careful analysis one is able to feel whether or not the                      
arriere-pensees which are to be expected have all been exhausted.            
The way in which Irma stands at the window suddenly reminds me of            
another experience. Irma has an intimate woman friend of whom I              
think very highly. One evening, on paying her a visit, I found her           
at the window in the position reproduced in the dream, and her               
physician, the same Dr. M, declared that she had a diphtheritic              
membrane. The person of Dr. M and the membrane return, indeed, in            
the course of the dream. Now it occurs to me that during the past            
few months I have had every reason to suppose that this lady too is          
hysterical. Yes, Irma herself betrayed the fact to me. But what do I         
know of her condition? Only the one thing, that like Irma in the dream       
she suffers from hysterical choking. Thus, in the dream I have               
replaced my patient by her friend. Now I remember that I have often          
played with the supposition that this lady, too, might ask me to             
relieve her of her symptoms. But even at the time I thought it               
improbable, since she is extremely reserved. She resists, as the dream       
shows. Another explanation might be that she does not need it; in            
fact, until now she has shown herself strong enough to master her            
condition without outside help. Now only a few features remain,              
which I can assign neither to Irma nor to her friend; pale, puffy,           
false teeth. The false teeth led me to the governess; I now feel             
inclined to be satisfied with bad teeth. Here another person, to             
whom these features may allude, occurs to me. She is not my patient,         
and I do not wish her to be my patient, for I have noticed that she is       
not at her ease with me, and I do not consider her a docile patient.         
She is generally pale, and once, when she had not felt particularly          
well, she was puffy. * I have thus compared my patient Irma with two         
others, who would likewise resist treatment. What is the meaning of          
the fact that I have exchanged her for her friend in the dream?              
Perhaps that I wish to exchange her; either her friend arouses in me         
stronger sympathies, or I have a higher regard for her intelligence.         
For I consider Irma foolish because she does not accept my solution.         
The other woman would be more sensible, and would thus be more               
likely to yield. The mouth then opens readily; she would tell more           
than Irma. *(2)                                                              
-                                                                            
  * The complaint of pains in the abdomen, as yet unexplained, may           
also be referred to this third person. It is my own wife, of course,         
who is in question; the abdominal pains remind me of one of the              
occasions on which her shyness became evident to me. I must admit that       
I do not treat Irma and my wife very gallantly in this dream, but            
let it be said, in my defence, that I am measuring both of them              
against the ideal of the courageous and docile female patient.               
  *(2) I suspect that the interpretation of this portion has not             
been carried far enough to follow every hidden meaning. If I were to         
continue the comparison of the three women, I should go far afield.          
Every dream has at least one point at which it is unfathomable: a            
central point, as it were, connecting it with the unknown.                   
-                                                                            
  What I see in the throat: a white spot and scabby turbinal bones.          
The white spot recalls diphtheria, and thus Irma's friend, but it also       
recalls the grave illness of my eldest daughter two years earlier, and       
all the anxiety of that unhappy time. The scab on the turbinal bones         
reminds me of my anxiety concerning my own health. At that time I            
frequently used cocaine in order to suppress distressing swellings           
in the nose, and I had heard a few days previously that a lady patient       
who did likewise had contracted an extensive necrosis of the nasal           
mucous membrane. In 1885 it was I who had recommended the use of             
cocaine, and I had been gravely reproached in consequence. A dear            
friend, who had died before the date of this dream, had hastened his         
end by the misuse of this remedy.                                            
  I quickly call Dr. M, who repeats the examination. This would simply       
correspond to the position which M occupied among us. But the word           
quickly is striking enough to demand a special examination. It reminds       
me of a sad medical experience. By continually prescribing a drug            
(sulphonal), which at that time was still considered harmless, I was         
once responsible for a condition of acute poisoning in the case of a         
woman patient, and hastily turned for assistance to my older and             
more experienced colleague. The fact that I really had this case in          
mind is confirmed by a subsidiary circumstance. The patient, who             
succumbed to the toxic effects of the drug, bore the same name as my         
eldest daughter. I had never thought of this until now; but now it           
seems to me almost like a retribution of fate- as though the                 
substitution of persons had to be continued in another sense: this           
Matilda for that Matilda; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It         
is as though I were seeking every opportunity to reproach myself for a       
lack of medical conscientiousness.                                           
  Dr. M is pale; his chin is shaven, and he limps. Of this so much           
is correct, that his unhealthy appearance often arouses the concern of       
his friends. The other two characteristics must belong to another            
person. An elder brother living abroad occurs to me, for he, too,            
shaves his chin, and if I remember him rightly, the M of the dream           
bears on the whole a certain resemblance to him. And some days               
previously the news arrived that he was limping on account of an             
arthritic affection of the hip. There must be some reason why I fuse         
the two persons into one in my dream. I remember that, in fact, I            
was on bad terms with both of them for similar reasons. Both had             
rejected a certain proposal which I had recently made them.                  
  My friend Otto is now standing next to the patient, and my friend          
Leopold examines her and calls attention to a dulness low down on            
the left side. My friend Leopold also is a physician, and a relative         
of Otto's. Since the two practice the same specialty, fate has made          
them competitors, so that they are constantly being compared with            
one another. Both of them assisted me for years, while I was still           
directing a public clinic for neurotic children. There, scenes like          
that reproduced in my dream had often taken place. While I would be          
discussing the diagnosis of a case with Otto, Leopold would examine          
the child anew and make an unexpected contribution towards our               
decision. There was a difference of character between the two men like       
that between Inspector Brasig and his friend Karl. Otto was remarkably       
prompt and alert; Leopold was slow and thoughtful, but thorough. If          
I contrast Otto and the cautious Leopold in the dream I do so,               
apparently, in order to extol Leopold. The comparison is like that           
made above between the disobedient patient Irma and her friend, who          
was believed to be more sensible. I now become aware of one of the           
tracks along which the association of ideas in the dream proceeds:           
from the sick child to the children's clinic. Concerning the dulness         
low on the left side, I have the impression that it corresponds with a       
certain case of which all the details were similar, a case in which          
Leopold impressed me by his thoroughness. I thought vaguely, too, of         
something like a metastatic affection, but it might also be a                
reference to the patient whom I should have liked to have in Irma's          
place. For this lady, as far as I can gather, exhibited symptoms which       
imitated tuberculosis.                                                       
  An infiltrated portion of skin on the left shoulder. I know at             
once that this is my own rheumatism of the shoulder, which I always          
feel if I lie awake long at night. The very phrasing of the dream            
sounds ambiguous: Something which I can feel, as he does, in spite           
of the dress. "Feel on my own body" is intended. Further, it occurs to       
me how unusual the phrase infiltrated portion of skin sounds. We are         
accustomed to the phrase: "an infiltration of the upper posterior            
left"; this would refer to the lungs, and thus, once more, to                
tuberculosis.                                                                
  In spite of the dress. This, to be sure, is only an interpolation.         
At the clinic the children were, of course, examined undressed; here         
we have some contrast to the manner in which adult female patients           
have to be examined. The story used to be told of an eminent physician       
that he always examined his patients through their clothes. The rest         
is obscure to me; I have, frankly, no inclination to follow the matter       
further.                                                                     
  Dr. M says: "It's an infection, but it doesn't matter; dysentery           
will follow, and the poison will be eliminated." This, at first, seems       
to me ridiculous; nevertheless, like everything else, it must be             
carefully analysed; more closely observed it seems after all to have a       
sort of meaning. What I had found in the patient was a local                 
diphtheritis. I remember the discussion about diphtheritis and               
diphtheria at the time of my daughter's illness. Diphtheria is the           
general infection which proceeds from local diphtheritis. Leopold            
demonstrates the existence of such a general infection by the dulness,       
which also suggests a metastatic focus. I believe, however, that             
just this kind of metastasis does not occur in the case of diphtheria.       
It reminds me rather of pyaemia.                                             
  It doesn't matter is a consolation. I believe it fits in as follows:       
The last part of the dream has yielded a content to the effect that          
the patient's sufferings are the result of a serious organic                 
affection. I begin to suspect that by this I am only trying to shift         
the blame from myself. Psychic treatment cannot be held responsible          
for the continued presence of a diphtheritic affection. Now, indeed, I       
am distressed by the thought of having invented such a serious illness       
for Irma, for the sole purpose of exculpating myself. It seems so            
cruel. Accordingly, I need the assurance that the outcome will be            
benign, and it seems to me that I made a good choice when I put the          
words that consoled me into the mouth of Dr. M. But here I am                
placing myself in a position of superiority to the dream; a fact which       
needs explanation.                                                           
  But why is this consolation so nonsensical?                                
  Dysentery. Some sort of far-fetched theoretical notion that the            
toxins of disease might be eliminated through the intestines. Am I           
thereby trying to make fun of Dr. M's remarkable store of                    
far-fetched explanations, his habit of conceiving curious pathological       
relations? Dysentery suggests something else. A few months ago I had         
in my care a young man who was suffering from remarkable intestinal          
troubles; a case which had been treated by other colleagues as one           
of "anaemia with malnutrition." I realized that it was a case of             
hysteria; I was unwilling to use my psycho-therapy on him, and sent          
him off on a sea-voyage. Now a few days previously I had received a          
despairing letter from him; he wrote from Egypt, saying that he had          
had a fresh attack, which the doctor had declared to be dysentery. I         
suspect that the diagnosis is merely an error on the part of an              
ignorant colleague, who is allowing himself to be fooled by the              
hysteria; yet I cannot help reproaching myself for putting the invalid       
in a position where he might contract some organic affection of the          
bowels in addition to his hysteria. Furthermore, dysentery sounds            
not unlike diphtheria, a word which does not occur in the dream.             
  Yes, it must be the case that with the consoling prognosis,                
Dysentery will develop, etc., I am making fun of Dr. M, for I                
recollect that years ago he once jestingly told a very similar story         
of a colleague. He had been called in to consult with him in the             
case of a woman who was very seriously ill, and he felt obliged to           
confront his colleague, who seemed very hopeful, with the fact that he       
found albumen in the patient's urine. His colleague, however, did            
not allow this to worry him, but answered calmly: "That does not             
matter, my dear sir; the albumen will soon be excreted!" Thus I can no       
longer doubt that this part of the dream expresses derision for              
those of my colleagues who are ignorant of hysteria. And, as though in       
confirmation, the thought enters my mind: "Does Dr. M know that the          
appearances in Irma's friend, his patient, which gave him reason to          
fear tuberculosis, are likewise due to hysteria? Has he recognized           
this hysteria, or has he allowed himself to be fooled?"                      
  But what can be my motive in treating this friend so badly? That           
is simple enough: Dr. M agrees with my solution as little as does Irma       
herself. Thus, in this dream I have already revenged myself on two           
persons: on Irma in the words, If you still have pains, it is your own       
fault, and on Dr. M in the wording of the nonsensical consolation            
which has been put into his mouth.                                           
  We know precisely how the infection originated. This precise               
knowledge in the dream is remarkable. Only a moment before this we did       
not yet know of the infection, since it was first demonstrated by            
Leopold.                                                                     
  My friend Otto gave her an injection not long ago, when she was            
feeling unwell. Otto had actually related during his short visit to          
Irma's family that he had been called in to a neighbouring hotel in          
order to give an injection to someone who had been suddenly taken ill.       
Injections remind me once more of the unfortunate friend who                 
poisoned himself with cocaine. I had recommended the remedy for              
internal use only during the withdrawal of morphia; but he immediately       
gave himself injections of cocaine.                                          
  With a preparation of propyl... propyls... propionic acid. How on          
earth did this occur to me? On the evening of the day after I had            
written the clinical history and dreamed about the case, my wife             
opened a bottle of liqueur labelled "Ananas," * which was a present          
from our friend Otto. He had, as a matter of fact, a habit of making         
presents on every possible occasion; I hope he will some day be              
cured of this by a wife. *(2) This liqueur smelt so strongly of              
fusel oil that I refused to drink it. My wife suggested: "We will give       
the bottle to the servants," and I, more prudent, objected, with the         
philanthropic remark: "They shan't be poisoned either." The smell of         
fusel oil (amyl...) has now apparently awakened my memory of the whole       
series: propyl, methyl, etc., which furnished the preparation of             
propyl mentioned in the dream. Here, indeed, I have effected a               
substitution: I dreamt of propyl after smelling amyl; but                    
substitutions of this kind are perhaps permissible, especially in            
organic chemistry.                                                           
-                                                                            
  * "Ananas," moreover, has a remarkable assonance with the family           
name of my patient Irma.                                                     
  *(2) In this the dream did not turn out to be prophetic. But in            
another sense it proved correct, for the "unsolved" stomach pains, for       
which I did not want to be blamed, were the forerunners of a serious         
illness, due to gall-stones.                                                 
-                                                                            
  Trimethylamin. In the dream I see the chemical formula of this             
substance- which at all events is evidence of a great effort on the          
part of my memory- and the formula is even printed in heavy type, as         
though to distinguish it from the context as something of particular         
importance. And where does trimethylamin, thus forced on my attention,       
lead me? To a conversation with another friend, who for years has been       
familiar with all my germinating ideas, and I with his. At that time         
he had just informed me of certain ideas concerning a sexual                 
chemistry, and had mentioned, among others, that he thought he had           
found in trimethylamin one of the products of sexual metabolism.             
This substance thus leads me to sexuality, the factor to which I             
attribute the greatest significance in respect of the origin of              
these nervous affections which I am trying to cure. My patient Irma is       
a young widow; if I am required to excuse my failure to cure her, I          
shall perhaps do best to refer to this condition, which her admirers         
would be glad to terminate. But in what a singular fashion such a            
dream is fitted together! The friend who in my dream becomes my              
patient in Irma's place is likewise a young widow.                           
  I surmise why it is that the formula of trimethylamin is so                
insistent in the dream. So many important things are centered about          
this one word: trimethylamin is an allusion, not merely to the               
all-important factor of sexuality, but also to a friend whose sympathy       
I remember with satisfaction whenever I feel isolated in my                  
opinions. And this friend, who plays such a large part in my life:           
will he not appear yet again in the concatenation of ideas peculiar to       
this dream? Of course; he has a special knowledge of the results of          
affections of the nose and the sinuses, and has revealed to science          
several highly remarkable relations between the turbinal bones and the       
female sexual organs. (The three curly formations in Irma's throat.) I       
got him to examine Irma, in order to determine whether her gastric           
pains were of nasal origin. But he himself suffers from suppurative          
rhinitis, which gives me concern, and to this perhaps there is an            
allusion in pyaemia, which hovers before me in the metastasis of the         
dream.                                                                       
  One doesn't give such injections so rashly. Here the reproach of           
rashness is hurled directly at my friend Otto. I believe I had some          
such thought in the afternoon, when he seemed to indicate, by word and       
look, that he had taken sides against me. It was, perhaps: "How easily       
he is influenced; how irresponsibly he pronounces judgment."                 
Further, the above sentence points once more to my deceased friend,          
who so irresponsibly resorted to cocaine injections. As I have said, I       
had not intended that injections of the drug should be taken. I note         
that in reproaching Otto I once more touch upon the story of the             
unfortunate Matilda, which was the pretext for the same reproach             
against me. Here, obviously, I am collecting examples of my                  
conscientiousness, and also of the reverse.                                  
  Probably too the syringe was not clean. Another reproach directed at       
Otto, but originating elsewhere. On the previous day I happened to           
meet the son of an old lady of eighty-two, to whom I am obliged to           
give two injections of morphia daily. At present she is in the               
country, and I have heard that she is suffering from phlebitis. I            
immediately thought that this might be a case of infiltration caused         
by a dirty syringe. It is my pride that in two years I have not              
given her a single infiltration; I am always careful, of course, to          
see that the syringe is perfectly clean. For I am conscientious.             
From the phlebitis I return to my wife, who once suffered from               
thrombosis during a period of pregnancy, and now three related               
situations come to the surface in my memory, involving my wife,              
Irma, and the dead Matilda, whose identity has apparently justified my       
putting these three persons in one another's places.                         
  I have now completed the interpretation of the dream. * In the             
course of this interpretation I have taken great pains to avoid all          
those notions which must have been suggested by a comparison of the          
dream-content with the dream-thoughts hidden behind this content.            
Meanwhile the meaning of the dream has dawned upon me. I have noted an       
intention which is realized through the dream, and which must have           
been my motive in dreaming. The dream fulfills several wishes, which         
were awakened within me by the events of the previous evening                
(Otto's news, and the writing of the clinical history). For the result       
of the dream is that it is not I who am to blame for the pain which          
Irma is still suffering, but that Otto is to blame for it. Now Otto          
has annoyed me by his remark about Irma's imperfect cure; the dream          
avenges me upon him, in that it turns the reproach upon himself. The         
dream acquits me of responsibility for Irma's condition, as it               
refers this condition to other causes (which do, indeed, furnish quite       
a number of explanations). The dream represents a certain state of           
affairs, such as I might wish to exist; the content of the dream is          
thus the fulfilment of a wish; its motive is a wish.                         
-                                                                            
  * Even if I have not, as might be expected, accounted for everything       
that occurred to me in connection with the work of interpretation.           
-                                                                            
  This much is apparent at first sight. But many other details of            
the dream become intelligible when regarded from the standpoint of           
wish-fulfilment. I take my revenge on Otto, not merely for too readily       
taking sides against me. in that I accuse him of careless medical            
treatment (the injection), but I revenge myself also for the bad             
liqueur which smells of fusel oil, and I find an expression in the           
dream which unites both these reproaches: the injection of a                 
preparation of propyl. Still I am not satisfied, but continue to             
avenge myself by comparing him with his more reliable colleague.             
Thereby I seem to say: "I like him better than you." But Otto is not         
the only person who must be made to feel the weight of my anger. I           
take my revenge on the disobedient patient, by exchanging her for a          
more sensible and more docile one. Nor do I pass over Dr. M's                
contradiction; for I express, in an obvious allusion, my opinion of          
him: namely, that his attitude in this case is that of an ignoramus          
(Dysentery will develop, etc.). Indeed, it seems as though I were            
appealing from him to someone better informed (my friend, who told           
me about trimethylamin), just as I have turned from Irma to her              
friend, and from Otto to Leopold. It is as though I were to say: Rid         
me of these three persons, replace them by three others of my own            
choice, and I shall be rid of the reproaches which I am not willing to       
admit that I deserve! In my dream the unreasonableness of these              
reproaches is demonstrated for me in the most elaborate manner. Irma's       
pains are not attributable to me, since she herself is to blame for          
them, in that she refuses to accept my solution. They do not concern         
me, for being as they are of an organic nature, they cannot possibly         
be cured by psychic treatment. Irma's sufferings are satisfactorily          
explained by her widowhood (trimethylamin!); a state which I cannot          
alter. Irma's illness has been caused by an incautious injection             
administered by Otto, an injection of an unsuitable drug, such as I          
should never have administered. Irma's complaint is the result of an         
injection made with an unclean syringe, like the phlebitis of my old         
lady patient, whereas my injections have never caused any ill effects.       
I am aware that these explanations of Irma's illness, which unite in         
acquitting me, do not agree with one another; that they even exclude         
one another. The whole plea- for this dream is nothing else- recalls         
vividly the defence offered by a man who was accused by his                  
neighbour of having returned a kettle in a damaged condition. In the         
first place, he had returned the kettle undamaged; in the second place       
it already had holes in it when he borrowed it; and in the third             
place, he had never borrowed it at all. A complicated defence, but           
so much the better; if only one of these three lines of defence is           
recognized as valid, the man must be acquitted.                              
  Still other themes play a part in the dream, and their relation to         
my non-responsibility for Irma's illness is not so apparent: my              
daughter's illness, and that of a patient with the same name; the            
harmfulness of cocaine; the affection of my patient, who was traveling       
in Egypt; concern about the health of my wife; my brother, and Dr.           
M; my own physical troubles, and anxiety concerning my absent                
friend, who is suffering from suppurative rhinitis. But if I keep            
all these things in view, they combine into a single train of thought,       
which might be labelled: Concern for the health of myself and                
others; professional conscientiousness. I recall a vaguely                   
disagreeable feeling when Otto gave me the news of Irma's condition.         
Lastly, I am inclined, after the event, to find an expression of             
this fleeting sensation in the train of thoughts which forms part of         
the dream. It is as though Otto had said to me: "You do not take             
your medical duties seriously enough; you are not conscientious; you         
do not perform what you promise." Thereupon this train of thought            
placed itself at my service, in order that I might give proof of my          
extreme conscientiousness, of my intimate concern about the health           
of my relatives, friends and patients. Curiously enough, there are           
also some painful memories in this material, which confirm the blame         
attached to Otto rather than my own exculpation. The material is             
apparently impartial, but the connection between this broader                
material, on which the dream is based, and the more limited theme from       
which emerges the wish to be innocent of Irma's illness, is,                 
nevertheless, unmistakable.                                                  
  I do not wish to assert that I have entirely revealed the meaning of       
the dream, or that my interpretation is flawless.                            
  I could still spend much time upon it; I could draw further                
explanations from it, and discuss further problems which it seems to         
propound. I can even perceive the points from which further mental           
associations might be traced; but such considerations as are always          
involved in every dream of one's own prevent me from interpreting it         
farther. Those who are overready to condemn such reserve should make         
the experiment of trying to be more straightforward. For the present I       
am content with the one fresh discovery which has just been made: If         
the method of dream-interpretation here indicated is followed, it will       
be found that dreams do really possess a meaning, and are by no              
means the expression of a disintegrated cerebral activity, as the            
writers on the subject would have us believe. When the work of               
interpretation has been completed the dream can be recognized as a           
wish fulfilment.                                                             
                                                                             
III                                                                          
                  III. THE DREAM AS WISH-FULFILMENT.                         
-                                                                            
  WHEN, after passing through a narrow defile, one suddenly reaches          
a height beyond which the ways part and a rich prospect lies outspread       
in different directions, it is well to stop for a moment and                 
consider whither one shall turn next. We are in somewhat the same            
position after we have mastered this first interpretation of a               
dream. We find ourselves standing in the light of a sudden                   
discovery. The dream is not comparable to the irregular sounds of a          
musical instrument, which, instead of being played by the hand of a          
musician, is struck by some external force; the dream is not                 
meaningless, not absurd, does not presuppose that one part of our            
store of ideas is dormant while another part begins to awake. It is          
a perfectly valid psychic phenomenon, actually a wish-fulfilment; it         
may be enrolled in the continuity of the intelligible psychic                
activities of the waking state; it is built up by a highly complicated       
intellectual activity. But at the very moment when we are about to           
rejoice in this discovery a host of problems besets us. If the               
dream, as this theory defines it, represents a fulfilled wish, what is       
the cause of the striking and unfamiliar manner in which this                
fulfilment is expressed? What transformation has occurred in our             
dream-thoughts before the manifest dream, as we remember it on waking,       
shapes itself out of them? How has this transformation taken place?          
Whence comes the material that is worked up into the dream? What             
causes many of the peculiarities which are to be observed in our             
dream-thoughts; for example, how is it that they are able to                 
contradict one another? Is the dream capable of teaching us                  
something new concerning our internal psychic processes and can its          
content correct opinions which we have held during the day? I                
suggest that for the present all these problems be laid aside, and           
that a single path be pursued. We have found that the dream represents       
a wish as fulfilled. Our next purpose should be to ascertain whether         
this is a general characteristic of dreams, or whether it is only            
the accidental content of the particular dream (the dream about Irma's       
injection) with which we have begun our analysis; for even if we             
conclude that every dream has a meaning and psychic value, we must           
nevertheless allow for the possibility that this meaning may not be          
the same in every dream. The first dream which we have considered            
was the fulfilment of a wish; another may turn out to be the                 
realization of an apprehension; a third may have a reflection as its         
content; a fourth may simply reproduce a reminiscence. Are there, then       
dreams other than wish-dreams; or are there none but wish-dreams?            
-                                                                            
  It is easy to show that the wish-fulfilment in dreams is often             
undisguised and easy to recognize, so that one may wonder why the            
language of dreams has not long since been understood. There is, for         
example, a dream which I can evoke as often as I please,                     
experimentally, as it were. If, in the evening, I eat anchovies,             
olives, or other strongly salted foods, I am thirsty at night, and           
therefore I wake. The waking, however, is preceded by a dream, which         
has always the same content, namely, that I am drinking. I am drinking       
long draughts of water; it tastes as delicious as only a cool drink          
can taste when one's throat is parched; and then I wake, and find that       
I have an actual desire to drink. The cause of this dream is thirst,         
which I perceive when I wake. From this sensation arises the wish to         
drink, and the dream shows me this wish as fulfilled. It thereby             
serves a function, the nature of which I soon surmise. I sleep well,         
and am not accustomed to being waked by a bodily need. If I succeed in       
appeasing my thirst by means of the dream that I am drinking, I need         
not wake up in order to satisfy that thirst. It is thus a dream of           
convenience. The dream takes the place of action, as elsewhere in            
life. Unfortunately, the need of water to quench the thirst cannot           
be satisfied by a dream, as can my thirst for revenge upon Otto and          
Dr. M, but the intention is the same. Not long ago I had the same            
dream in a somewhat modified form. On this occasion I felt thirsty           
before going to bed, and emptied the glass of water which stood on the       
little chest beside my bed. Some hours later, during the night, my           
thirst returned, with the consequent discomfort. In order to obtain          
water, I should have had to get up and fetch the glass which stood           
on my wife's bed-table. I thus quite appropriately dreamt that my wife       
was giving me a drink from a vase; this vase was an Etruscan                 
cinerary urn, which I had brought home from Italy and had since              
given away. But the water in it tasted so salt (apparently on                
account of the ashes) that I was forced to wake. It may be observed          
how conveniently the dream is capable of arranging matters. Since            
the fulfilment of a wish is its only purpose, it may be perfectly            
egoistic. Love of comfort is really not compatible with                      
consideration for others. The introduction of the cinerary urn is            
probably once again the fulfilment of a wish; I regret that I no             
longer possess this vase; it, like the glass of water at my wife's           
side, is inaccessible to me. The cinerary urn is appropriate also in         
connection with the sensation of an increasingly salty taste, which          
I know will compel me to wake. *                                             
-                                                                            
  * The facts relating to dreams of thirst were known also to                
Weygandt, who speaks of them as follows: "It is just this sensation of       
thirst which is registered most accurately of all; it always causes          
a representation of quenching the thirst. The manner in which the            
dream represents the act of quenching the thirst is manifold, and is         
specified in accordance with some recent recollection. A universal           
phenomenon noticeable here is the fact that the representation of            
quenching the thirst is immediately followed by disappointment in            
the inefficacy of the imagined refreshment." But he overlooks the            
universal character of the reaction of the dream to the stimulus. If         
other persons who are troubled by thirst at night awake without              
dreaming beforehand, this does not constitute an objection to my             
experiment, but characterizes them as persons who sleep less                 
soundly. Cf. Isaiah, 29. 8.                                                  
-                                                                            
  Such convenience-dreams came very frequently to me in my youth.            
Accustomed as I had always been to working until late at night,              
early waking was always a matter of difficulty. I used then to dream         
that I was out of bed and standing at the wash-stand. After a while          
I could no longer shut out the knowledge that I was not yet up; but in       
the meantime I had continued to sleep. The same sort of lethargy-dream       
was dreamed by a young colleague of mine, who appears to share my            
propensity for sleep. With him it assumed a particularly amusing form.       
The landlady with whom he was lodging in the neighbourhood of the            
hospital had strict orders to wake him every morning at a given              
hour, but she found it by no means easy to carry out his orders. One         
morning sleep was especially sweet to him. The woman called into his         
room: "Herr Pepi, get up; you've got to go to the hospital." Whereupon       
the sleeper dreamt of a room in the hospital, of a bed in which he was       
lying, and of a chart pinned over his head, which read as follows:           
"Pepi M, medical student, 22 years of age." He told himself in the           
dream: "If I am already at the hospital, I don't have to go there,"          
turned over, and slept on. He had thus frankly admitted to himself his       
motive for dreaming.                                                         
  Here is yet another dream of which the stimulus was active during          
sleep: One of my women patients, who had been obliged to undergo an          
unsuccessful operation on the jaw, was instructed by her physicians to       
wear by day and night a cooling apparatus on the affected cheek; but         
she was in the habit of throwing it off as soon as she had fallen            
asleep. One day I was asked to reprove her for doing so; she had again       
thrown the apparatus on the floor. The patient defended herself as           
follows: "This time I really couldn't help it; it was the result of          
a dream which I had during the night. In the dream I was in a box at         
the opera, and was taking a lively interest in the performance. But          
Herr Karl Meyer was lying in the sanatorium and complaining                  
pitifully on account of pains in his jaw. I said to myself, 'Since I         
haven't the pains, I don't need the apparatus either'; that's why I          
threw it away." The dream of this poor sufferer reminds me of an             
expression which comes to our lips when we are in a disagreeable             
situation: "Well, I can imagine more amusing things!" The dream              
presents these "more amusing things!" Herr Karl Meyer, to whom the           
dreamer attributed her pains, was the most casual acquaintance of whom       
she could think.                                                             
  It is quite as simple a matter to discover the wish-fulfilment in          
several other dreams which I have collected from healthy persons. A          
friend who was acquainted with my theory of dreams, and had                  
explained it to his wife, said to me one day: "My wife asked me to           
tell you that she dreamt yesterday that she was having her menses. You       
will know what that means." Of course I know: if the young wife dreams       
that she is having her menses, the menses have stopped. I can well           
imagine that she would have liked to enjoy her freedom a little              
longer, before the discomforts of maternity began. It was a clever way       
of giving notice of her first pregnancy. Another friend writes that          
his wife had dreamt not long ago that she noticed milk-stains on the         
front of her blouse. This also is an indication of pregnancy, but            
not of the first one; the young mother hoped she would have more             
nourishment for the second child than she had for the first.                 
  A young woman who for weeks had been cut off from all society              
because she was nursing a child who was suffering from an infectious         
disease dreamt, after the child had recovered, of a company of               
people in which Alphonse Daudet, Paul Bourget, Marcel Prevost and            
others were present; they were all very pleasant to her and amused her       
enormously. In her dream these different authors had the features            
which their portraits give them. M. Prevost, with whose portrait she         
is not familiar, looked like the man who had disinfected the                 
sickroom the day before, the first outsider to enter it for a long           
time. Obviously the dream is to be translated thus: "It is about             
time now for something more entertaining than this eternal nursing."         
  Perhaps this collection will suffice to prove that frequently, and         
under the most complex conditions, dreams may be noted which can be          
understood only as wish-fulfilments, and which present their content         
without concealment. In most cases these are short and simple                
dreams, and they stand in pleasant contrast to the confused and              
overloaded dream-compositions which have almost exclusively                  
attracted the attention of the writers on the subject. But it will           
repay us if we give some time to the examination of these simple             
dreams. The simplest dreams of all are, I suppose, to be expected in         
the case of children whose psychic activities are certainly less             
complicated than those of adults. Child psychology, in my opinion,           
is destined to render the same services to the psychology of adults as       
a study of the structure or development of the lower animals renders         
to the investigation of the structure of the higher orders of animals.       
Hitherto but few deliberate efforts have been made to make use of            
the psychology of the child for such a purpose.                              
  The dreams of little children are often simple fulfilments of              
wishes, and for this reason are, as compared with the dreams of              
adults, by no means interesting. They present no problem to be solved,       
but they are invaluable as affording proof that the dream, in its            
inmost essence, is the fulfilment of a wish. I have been able to             
collect several examples of such dreams from the material furnished by       
my own children.                                                             
  For two dreams, one that of a daughter of mine, at that time eight         
and a half years of age, and the other that of a boy of five and a           
quarter, I am indebted to an excursion to Hallstatt, in the summer           
of 1806. I must first explain that we were living that summer on a           
hill near Aussee, from which, when the weather was fine, we enjoyed          
a splendid view of the Dachstein. With a telescope we could easily           
distinguish the Simony hut. The children often tried to see it through       
the telescope- I do not know with what success. Before the excursion I       
had told the children that Hallstatt lay at the foot of the Dachstein.       
They looked forward to the outing with the greatest delight. From            
Hallstatt we entered the valley of Eschern, which enchanted the              
children with its constantly changing scenery. One of them, however,         
the boy of five, gradually became discontented. As often as a mountain       
came into view, he would ask: "Is that the Dachstein?" whereupon I had       
to reply: "No, only a foot-hill." After this question had been               
repeated several times he fell quite silent, and did not wish to             
accompany us up the steps leading to the waterfall. I thought he was         
tired. But the next morning he came to me, perfectly happy, and              
said: "Last night I dreamt that we went to the Simony hut." I                
understood him now; he had expected, when I spoke of the Dachstein,          
that on our excursion to Hallstatt he would climb the mountain, and          
would see at close quarters the hut which had been so often                  
mentioned when the telescope was used. When he learned that he was           
expected to content himself with foot-hills and a waterfall he was           
disappointed, and became discontented. But the dream compensated him         
for all this. I tried to learn some details of the dream; they were          
scanty. "You go up steps for six hours," as he had been told.                
  On this excursion the girl of eight and a half had likewise                
cherished wishes which had to be satisfied by a dream. We had taken          
with us to Hallstatt our neighbour's twelve-year-old boy; quite a            
polished little gentleman, who, it seemed to me, had already won the         
little woman's sympathies. Next morning she related the following            
dream: "Just think, I dreamt that Emil was one of the family, that           
he said 'papa' and 'mamma' to you, and slept at our house, in the            
big room, like one of the boys. Then mamma came into the room and            
threw a handful of big bars of chocolate, wrapped in blue and green          
paper, under our beds." The girl's brothers, who evidently had not           
inherited an understanding of dream-interpretation, declared, just           
as the writers we have quoted would have done: "That dream is                
nonsense." The girl defended at least one part of the dream, and             
from the standpoint of the theory of the neuroses it is interesting to       
learn which part it was that she defended: "That Emil was one of the         
family was nonsense, but that about the bars of chocolate wasn't."           
It was just this latter part that was obscure to me, until my wife           
furnished the explanation. On the way home from the railway-station          
the children had stopped in front of a slot-machine, and had wanted          
exactly such bars of chocolate, wrapped in paper with a metallic             
lustre, such as the machine, in their experience, provided. But the          
mother thought, and rightly so, that the day had brought them enough         
wish-fulfilments, and therefore left this wish to be satisfied in            
the dream. This little scene had escaped me. That portion of the dream       
which had been condemned by my daughter I understood without any             
difficulty. I myself had heard the well-behaved little guest enjoining       
the children, as they were walking ahead of us, to wait until "papa"         
or "mamma" had come up. For the little girl the dream turned this            
temporary relationship into a permanent adoption. Her affection              
could not as yet conceive of any other way of enjoying her friend's          
company permanently than the adoption pictured in her dream, which was       
suggested by her brothers. Why the bars of chocolate were thrown under       
the bed could not, of course, be explained without questioning the           
child.                                                                       
  From a friend I have learned of a dream very much like that of my          
little boy. It was dreamed by a little girl of eight. Her father,            
accompanied by several children, had started on a walk to Dornbach,          
with the intention of visiting the Rohrer hut, but had turned back, as       
it was growing late, promising the children to take them some other          
time. On the way back they passed a signpost which pointed to the            
Hameau. The children now asked him to take them to the Hameau, but           
once more, and for the same reason, they had to be content with the          
promise that they should go there some other day. Next morning the           
little girl went to her father and told him, with a satisfied air:           
"Papa, I dreamed last night that you were with us at the Rohrer hut,         
and on the Hameau." Thus, in the dream her impatience had                    
anticipated the fulfilment of the promise made by her father.                
  Another dream, with which the picturesque beauty of the Aussee             
inspired my daughter, at that time three and a quarter years of age,         
is equally straightforward. The little girl had crossed the lake for         
the first time, and the trip had passed too quickly for her. She did         
not want to leave the boat at the landing, and cried bitterly. The           
next morning she told us: "Last night I was sailing on the lake."            
Let us hope that the duration of this dream-voyage was more                  
satisfactory to her.                                                         
  My eldest boy, at that time eight years of age, was already dreaming       
of the realization of his fancies. He had ridden in a chariot with           
Achilles, with Diomedes as charioteer. On the previous day he had            
shown a lively interest in a book on the myths of Greece which had           
been given to his elder sister.                                              
  If it can be admitted that the talking of children in their sleep          
belongs to the sphere of dreams, I can relate the following as one           
of the earliest dreams in my collection: My youngest daughter, at that       
time nineteen months old, vomited one morning, and was therefore             
kept without food all day. During the night she was heard to call            
excitedly in her sleep: "Anna F(r)eud, St'awbewy, wild st'awbewy,            
om'lette, pap!" She used her name in this way in order to express            
the act of appropriation; the menu presumably included everything that       
would seem to her a desirable meal; the fact that two varieties of           
strawberry appeared in it was demonstration against the sanitary             
regulations of the household, and was based on the circumstance, which       
she had by no means overlooked, that the nurse had ascribed her              
indisposition to an over-plentiful consumption of strawberries; so           
in her dream she avenged herself for this opinion which met with her         
disapproval. *                                                               
-                                                                            
  * The dream afterwards accomplished the same purpose in the case           
of the child's grandmother, who is older than the child by about             
seventy years. After she had been forced to go hungry for a day on           
account of the restlessness of her floating kidney, she dreamed, being       
apparently translated into the happy years of her girlhood, that she         
had been asked out, invited to lunch and dinner, and had at each             
meal been served with the most delicious titbits.                            
-                                                                            
  When we call childhood happy because it does not yet know sexual           
desire, we must not forget what a fruitful source of disappointment          
and renunciation, and therefore of dream-stimulation, the other              
great vital impulse may be for the child. * Here is a second                 
example. My nephew, twenty-two months of age, had been instructed to         
congratulate me on my birthday, and to give me a present of a small          
basket of cherries, which at that time of the year were scarce,              
being hardly in season. He seemed to find the task a difficult one,          
for he repeated again and again: "Cherries in it," and could not be          
induced to let the little basket go out of his hands. But he knew            
how to indemnify himself. He had, until then, been in the habit of           
telling his mother every morning that he had dreamt of the "white            
soldier," an officer of the guard in a white cloak, whom he had once         
admired in the street. On the day after the sacrifice on my birthday         
he woke up joyfully with the announcement, which could have referred         
only to a dream: "He [r] man eaten all the cherries!" *(2)                   
-                                                                            
  * A more searching investigation into the psychic life of the              
child teaches us, of course, that sexual motives, in infantile               
forms, play a very considerable part, which has been too long                
overlooked, in the psychic activity of the child. This permits us to         
doubt to some extent the happiness of the child, as imagined later           
by adults. Cf. Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex.                     
  *(2) It should be mentioned that young children often have more            
complex and obscure dreams, while, on the other hand, adults, in             
certain circumstances, often have dreams of a simple and infantile           
character. How rich in unsuspected content the dreams of children no         
more than four or five years of age may be is shown by the examples in       
my "Analysis of a Phobia in a five-year old Boy," Collected Papers,          
III, and Jung's "Experiences Concerning the Psychic Life of the              
Child," translated by Brill, American Journal of Psychology. April,          
1910. For analytically interpreted dreams of children, see also von          
Hug-Hellmuth, Putnam, Raalte, Spielrein, and Tausk; others by                
Banchieri, Busemann, Doglia, and especially Wigam, who emphasizes            
the wish-fulfilling tendency of such dreams. On the other hand, it           
seems that dreams of an infantile type reappear with especial                
frequency in adults who are transferred into the midst of unfamiliar         
conditions. Thus Otto Nordenskjold, in his book, Antarctic (1904, vol.       
i, p. 336), writes as follows of the crew who spent the winter with          
him: "Very characteristic of the trend of our inmost thoughts were our       
dreams, which were never more vivid and more numerous. Even those of         
our comrades with whom dreaming was formerly exceptional had long            
stories to tell in the morning, when we exchanged our experiences in         
the world of phantasy. They all had reference to that outside world          
which was now so far removed from us, but they often fitted into our         
immediate circumstances. An especially characteristic dream was that         
in which one of our comrades believed himself back at school, where          
the task was assigned to him of skinning miniature seals, which were         
manufactured especially for purposes of instruction. Eating and              
drinking constituted the pivot around which most of our dreams               
revolved. One of us, who was especially fond of going to big                 
dinner-parties, was delighted if he could report in the morning              
'that he had had a three-course dinner.' Another dreamed of tobacco,         
whole mountains of tobacco; yet another dreamed of a ship                    
approaching on the open sea under full sail. Still another dream             
deserves to be mentioned: The postman brought the post and gave a long       
explanation of why it was so long delayed; he had delivered it at            
the wrong address, and only with great trouble was he able to get it         
back. To be sure, we were often occupied in our sleep with still             
more impossible things, but the lack of phantasy in almost all the           
dreams which I myself dreamed, or heard others relate, was quite             
striking. It would certainly have been of great psychological interest       
if all these dreams could have been recorded. But one can readily            
understand how we longed for sleep. That alone could afford us               
everything that we all most ardently desired." I will continue by a          
quotation from Du Prel (p. 231): "Mungo Park, nearly dying of thirst         
on one of his African expeditions, dreamed constantly of the                 
well-watered valleys and meadows of his home. Similarly Trenck,              
tortured by hunger in the fortress of Magdeburg, saw himself                 
surrounded by copious meals. And George Back, a member of Franklin's         
first expedition, when he was on the point of death by starvation,           
dreamed continually and invariably of plenteous meals."                      
-                                                                            
  What animals dream of I do not know. A proverb, for which I am             
indebted to one of my pupils, professes to tell us, for it asks the          
question: "What does the goose dream of?" and answers: "Of maize." *         
The whole theory that the dream is the fulfilment of a wish is               
contained in these two sentences. *(2)                                       
-                                                                            
  * A Hungarian proverb cited by Ferenczi states more explicitly             
that "the pig dreams of acorns, the goose of maize." A Jewish                
proverb asks: "Of what does the hen dream?"- "Of millet" (Sammlung           
jud. Sprichw. u. Redensarten., edit. by Bernstein, 2nd ed., p. 116).         
  *(2) I am far from wishing to assert that no previous writer has           
ever thought of tracing a dream to a wish. (Cf. the first passages           
of the next chapter.) Those interested in the subject will find that         
even in antiquity the physician Herophilos, who lived under the              
First Ptolemy, distinguished between three kinds of dreams: dreams           
sent by the gods; natural dreams- those which come about whenever            
the soul creates for itself an image of that which is beneficial to          
it, and will come to pass; and mixed dreams- those which originate           
spontaneously from the juxtaposition of images, when we see that which       
we desire. From the examples collected by Scherner, J. Starcke cites a       
dream which was described by the author himself as a wish-fulfilment         
(p. 239). Scherner says: "The phantasy immediately fulfills the              
dreamer's wish, simply because this existed vividly in the mind." This       
dream belongs to the "emotional dreams." Akin to it are dreams due           
to "masculine and feminine erotic longing," and to "irritable                
moods." As will readily be seen, Scherner does not ascribe to the wish       
any further significance for the dream than to any other psychic             
condition of the waking state; least of all does he insist on the            
connection between the wish and the essential nature of the dream.           
-                                                                            
  We now perceive that we should have reached our theory of the hidden       
meaning of dreams by the shortest route had we merely consulted the          
vernacular. Proverbial wisdom, it is true, often speaks contemptuously       
enough of dreams- it apparently seeks to justify the scientists when         
it says that "dreams are bubbles"; but in colloquial language the            
dream is predominantly the gracious fulfiller of wishes. "I should           
never have imagined that in my wildest dreams," we exclaim in                
delight if we find that the reality surpasses our expectations.              
                                                                             
IV                                                                           
                       IV. DISTORTION IN DREAMS                              
-                                                                            
  IF I now declare that wish-fulfilment is the meaning of every dream,       
so that there cannot be any dreams other than wish-dreams, I know            
beforehand that I shall meet with the most emphatic contradiction.           
My critics will object: "The fact that there are dreams which are to         
be understood as fulfilments of wishes is not new, but has long              
since been recognized by such writers as Radestock, Volkelt, Purkinje,       
Griesinger and others. * That there can be no other dreams than              
those of wish-fulfilments is yet one more unjustified                        
generalization, which, fortunately, can be easily refuted. Dreams            
which present the most painful content, and not the least trace of           
wish-fulfilment, occur frequently enough. The pessimistic philosopher,       
Eduard von Hartmann, is perhaps most completely opposed to the               
theory of wish-fulfilment. In his Philosophy of the Unconscious,             
Part II (Stereotyped German edition, p. 344), he says: 'As regards the       
dream, with it all the troubles of waking life pass over into the            
sleeping state; all save the one thing which may in some degree              
reconcile the cultured person with life- scientific and artistic             
enjoyment....' But even less pessimistic observers have emphasized the       
fact that in our dreams pain and disgust are more frequent than              
pleasure (Scholz, p. 33; Volkelt, p. 80, et al.). Two ladies, Sarah          
Weed and Florence Hallam, have even worked out, on the basis of              
their dreams, a numerical value for the preponderance of distress            
and discomfort in dreams. They find that 58 per cent of dreams are           
disagreeable, and only 28.6 positively pleasant. Besides those               
dreams that convey into our sleep the many painful emotions of life,         
there are also anxiety-dreams, in which this most terrible of all            
the painful emotions torments us until we wake. Now it is precisely by       
these anxiety dreams that children are so often haunted (cf.                 
Debacker on Pavor nocturnus); and yet it was in children that you            
found the wish-fulfilment dream in its most obvious form."                   
-                                                                            
  * Already Plotinus, the neo-Platonist, said: "When desire bestirs          
itself, then comes phantasy, and presents to us, as it were, the             
object of desire" (Du Prel, p. 276).                                         
-                                                                            
  The anxiety-dream does really seem to preclude a generalization of         
the thesis deduced from the examples given in the last chapter, that         
dreams are wish-fulfilments, and even to condemn it as an absurdity.         
  Nevertheless, it is not difficult to parry these apparently                
invincible objections. It is merely necessary to observe that our            
doctrine is not based upon the estimates of the obvious dream-content,       
but relates to the thought-content, which, in the course of                  
interpretation, is found to lie behind the dream. Let us compare and         
contrast the manifest and the latent dream-content. It is true that          
there are dreams the manifest content of which is of the most                
painful nature. But has anyone ever tried to interpret these dreams-         
to discover their latent thought-content? If not, the two objections         
to our doctrine are no longer valid; for there is always the                 
possibility that even our painful and terrifying dreams may, upon            
interpretation, prove to be wish fulfilments. *                              
-                                                                            
  * It is quite incredible with what obstinacy readers and critics           
have excluded this consideration and disregarded the fundamental             
differentiation between the manifest and the latent dream-content.           
Nothing in the literature of the subject approaches so closely to my         
own conception of dreams as a passage in J. Sully's essay, Dreams as a       
Revelation (and it is not because I do not think it valuable that I          
allude to it here for the first time): "It would seem then, after all,       
that dreams are not the utter nonsense they have been said to be by          
such authorities as Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton. The chaotic            
aggregations of our night-fancy have a significance and communicate          
new knowledge. Like some letter in cipher, the dream-inscription             
when scrutinized closely loses its first look of balderdash and              
takes on the aspect of a serious, intelligible message. Or, to vary          
the figure slightly, we may say that, like some palimpsest, the              
dream discloses beneath its worthless surface-characters traces of           
an old and precious communication" (p. 364).                                 
-                                                                            
  In scientific research it is often advantageous, if the solution           
of one problem presents difficulties, to add to it a second problem;         
just as it is easier to crack two nuts together instead of separately.       
Thus, we are confronted not only with the problem: How can painful and       
terrifying dreams be the fulfilments of wishes? but we may add to this       
a second problem which arises from the foregoing discussion of the           
general problem of the dream: Why do not the dreams that show an             
indifferent content, and yet turn out to be wish-fulfilments, reveal         
their meaning without disguise? Take the exhaustively treated dream of       
Irma's injection: it is by no means of a painful character, and it may       
be recognized, upon interpretation, as a striking wish-fulfilment. But       
why is an interpretation necessary at all? Why does not the dream            
say directly what it means? As a matter of fact, the dream of Irma's         
injection does not at first produce the impression that it                   
represents a wish of the dreamer's as fulfilled. The reader will not         
have received this impression, and even I myself was not aware of            
the fact until I had undertaken the analysis. If we call this                
peculiarity of dreams- namely, that they need elucidation- the               
phenomenon of distortion in dreams, a second question then arises:           
What is the origin of this distortion in dreams?                             
  If one's first thoughts on this subject were consulted, several            
possible solutions might suggest themselves: for example, that               
during sleep one is incapable of finding an adequate expression for          
one's dream-thoughts. The analysis of certain dreams, however, compels       
us to offer another explanation. I shall demonstrate this by means           
of a second dream of my own, which again involves numerous                   
indiscretions, but which compensates for this personal sacrifice by          
affording a thorough elucidation of the problem.                             
-                                                                            
                        Preliminary Statement                                
-                                                                            
  In the spring of 1897 I learnt that two professors of our university       
had proposed me for the title of Professor Extraordinarius                   
(assistant professor). The news came as a surprise to me, and                
pleased me considerably as an expression of appreciation on the part         
of two eminent men which could not be explained by personal                  
interest. But I told myself immediately that I must not expect               
anything to come of their proposal. For some years past the Ministry         
had disregarded such proposals, and several colleagues of mine, who          
were my seniors and at least my equals in desert, had been waiting           
in vain all this time for the appointment. I had no reason to                
suppose that I should fare any better. I resolved, therefore, to             
resign myself to disappointment. I am not, so far as I know,                 
ambitious, and I was following my profession with gratifying success         
even without the recommendation of a professorial title. Whether I           
considered the grapes to be sweet or sour did not matter, since they         
undoubtedly hung too high for me.                                            
  One evening a friend of mine called to see me; one of those                
colleagues whose fate I had regarded as a warning. As he had long been       
a candidate for promotion to the professorate (which in our society          
makes the doctor a demigod to his patients), and as he was less              
resigned than I, he was accustomed from time to time to remind the           
authorities of his claims in the hope of advancing his interests. It         
was after one of these visits that he called on me. He said that             
this time he had driven the exalted gentleman into a corner, and had         
asked him frankly whether considerations of religious denomination           
were not really responsible for the postponement of his appointment.         
The answer was: His Excellency had to admit that in the present              
state of public opinion he was not in a position, etc. "Now at least I       
know where I stand," my friend concluded his narrative, which told           
me nothing new, but which was calculated to confirm me in my                 
resignation. For the same denominational considerations would apply to       
my own case.                                                                 
  On the morning after my friend's visit I had the following dream,          
which was notable also on account of its form. It consisted of two           
thoughts and two images, so that a thought and an image emerged              
alternately. But here I shall record only the first half of the dream,       
since the second half has no relation to the purpose for which I             
cite the dream.                                                              
  I. My friend R is my uncle- I have a great affection for him.              
  II. I see before me his face, somewhat altered. It seems to be             
elongated; a yellow beard, which surrounds it, is seen with peculiar         
distinctness.                                                                
  Then follow the other two portions of the dream, again a thought and       
an image, which I omit.                                                      
  The interpretation of this dream was arrived at in the following           
manner:                                                                      
  When I recollected the dream in the course of the morning, I laughed       
outright and said, "The dream is nonsense." But I could not get it out       
of my mind, and I was pursued by it all day, until at last, in the           
evening, I reproached myself in these words: "If in the course of a          
dream-interpretation one of your patients could find nothing better to       
say than 'That is nonsense,' you would reprove him, and you would            
suspect that behind the dream there was hidden some disagreeable             
affair, the exposure of which he wanted to spare himself. Apply the          
same thing to your own case; your opinion that the dream is nonsense         
probably signifies merely an inner resistance to its interpretation.         
Don't let yourself be put off." I then proceeded with the                    
interpretation.                                                              
  R is my uncle. What can that mean? I had only one uncle, my uncle          
Joseph. * His story, to be sure, was a sad one. Once, more than thirty       
years ago, hoping to make money, he allowed himself to be involved           
in transactions of a kind which the law punishes severely, and paid          
the penalty. My father, whose hair turned grey with grief within a few       
days, used always to say that uncle Joseph had never been a bad man,         
but, after all, he was a simpleton. If, then, my friend R is my              
uncle Joseph, that is equivalent to saying: "R is a simpleton." Hardly       
credible, and very disagreeable! But there is the face that I saw in         
the dream, with its elongated features and its yellow beard. My              
uncle actually had such a face- long, and framed in a handsome               
yellow beard. My friend R was extremely swarthy, but when black-haired       
people begin to grow grey they pay for the glory of their youth. Their       
black beards undergo an unpleasant change of colour, hair by hair;           
first they turn a reddish brown, then a yellowish brown, and then            
definitely grey. My friend R's beard is now in this stage; so, for           
that matter, is my own, a fact which I note with regret. The face that       
I see in my dream is at once that of my friend R and that of my uncle.       
It is like one of those composite photographs of Galton's; in order to       
emphasize family resemblances Galton had several faces photographed on       
the same plate. No doubt is now possible; it is really my opinion that       
my friend R is a simpleton- like my uncle Joseph.                            
-                                                                            
  * It is astonishing to see how my memory here restricts itself- in         
the waking state!- for the purposes of analysis. I have known five           
of my uncles and I loved and honoured one of them. But at the moment         
when I overcame my resistance to the interpretation of the dream, I          
said to myself: "I have only one uncle, the one who is intended in the       
dream."                                                                      
-                                                                            
  I have still no idea for what purpose I have worked out this               
relationship. It is certainly one to which I must unreservedly object.       
Yet it is not very profound, for my uncle was a criminal, and my             
friend R is not, except in so far as he was once fined for knocking          
down an apprentice with his bicycle. Can I be thinking of this               
offence? That would make the comparison ridiculous. Here I recollect         
another conversation, which I had some days ago with another                 
colleague, N; as a matter of fact, on the same subject. I met N in the       
street; he, too, has been nominated for a professorship, and having          
heard that I had been similarly honoured he congratulated me. I              
refused his congratulations, saying: "You are the last man to jest           
about the matter, for you know from your own experience what the             
nomination is worth." Thereupon he said, though probably not in              
earnest; "You can't be sure of that. There is a special objection in         
my case. Don't you know that a woman once brought a criminal                 
accusation against me? I need hardly assure you that the matter was          
put right. It was a mean attempt at blackmail, and it was all I              
could do to save the plaintiff from punishment. But it may be that the       
affair is remembered against me at the Ministry. You, on the other           
hand, are above reproach." Here, then, I have the criminal, and at the       
same time the interpretation and tendency of my dream. My uncle Joseph       
represents both of my colleagues who have not been appointed to the          
professorship- the one as a simpleton, the other as a criminal. Now,         
too, I know for what purpose I need this representation. If                  
denominational considerations are a determining factor in the                
postponement of my two friends' appointment, then my own appointment         
is likewise in jeopardy. But if I can refer the rejection of my two          
friends to other causes, which do not apply to my own case, my hopes         
are unaffected. This is the procedure followed by my dream: it makes         
the one friend R, a simpleton, and the other, N, a criminal. But since       
I am neither one nor the other, there is nothing in common between us.       
I have a right to enjoy my appointment to the title of professor,            
and have avoided the distressing application to my own case of the           
information which the official gave to my friend R.                          
  I must pursue the interpretation of this dream still farther; for          
I have a feeling that it is not yet satisfactorily elucidated. I still       
feel disquieted by the ease with which I have degraded two respected         
colleagues in order to clear my own way to the professorship. My             
dissatisfaction with this procedure has, of course, been mitigated           
since I have learned to estimate the testimony of dreams at its true         
value. I should contradict anyone who suggested that I really                
considered R a simpleton, or that I did not believe N's account of the       
blackmailing incident. And of course I do not believe that Irma has          
been made seriously ill by an injection of a preparation of propyl           
administered by Otto. Here, as before, what the dream expresses is           
only my wish that things might be so. The statement in which my wish         
is realized sounds less absurd in the second dream than in the               
first; it is here made with a skilful use of actual points of                
support in establishing something like a plausible slander, one of           
which one could say that "there is something in it." For at that             
time my friend R had to contend with the adverse vote of a                   
university professor of his own department, and my friend N had              
himself, all unsuspectingly, provided me with material for the               
calumny. Nevertheless, I repeat, it still seems to me that the dream         
requires further elucidation.                                                
  I remember now that the dream contained yet another portion which          
has hitherto been ignored by the interpretation. After it occurred           
to me that my friend R was my uncle, I felt in the dream a great             
affection for him. To whom is this feeling directed? For my uncle            
Joseph, of course, I have never had any feelings of affection. R has         
for many years been a dearly loved friend, but if I were to go to            
him and express my affection for him in terms approaching the degree         
of affection which I felt in the dream, he would undoubtedly be              
surprised. My affection, if it was for him, seems false and                  
exaggerated, as does my judgment of his intellectual qualities,              
which I expressed by merging his personality in that of my uncle;            
but exaggerated in the opposite direction. Now, however, a new state         
of affairs dawns upon me. The affection in the dream does not belong         
to the latent content, to the thoughts behind the dream; it stands           
in opposition to this content; it is calculated to conceal the               
knowledge conveyed by the interpretation. Probably this is precisely         
its function. I remember with what reluctance I undertook the                
interpretation, how long I tried to postpone it, and how I declared          
the dream to be sheer nonsense. I know from my psycho-analytic               
practice how such a condemnation is to be interpreted. It has no             
informative value, but merely expresses an affect. If my little              
daughter does not like an apple which is offered her, she asserts that       
the apple is bitter, without even tasting it. If my patients behave          
thus, I know that we are dealing with an idea which they are trying to       
repress. The same thing applies to my dream. I do not want to                
interpret it because there is something in the interpretation to which       
I object. After the interpretation of the dream is completed, I              
discover what it was to which I objected; it was the assertion that          
R is a simpleton. I can refer the affection which I feel for R not           
to the latent dream-thoughts, but rather to this unwillingness of            
mine. If my dream, as compared with its latent content, is disguised         
at this point, and actually misrepresents things by producing their          
opposites, then the manifest affection in the dream serves the purpose       
of the misrepresentation: in other words, the distortion is here shown       
to be intentional- it is a means of disguise. My dream-thoughts of R         
are derogatory, and so that I may not become aware of this the very          
opposite of defamation- a tender affection for him- enters into the          
dream.                                                                       
  This discovery may prove to be generally valid. As the examples in         
Chapter III have demonstrated, there are, of course, dreams which            
are undisguised wish-fulfilments. Wherever a wish-fulfilment is              
unrecognizable and disguised there must be present a tendency to             
defend oneself against this wish, and in consequence of this defence         
the wish is unable to express itself save in a distorted form. I             
will try to find a parallel in social life to this occurrence in the         
inner psychic life. Where in social life can a similar                       
misrepresentation be found? Only where two persons are concerned,            
one of whom possesses a certain power while the other has to act             
with a certain consideration on account of this power. The second            
person will then distort his psychic actions: or, as we say, he will         
mask himself. The politeness which I practise every day is largely a         
disguise of this kind; if I interpret my dreams for the benefit of           
my readers, I am forced to make misrepresentations of this kind. The         
poet even complains of the necessity of such misrepresentation: Das          
Beste, was du wissen kannst, darfst du den Buben doch nicht sagen:           
"The best that thou canst know thou mayst not tell to boys."                 
  The political writer who has unpleasant truths to tell to those in         
power finds himself in a like position. If he tells everything without       
reserve, the Government will suppress them- retrospectively in the           
case of a verbal expression of opinion, preventively if they are to be       
published in the Press. The writer stands in fear of the censorship;         
he therefore moderates and disguises the expression of his opinions.         
He finds himself compelled, in accordance with the sensibilities of          
the censor, either to refrain altogether from certain forms of               
attack or to express himself in allusions instead of by direct               
assertions; or he must conceal his objectionable statement in an             
apparently innocent disguise. He may, for instance, tell of a                
contretemps between two Chinese mandarins, while he really has in mind       
the officials of his own country. The stricter the domination of the         
censorship, the more thorough becomes the disguise, and, often enough,       
the more ingenious the means employed to put the reader on the track         
of the actual meaning.                                                       
  The detailed correspondence between the phenomena of censorship            
and the phenomena of dream-distortion justifies us in presupposing           
similar conditions for both. We should then assume that in every human       
being there exist, as the primary cause of dream-formation, two              
psychic forces (tendencies or systems), one of which forms the wish          
expressed by the dream, while the other exercises a censorship over          
this dream-wish, thereby enforcing on it a distortion. The question          
is: What is the nature of the authority of this second agency by             
virtue of which it is able to exercise its censorship? If we                 
remember that the latent dream-thoughts are not conscious before             
analysis, but that the manifest dream-content emerging from them is          
 
consciously remembered, it is not a far-fetched assumption that              
admittance to the consciousness is the prerogative of the second             
agency. Nothing can reach the consciousness from the first system            
which has not previously passed the second instance; and the second          
instance lets nothing pass without exercising its rights, and                
forcing such modifications as are pleasing to itself upon the                
candidates for admission to consciousness. Here we arrive at a very          
definite conception of the essence of consciousness; for us the              
state of becoming conscious is a special psychic act, different from         
and independent of the process of becoming fixed or represented, and         
consciousness appears to us as a sensory organ which perceives a             
content proceeding from another source. It may be shown that                 
psycho-pathology simply cannot dispense with these fundamental               
assumptions. But we shall reserve for another time a more exhaustive         
examination of the subject.                                                  
  If I bear in mind the notion of the two psychic instances and              
their relation to the consciousness, I find in the sphere of                 
politics a perfectly appropriate analogy to the extraordinary                
affection which I feel for my friend R, who is so disparaged in the          
dream-interpretation. I refer to the political life of a State in            
which the ruler, jealous of his rights, and an active public opinion         
are in mutual conflict. The people, protesting against the actions           
of an unpopular official, demand his dismissal. The autocrat, on the         
other hand, in order to show his contempt for the popular will, may          
then deliberately confer upon the official some exceptional                  
distinction which otherwise would not have been conferred.                   
Similarly, my second instance, controlling the access to my                  
consciousness, distinguishes my friend R with a rush of                      
extraordinary affection, because the wish-tendencies of the first            
system, in view of a particular interest on which they are just then         
intent, would like to disparage him as a simpleton. *                        
-                                                                            
  * Such hypocritical dreams are not rare, either with me or with            
others. While I have been working at a certain scientific problem, I         
have been visited for several nights, at quite short intervals, by a         
somewhat confusing dream which has as its content a reconciliation           
with a friend dropped long ago. After three or four attempts I finally       
succeeded in grasping the meaning of this dream. It was in the               
nature of an encouragment to give up the remnant of consideration            
still surviving for the person in question, to make myself quite             
free from him, but it hypocritically disguised itself in its                 
antithesis. I have recorded a "hypocritical Oedipus dream" in which          
the hostile feelings and death-wishes of the dream-thoughts were             
replaced by manifest tenderness ("Typisches Beispiel eines                   
verkappten Oedipustraumes." Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, Vol. I,          
No. I-II [1910]). Another class of hypocritical dreams will be               
recorded in another place (see Chap vi, "The Dream-Work").                   
-                                                                            
  We may now perhaps begin to suspect that dream-interpretation is           
capable of yielding information concerning the structure of our              
psychic apparatus which we have hitherto vainly expected from                
philosophy. We shall not, however, follow up this trail, but shall           
return to our original problem as soon as we have elucidated the             
problem of dream-distortion. The question arose, how dreams with a           
disagreeable content can be analysed as wish-fulfillments. We see            
now that this is possible where a dream-distortion has occurred,             
when the disagreeable content serves only to disguise the thing wished       
for. With regard to our assumptions respecting the two psychic               
instances, we can now also say that disagreeable dreams contain, as          
a matter of fact, something which is disagreeable to the second              
instance, but which at the same time fulfills a wish of the first            
instance. They are wish-dreams in so far as every dream emanates             
from the first instance, while the second instance behaves towards the       
dream only in a defensive, not in a constructive manner. * Were we           
to limit ourselves to a consideration of what the second instance            
contributes to the dream we should never understand the dream, and all       
the problems which the writers on the subject have discovered in the         
dream would have to remain unsolved.                                         
-                                                                            
  * Later on we shall become acquainted with cases in which, on the          
contrary, the dream expresses a wish of this second instance.                
-                                                                            
  That the dream actually has a secret meaning, which proves to be a         
wish-fulfillment, must be proved afresh in every case by analysis. I         
will therefore select a few dreams which have painful contents, and          
endeavour to analyse them. Some of them are dreams of hysterical             
subjects, which therefore call for a long preliminary statement, and         
in some passages an examination of the psychic processes occurring           
in hysteria. This, though it will complicate the presentation, is            
unavoidable.                                                                 
  When I treat a psychoneurotic patient analytically, his dreams             
regularly, as I have said, become a theme of our conversations. I must       
therefore give him all the psychological explanations with whose aid I       
myself have succeeded in understanding his symptoms. And here I              
encounter unsparing criticism, which is perhaps no less shrewd than          
that which I have to expect from my colleagues. With perfect                 
uniformity, my patients contradict the doctrine that dreams are the          
fulfillments of wishes. Here are several examples of the sort of             
dream-material which is adduced in refutation of my theory.                  
  "You are always saying that a dream is a wish fulfilled," begins           
an intelligent lady patient. "Now I shall tell you a dream in which          
the content is quite the opposite, in which a wish of mine is not            
fulfilled. How do you reconcile that with your theory? The dream was         
as follows: I want to give a supper, but I have nothing available            
except some smoked salmon. I think I will go shopping, but I                 
remember that it is Sunday afternoon, when all the shops are closed. I       
then try to ring up a few caterers, but the telephone is out of order.       
Accordingly I have to renounce my desire to give a supper."                  
  I reply, of course, that only the analysis can decide the meaning of       
this dream, although I admit that at first sight it seems sensible and       
coherent and looks like the opposite of a wish-fulfilment. "But what         
occurrence gave rise to this dream?" I ask. "You know that the               
stimulus of a dream always lies among the experiences of the preceding       
day."                                                                        
-                                                                            
                               Analysis                                      
-                                                                            
  The patient's husband, an honest and capable meat salesman, had told       
her the day before that he was growing too fat, and that he meant to         
undergo treatment for obesity. He would rise early, take physical            
exercise, keep to a strict diet, and above all accept no more                
invitations to supper. She proceeds jestingly to relate how her              
husband, at a table d'hote, had made the acquaintance of an artist,          
who insisted upon painting his portrait, because he, the painter,            
had never seen such an expressive head. But her husband had answered         
in his downright fashion, that while he was much obliged, he would           
rather not be painted; and he was quite convinced that a bit of a            
pretty girl's posterior would please the artist better than his              
whole face. * She is very much in love with her husband, and teases          
him a good deal. She has asked him not to give her any caviar. What          
can that mean?                                                               
-                                                                            
  * To sit for the painter.                                                  
      Goethe: And if he has no backside,                                     
              How can the nobleman sit?                                      
-                                                                            
  As a matter of fact, she had wanted for a long time to eat a               
caviar sandwich every morning, but had grudged the expense. Of               
course she could get the caviar from her husband at once if she              
asked for it. But she has, on the contrary, begged him not to give her       
any caviar, so that she might tease him about it a little longer.            
  (To me this explanation seems thin. Unconfessed motives are wont           
to conceal themselves behind just such unsatisfying explanations. We         
are reminded of the subjects hypnotized by Bernheim, who carried out a       
post-hypnotic order, and who, on being questioned as to their motives,       
instead of answering: "I do not know why I did that." had to invent          
a reason that was obviously inadequate. There is probably something          
similar to this in the case of my patient's caviar. I see that in            
waking life she is compelled to invent an unfulfilled wish. Her              
dream also shows her the non-fulfillment of her wish. But why does she       
need an unfulfilled wish?)                                                   
  The ideas elicited so far are insufficient for the interpretation of       
the dream. I press for more. After a short pause, which corresponds to       
the overcoming of a resistance, she reports that the day before she          
had paid a visit to a friend of whom she is really jealous because her       
husband is always praising this lady so highly. Fortunately this             
friend is very thin and lanky, and her husband likes full figures. Now       
of what did this thin friend speak? Of course, of her wish to become         
rather plumper. She also asked my patient: "When are you going to            
invite us again? You always have such good food."                            
  Now the meaning of the dream is clear. I am able to tell the               
patient: "It is just as though you had thought at the moment of her          
asking you that: 'Of course, I'm to invite you so that you can eat           
at my house and get fat and become still more pleasing to my                 
husband! I would rather give no more suppers!' The dream then tells          
you that you cannot give a supper, thereby fulfilling your wish not to       
contribute anything to the rounding out of your friend's figure.             
Your husband's resolution to accept no more invitations to supper in         
order that he may grow thin teaches you that one grows fat on food           
eaten at other people's tables." Nothing is lacking now but some             
sort of coincidence which will confirm the solution. The smoked salmon       
in the dream has not yet been traced.- "How did you come to think of         
salmon in your dream?"- "Smoked salmon is my friend's favourite dish,"       
she replied. It happens that I know the lady, and am able to affirm          
that she grudges herself salmon just as my patient grudges herself           
caviar.                                                                      
  This dream admits of yet another and more exact interpretation-            
one which is actually necessitated only by a subsidiary                      
circumstance. The two interpretations do not contradict one another,         
but rather dovetail into one another, and furnish an excellent example       
of the usual ambiguity of dreams, as of all other                            
psycho-pathological formations. We have heard that at the time of            
her dream of a denied wish the patient was impelled to deny herself          
a real wish (the wish to cat caviar sandwiches). Her friend, too,            
had expressed a wish, namely, to get fatter, and it would not surprise       
us if our patient had dreamt that this wish of her friend's- the             
wish to increase in weight- was not to be fulfilled. Instead of              
this, however, she dreamt that one of her own wishes was not                 
fulfilled. The dream becomes capable of a new interpretation if in the       
dream she does not mean herself, but her friend, if she has put              
herself in the place of her friend, or, as we may say, has                   
identified herself with her friend.                                          
  I think she has actually done this, and as a sign of this                  
identification she has created for herself in real life an unfulfilled       
wish. But what is the meaning of this hysterical identification? To          
elucidate this a more exhaustive exposition is necessary.                    
Identification is a highly important motive in the mechanism of              
hysterical symptoms; by this means patients are enabled to express           
in their symptoms not merely their own experiences, but the                  
experiences of quite a number of other persons; they can suffer, as it       
were, for a whole mass of people, and fill all the parts of a drama          
with their own personalities. It will here be objected that this is          
the well-known hysterical imitation, the ability of hysterical               
subjects to imitate all the symptoms which impress them when they            
occur in others, as though pity were aroused to the point of                 
reproduction. This, however, only indicates the path which the psychic       
process follows in hysterical imitation. But the path itself and the         
psychic act which follows this path are two different matters. The act       
itself is slightly more complicated than we are prone to believe the         
imitation of the hysterical to be; it corresponds to an unconscious          
end-process, as an example will show. The physician who has, in the          
same ward with other patients, a female patient suffering from a             
particular kind of twitching, is not surprised if one morning he             
learns that this peculiar hysterical affection has found imitators. He       
merely tells himself: The others have seen her, and have imitated her;       
this is psychic infection. Yes, but psychic infection occurs                 
somewhat in the following manner: As a rule, patients know more              
about one another than the physician knows about any one of them,            
and they are concerned about one another when the doctor's visit is          
over. One of them has an attack to-day: at once it is known to the           
rest that a letter from home, a recrudescence of lovesickness, or            
the like, is the cause. Their sympathy is aroused, and although it           
does not emerge into consciousness they form the following conclusion:       
"If it is possible to suffer such an attack from such a cause, I too         
may suffer this sort of an attack, for I have the same occasion for          
it." If this were a conclusion capable of becoming conscious, it would       
perhaps express itself in dread of suffering a like attack; but it           
is formed in another psychic region, and consequently ends in the            
realization of the dreaded symptoms. Thus identification is not mere         
imitation, but an assimilation based upon the same aetiological claim;       
it expresses a just like, and refers to some common condition which          
has remained in the unconscious.                                             
  In hysteria, identification is most frequently employed to express a       
sexual community. The hysterical woman identifies herself by her             
symptoms most readily- though not exclusively- with persons with             
whom she has had sexual relations, or who have had sexual                    
intercourse with the same persons as herself. Language takes                 
cognizance of this tendency: two lovers are said to be "one." In             
hysterical phantasy, as well as in dreams, identification may ensue if       
one simply thinks of sexual relations; they need not necessarily             
become actual. The patient is merely following the rules of the              
hysterical processes of thought when she expresses her jealousy of her       
friend (which, for that matter, she herself admits to be                     
unjustified) by putting herself in her friend's place in her dream,          
and identifying herself with her by fabricating a symptom (the               
denied wish). One might further elucidate the process by saying: In          
the dream she puts herself in the place of her friend, because her           
friend has taken her own place in relation to her husband, and because       
she would like to take her friend's place in her husband's esteem. *         
-                                                                            
  * I myself regret the inclusion of such passages from the                  
psycho-pathology of hysteria, which, because of their fragmentary            
presentation, and because they are torn out of their context, cannot         
prove to be very illuminating. If these passages are capable of              
throwing any light upon the intimate relations between dream and the         
psycho-neurosis, they have served the intention with which I have            
included them.                                                               
-                                                                            
  The contradiction of my theory of dreams on the part of another            
female patient, the most intelligent of all my dreamers, was solved in       
a simpler fashion, though still in accordance with the principle             
that the non-fulfilment of one wish signified the fulfilment of              
another. I had one day explained to her that a dream is a                    
wish-fulfilment. On the following day she related a dream to the             
effect that she was travelling with her mother-in-law to the place           
in which they were both to spend the summer. Now I knew that she had         
violently protested against spending the summer in the neighbourhood         
of her mother-in-law. I also knew that she had fortunately been able         
to avoid doing so, since she had recently succeeded in renting a house       
in a place quite remote from that to which her mother-in-law was             
going. And now the dream reversed this desired solution. Was not             
this a flat contradiction of my theory of wish-fulfilment? One had           
only to draw the inferences from this dream in order to arrive at            
its interpretation. According to this dream, I was wrong; but it was         
her wish that I should be wrong, and this wish the dream showed her as       
fulfilled. But the wish that I should be wrong, which was fulfilled in       
the theme of the country house, referred in reality to another and           
more serious matter. At that time I had inferred, from the material          
furnished by her analysis, that something of significance in respect         
to her illness must have occurred at a certain time in her life. She         
had denied this, because it was not present in her memory. We soon           
came to see that I was right. Thus her wish that I should prove to           
be wrong, which was transformed into the dream that she was going into       
the country with her mother-in-law, corresponded with the                    
justifiable wish that those things which were then only suspected            
had never occurred.                                                          
  Without an analysis, and merely by means of an assumption, I took          
the liberty of interpreting a little incident in the life of a friend,       
who had been my companion through eight classes at school. He once           
heard a lecture of mine, delivered to a small audience, on the novel         
idea that dreams are wish-fulfilments. He went home, dreamt that he          
had lost all his lawsuits- he was a lawyer- and then complained to           
me about it. I took refuge in the evasion: "One can't win all one's          
cases"; but I thought to myself: "If, for eight years, I sat as primus       
on the first bench, while he moved up and down somewhere in the middle       
of the class, may he not naturally have had the wish, ever since his         
boyhood, that I too might for once make a fool of myself?"                   
  Yet another dream of a more gloomy character was offered me by a           
female patient in contradiction of my theory of the wish-dream. This         
patient, a young girl, began as follows: "You remember that my               
sister has now only one boy, Charles. She lost the elder one, Otto,          
while I was still living with her. Otto was my favourite; it was I who       
really brought him up. I like the other little fellow, too, but, of          
course, not nearly as much as his dead brother. Now I dreamt last            
night that I saw Charles lying dead before me. He was lying in his           
little coffin, his hands folded; there were candles all about; and, in       
short, it was just as it was at the time of little Otto's death, which       
gave me such a shock. Now tell me, what does this mean? You know me-         
am I really so bad as to wish that my sister should lose the only            
child she has left? Or does the dream mean that I wish that Charles          
had died rather than Otto, whom I liked so much better?"                     
  I assured her that this latter interpretation was impossible.              
After some reflection, I was able to give her the interpretation of          
the dream, which she subsequently confirmed. I was able to do so             
because the whole previous history of the dreamer was known to me.           
  Having become an orphan at an early age, the girl had been brought         
up in the home of a much older sister, and had met, among the                
friends and visitors who frequented the house, a man who made a              
lasting impression upon her affections. It looked for a time as though       
these barely explicit relations would end in marriage, but this              
happy culmination was frustrated by the sister, whose motives were           
never completely explained. After the rupture the man whom my                
patient loved avoided the house; she herself attained her independence       
some time after the death of little Otto, to whom, meanwhile, her            
affections had turned. But she did not succeed in freeing herself from       
the dependence due to her affection for her sister's friend. Her pride       
bade her avoid him, but she found it impossible to transfer her love         
to the other suitors who successively presented themselves. Whenever         
the man she loved, who was a member of the literary profession,              
announced a lecture anywhere, she was certain to be found among the          
audience; and she seized every other opportunity of seeing him               
unobserved. I remembered that on the previous day she had told me that       
the Professor was going to a certain concert, and that she too was           
going, in order to enjoy the sight of him. This was on the day               
before the dream; and the concert was to be given on the day on              
which she told me the dream. I could now easily see the correct              
interpretation, and I asked her whether she could think of any               
particular event which had occurred after Otto's death. She replied          
immediately: "Of course; the Professor returned then, after a long           
absence, and I saw him once more beside little Otto's coffin." It            
was just as I had expected. I interpreted the dream as follows: "If          
now the other boy were to die, the same thing would happen again.            
You would spend the day with your sister; the Professor would                
certainly come to offer his condolences, and you would see him once          
more under the same circumstances as before. The dream signifies             
nothing more than this wish of yours to see him again- a wish                
against which you are fighting inwardly. I know that you have the            
ticket for today's concert in your bag. Your dream is a dream of             
impatience; it has anticipated by several hours the meeting which is         
to take place to-day."                                                       
  In order to disguise her wish she had obviously selected a situation       
in which wishes of the sort are commonly suppressed- a situation so          
sorrowful that love is not even thought of. And yet it is entirely           
possible that even in the actual situation beside the coffin of the          
elder, more dearly loved boy, she had not been able to suppress her          
tender affection for the visitor whom she had missed for so long.            
  A different explanation was found in the case of a similar dream           
of another patient, who in earlier life had been distinguished for her       
quick wit and her cheerful disposition, and who still displayed              
these qualities, at all events in the free associations which occurred       
to her during treatment. In the course of a longer dream, it seemed to       
this lady that she saw her fifteen-year-old daughter lying dead before       
her in a box. She was strongly inclined to use this dream-image as           
an objection to the theory of wish-fulfilment, although she herself          
suspected that the detail of the box must lead to a different                
conception of the dream. * For in the course of the analysis it              
occurred to her that on the previous evening the conversation of the         
people in whose company she found herself had turned on the English          
word box, and upon the numerous translations of it into German such as       
Schachtel (box), Loge (box at the theatre), Kasten (chest), Ohrfeige         
(box on the ear), etc. From other components of the same dream it            
was now possible to add the fact that the lady had guessed at the            
relationship between the English word "box" and the German Buchse, and       
had then been haunted by the recollection that Buchse is used in             
vulgar parlance to denote the female genitals. It was therefore              
possible, treating her knowledge of topographical anatomy with a             
certain indulgence, to assume that the child in the box signified a          
child in the mother's womb. At this stage of the explanation she no          
longer denied that the picture in the dream actually corresponded with       
a wish of hers. Like so many other young women, she was by no means          
happy on finding that she was pregnant, and she had confessed to me          
more than once the wish that her child might die before its birth;           
in a fit of anger, following a violent scene with her husband, she had       
even struck her abdomen with her fists, in order to injure the child         
within. The dead child was therefore, really the fulfilment of a wish,       
but a wish which had been put aside for fifteen years, and it is not         
surprising that the fulfilment of the wish was no longer recognized          
after so long an interval. For there had been many changes in the            
meantime.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  * As in the dream of the deferred supper and the smoked salmon.            
-                                                                            
  The group of dreams (having as content the death of beloved                
relatives) to which belong the last two mentioned will be considered         
again under the head of "Typical Dreams." I shall then be able to show       
by new examples that in spite of their undesirable content all these         
dreams must be interpreted as wish-fulfilments. For the following            
dream, which again was told me in order to deter me from a hasty             
generalization of my theory, I am indebted, not to a patient, but to         
an intelligent jurist of my acquaintance. "I dream," my informant            
tells me, "that I am walking in front of my house with a lady on my          
arm. Here a closed carriage is waiting; a man steps up to me, shows me       
his authorization as a police officer, and requests me to follow             
him. I ask only for time in which to arrange my affairs." The jurist         
then asks me: "Can you possibly suppose that it is my wish to be             
arrested?"- "Of course not," I have to admit. "Do you happen to know         
upon what charge you were arrested?"- "Yes; I believe for                    
infanticide."- "Infanticide? But you know that only a mother can             
commit this crime upon her new-born child?"- "That is true." * "And          
under what circumstances did you dream this? What happened on the            
evening before?"- "I would rather not tell you- it is a delicate             
matter."- "But I need it, otherwise we must forgo the interpretation         
of the dream."- "Well, then, I will tell you. I spent the night, not         
at home, but in the house of a lady who means a great deal to me. When       
we awoke in the morning, something again passed between us. Then I           
went to sleep again, and dreamt what I have told you."- "The woman           
is married?"- "Yes."- "And you do not wish her to conceive?"- "No;           
that might betray us."- "Then you do not practice normal coitus?"-           
"I take the precaution to withdraw before ejaculation."- "Am I to            
assume that you took this precaution several times during the night,         
and that in the morning you were not quite sure whether you had              
succeeded?"- "That might be so."- "Then your dream is the fulfilment         
of a wish. By the dream you are assured that you have not begotten a         
child, or, what amounts to the same thing, that you have killed the          
child. I can easily demonstrate the connecting-links. Do you remember,       
a few days ago we were talking about the troubles of matrimony, and          
about the inconsistency of permitting coitus so long as no                   
impregnation takes place, while at the same time any preventive act          
committed after the ovum and the semen meet and a foetus is formed           
is punished as a crime? In this connection we recalled the medieval          
controversy about the moment of time at which the soul actually enters       
into the foetus, since the concept of murder becomes admissible only         
from that point onwards. Of course, too, you know the gruesome poem by       
Lenau, which puts infanticide and birth-control on the same plane."-         
"Strangely enough, I happened, as though by chance, to think of              
Lenau this morning."- "Another echo of your dream. And now I shall           
show you yet another incidental wish-fulfilment in your dream. You           
walk up to your house with the lady on your arm. So you take her home,       
instead of spending the night at her house, as you did in reality. The       
fact that the wish-fulfilment, which is the essence of the dream,            
disguises itself in such an unpleasant form, has perhaps more than one       
explanation. From my essay on the aetiology of anxiety neurosis, you         
will see that I note coitus interruptus as one of the factors                
responsible for the development of neurotic fear. It would be                
consistent with this if, after repeated coitus of this kind, you             
were left in an uncomfortable frame of mind, which now becomes an            
element of the composition of your dream. You even make use of this          
uncomfortable state of mind to conceal the wish-fulfilment. At the           
same time, the mention of infanticide has not yet been explained.            
Why does this crime, which is peculiar to females, occur to you?"-           
"I will confess to you that I was involved in such an affair years           
ago. I was responsible for the fact that a girl tried to protect             
herself from the consequences of a liaison with me by procuring an           
abortion. I had nothing to do with the carrying out of her plan, but         
for a long time I was naturally worried in case the affair might be          
discovered."- "I understand. This recollection furnished a second            
reason why the supposition that you had performed coitus interruptus         
clumsily must have been painful to you."                                     
-                                                                            
  * It often happens that a dream is told incompletely, and that a           
recollection of the omitted portions appears only in the course of the       
analysis. These portions, when subsequently fitted in, invariably            
furnish the key to the interpretation. Cf. Chapter VII, on                   
forgetting of dreams.                                                        
-                                                                            
  A young physician, who heard this dream related in my                      
lecture-room, must have felt that it fitted him, for he hastened to          
imitate it by a dream of his own, applying its mode of thinking to           
another theme. On the previous day he had furnished a statement of his       
income; a quite straightforward statement, because he had little to          
state. He dreamt that an acquaintance of his came from a meeting of          
the tax commission and informed him that all the other statements            
had passed unquestioned, but that his own had aroused general                
suspicion, with the result that he would be punished with a heavy            
fine. This dream is a poorly disguised fulfilment of the wish to be          
known as a physician with a large income. It also calls to mind the          
story of the young girl who was advised against accepting her suitor         
because he was a man of quick temper, who would assuredly beat her           
after their marriage. Her answer was: "I wish he would strike me!" Her       
wish to be married was so intense that she had taken into                    
consideration the discomforts predicted for this marriage; she had           
even raised them to the plane of a wish.                                     
  If I group together the very frequent dreams of this sort, which           
seem flatly to contradict my theory, in that they embody the denial of       
a wish or some occurrence obviously undesired, under the head of             
counter-wish-dreams, I find that they may all be referred to two             
principles, one of which has not yet been mentioned, though it plays a       
large part in waking as well as dream-life. One of the motives               
inspiring these dreams is the wish that I should appear in the               
wrong. These dreams occur regularly in the course of treatment               
whenever the patient is in a state of resistance; indeed, I can with a       
great degree of certainty count on evoking such a dream once I have          
explained to the patient my theory that the dream is a                       
wish-fulfilment. * Indeed, I have reason to expect that many of my           
readers will have such dreams, merely to fulfil the wish that I may          
prove to be wrong. The last dream which I shall recount from among           
those occurring in the course of treatment once more demonstrates this       
very thing. A young girl who had struggled hard to continue my               
treatment, against the will of her relatives and the authorities             
whom they had consulted, dreamt the following dream: At home she is          
forbidden to come to me any more. She then reminds me of the promise I       
made her to treat her for nothing if necessary, and I tell her: "I can       
show no consideration in money matters."                                     
-                                                                            
  * Similar counter-wish-dreams have been repeatedly reported to me          
within the last few years, by those who attend my lectures, as their         
reaction to their first encounter with the wish-theory of dreams.            
-                                                                            
  It is not at all easy in this case to demonstrate the fulfilment           
of a wish, but in all cases of this kind there is a second problem,          
the solution of which helps also to solve the first. Where does she          
get the words which she puts into my mouth? Of course, I have never          
told her anything of the kind; but one of her brothers, the one who          
has the greatest influence over her, has been kind enough to make this       
remark about me. It is then the purpose of the dream to show that            
her brother is right; and she does not try to justify this brother           
merely in the dream; it is her purpose in life and the motive of her         
illness.                                                                     
  A dream which at first sight presents peculiar difficulties for            
the theory of wish-fulfilment was dreamed by a physician (Aug.               
Starcke) and interpreted by him: "I have and see on the last                 
phalange of my left forefinger a primary syphilitic affection."              
  One may perhaps be inclined to refrain from analysing this dream,          
since it seems clear and coherent, except for its unwished-for               
content. However, if one takes the trouble to make an analysis, one          
learns that primary affection reduces itself to prima affectio               
(first love), and that the repulsive sore, in the words of Starcke,          
proves to be "the representative of wish-fulfilments charged with            
intense emotion." *                                                          
-                                                                            
  * Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, Jahrg. II, 1911-12.                      
-                                                                            
  The other motive for counter-wish-dreams is so clear that there is a       
danger of overlooking it, as happened in my own case for a long              
time. In the sexual constitution of many persons there is a                  
masochistic component, which has arisen through the conversion of            
the aggressive, sadistic component into its opposite. Such people            
are called ideal masochists if they seek pleasure not in the bodily          
pain which may be inflicted upon them, but in humiliation and                
psychic chastisement. It is obvious that such persons may have               
counter-wish-dreams and disagreeable dreams, yet these are for them          
nothing more than wish-fulfilments, which satisfy their masochistic          
inclinations. Here is such a dream: A young man, who in earlier              
youth greatly tormented his elder brother, toward whom he was                
homosexually inclined, but who has since undergone a complete change         
of character, has the following dream, which consists of three               
parts: (1) He is "teased" by his brother. (2) Two adults are caressing       
each other with homosexual intentions. (3) His brother has sold the          
business the management of which the young man had reserved for his          
own future. From this last dream he awakens with the most unpleasant         
feelings; and yet it is a masochistic wish-dream, which might be             
translated: It would serve me right if my brother were to make that          
sale against my interests. It would be my punishment for all the             
torments he has suffered at my hands.                                        
  I hope that the examples given above will suffice- until some              
further objection appears- to make it seem credible that even dreams         
with a painful content are to be analysed as wish-fulfilments. * Nor         
should it be considered a mere matter of chance that, in the course of       
interpretation, one always happens upon subjects about which one             
does not like to speak or think. The disagreeable sensation which such       
dreams arouse is of course precisely identical with the antipathy            
which would, and usually does, restrain us from treating or discussing       
such subjects- an antipathy which must be overcome by all of us if           
we find ourselves obliged to attack the problem of such dreams. But          
this disagreeable feeling which recurs in our dreams does not preclude       
the existence of a wish; everyone has wishes which he would not like         
to confess to others, which he does not care to admit even to himself.       
On the other hand, we feel justified in connecting the unpleasant            
character of all these dreams with the fact of dream-distortion, and         
in concluding that these dreams are distorted, and that their                
wish-fulfilment is disguised beyond recognition, precisely because           
there is a strong revulsion against- a will to repress- the                  
subject-matter of the dream, or the wish created by it.                      
Dream-distortion, then, proves in reality to be an act of                    
censorship. We shall have included everything which the analysis of          
disagreeable dreams has brought to light if we reword our formula            
thus: The dream is the (disguised) fulfilment of a (suppressed,              
repressed) wish. *(2)                                                        
-                                                                            
  * I will here observe that we have not yet disposed of this theme;         
we shall discuss it again later.                                             
  *(2) A great contemporary poet, who, I am told, will hear nothing of       
psycho-analysis and dream-interpretation, has nevertheless derived           
from his own experience an almost identical formula for the nature           
of the dream: "Unauthorized emergence of suppressed yearnings under          
false features and names" (C. Spitteler, "Meine fruhesten Erlebnisse,"       
in Suddeutsche Monatshefte, October, 1913).                                  
  I will here anticipate by citing the amplification and                     
modification of this fundamental formula propounded by Otto Rank:            
"On the basis of and with the aid of repressed infantile-sexual              
material, dreams regularly represent as fulfilled current, and as a          
rule also erotic, wishes in a disguised and symbolic form" (Ein Traum,       
der sich selbst deutet).                                                     
  Nowhere have I said that I have accepted this formula of Rank's. The       
shorter version contained in the text seems to me sufficient. But            
the fact that I merely mentioned Rank's modification was enough to           
expose psycho-analysis to the oft-repeated reproach that it asserts          
that all dreams have a sexual content. If one understands this               
sentence as it is intended to be understood, it only proves how little       
conscientiousness our critics are wont to display, and how ready our         
opponents are to overlook statements if they do not accord with              
their aggressive inclinations. Only a few pages back I mentioned the         
manifold wish-fulfilments of children's dreams (to make an excursion         
on land and or water, to make up for an omitted meal, etc.). Elsewhere       
I have mentioned dreams excited by thirst and the desire to                  
evacuate, and mere comfort- or convenience-dreams. Even Rank does            
not make an absolute assertion. He says "as a rule also erotic               
wishes," and this can be completely confirmed in the case of most            
dreams of adults.                                                            
  The matter has, however, a different aspect if we employ the word          
sexual in the sense of Eros, as the word is understood by                    
psycho-analysts. But the interesting problem of whether all dreams are       
not produced by libidinal motives (in opposition to destructive              
ones) has hardly been considered by our opponents.                           
-                                                                            
  Now there still remain to be considered, as a particular sub-order         
of dreams with painful content, the anxiety-dreams, the inclusion of         
which among the wish-dreams will be still less acceptable to the             
uninitiated. But I can here deal very cursorily with the problem of          
anxiety-dreams; what they have to reveal is not a new aspect of the          
dream-problem; here the problem is that of understanding neurotic            
anxiety in general. The anxiety which we experience in dreams is             
only apparently explained by the dream-content. If we subject that           
content to analysis, we become aware that the dream-anxiety is no more       
justified by the dream-content than the anxiety in a phobia is               
justified by the idea to which the phobia is attached. For example, it       
is true that it is possible to fall out of a window, and that a              
certain care should be exercised when one is at a window, but it is          
not obvious why the anxiety in the corresponding phobia is so great,         
and why it torments its victims more than its cause would warrant. The       
same explanation which applies to the phobia applies also to the             
anxiety-dream. In either case, the anxiety is only fastened on to            
the idea which accompanies it, and is derived from another source.           
  On account of this intimate relation of dream-anxiety to neurotic          
anxiety, the discussion of the former obliges me to refer to the             
latter. In a little essay on Anxiety Neurosis, * written in 1895, I          
maintain that neurotic anxiety has its origin in the sexual life,            
and corresponds to a libido which has been deflected from its object         
and has found no employment. The accuracy of this formula has since          
then been demonstrated with ever-increasing certainty. From it we            
may deduce the doctrine that anxiety-dreams are dreams of sexual             
content, and that the libido appertaining to this content has been           
transformed into anxiety. Later on I shall have an opportunity of            
confirming this assertion by the analysis of several dreams of               
neurotics. In my further attempts to arrive at a theory of dreams I          
shall again have occasion to revert to the conditions of                     
anxiety-dreams and their compatibility with the theory of                    
wish-fulfilment.                                                             
-                                                                            
  * See p. 87 above.                                                         
                                                                             
V                                                                            
                V. THE MATERIAL AND SOURCES OF DREAMS                        
-                                                                            
  HAVING realized, as a result of analysing the dream of Irma's              
injection, that the dream was the fulfilment of a wish, we were              
immediately interested to ascertain whether we had thereby                   
discovered a general characteristic of dreams, and for the time              
being we put aside every other scientific problem which may have             
suggested itself in the course of the interpretation. Now that we have       
reached the goal on this one path, we may turn back and select a new         
point of departure for exploring dream-problems, even though we may          
for a time lose sight of the theme of wish-fulfilment, which has still       
to be further considered.                                                    
  Now that we are able, by applying our process of interpretation,           
to detect a latent dream-content whose significance far surpasses that       
of the manifest dream-content, we are naturally impelled to return           
to the individual dream-problems, in order to see whether the                
riddles and contradictions which seemed to elude us when we had only         
the manifest content to work upon may not now be satisfactorily              
solved.                                                                      
  The opinions of previous writers on the relation of dreams to waking       
life, and the origin of the material of dreams, have not been given          
here. We may recall however three peculiarities of the memory in             
dreams, which have been often noted, but never explained:                    
  1. That the dream clearly prefers the impressions of the last few          
days (Robert, Strumpell, Hildebrandt; also Weed-Hallam);                     
  2. That it makes a selection in accordance with principles other           
than those governing our waking memory, in that it recalls not               
essential and important, but subordinate and disregarded things;             
  3. That it has at its disposal the earliest impressions of our             
childhood, and brings to light details from this period of life,             
which, again, seem trivial to us, and which in waking life were              
believed to have been long since forgotten. *                                
-                                                                            
  * It is evident that Robert's idea- that the dream is intended to          
rid our memory of the useless impressions which it has received during       
the day- is no longer tenable if indifferent memories of our childhood       
appear in our dreams with some degree of frequency. We should be             
obliged to conclude that our dreams generally perform their prescribed       
task very inadequately.                                                      
-                                                                            
  These peculiarities in the dream's choice of material have, of             
course, been observed by previous writers in the manifest                    
dream-content.                                                               
                                                                             
V|A                                                                          
          A. Recent and Indifferent Impressions in the Dream                 
-                                                                            
  If I now consult my own experience with regard to the origin of            
the elements appearing in the dream-content, I must in the first place       
express the opinion that in every dream we may find some reference           
to the experiences of the preceding day. Whatever dream I turn to,           
whether my own or someone else's, this experience is always confirmed.       
Knowing this, I may perhaps begin the work of interpretation by              
looking for the experience of the preceding day which has stimulated         
the dream; in many cases this is indeed the quickest way. With the two       
dreams which I subjected to a close analysis in the last chapter             
(the dreams of Irma's injection, and of the uncle with the yellow            
beard) the reference to the preceding day is so evident that it              
needs no further elucidation. But in order to show how constantly this       
reference may be demonstrated, I shall examine a portion of my own           
dream-chronicle, I shall relate only so much of the dreams as is             
necessary for the detection of the dream-source in question.                 
  1. I pay a call at a house to which I gain admittance only with            
difficulty, etc., and meanwhile I am keeping a woman waiting for me.         
  Source: A conversation during the evening with a female relative           
to the effect that she would have to wait for a remittance for which         
she had asked, until... etc.                                                 
  2. I have written a monograph on a species (uncertain) of plant.           
  Source: In the morning I had seen in a bookseller's window a               
monograph on the genus Cyclamen.                                             
  3. I see two women in the street, mother and daughter, the latter          
being a patient.                                                             
  Source: A female patient who is under treatment had told me in the         
evening what difficulties her mother puts in the way of her continuing       
the treatment.                                                               
  4. At S and R's bookshop I subscribe to a periodical which costs           
20 florins annually.                                                         
  Source: During the day my wife has reminded me that I still owe            
her 20 florins of her weekly allowance.                                      
  5. I receive a communication from the Social Democratic Committee,         
in which I am addressed as a member.                                         
  Source: I have received simultaneous communications from the Liberal       
Committee on Elections and from the president of the Humanitarian            
Society, of which latter I am actually a member.                             
  6. A man on a steep rock rising from the sea, in the manner of             
Bocklin.                                                                     
  Source: Dreyfus on Devil's Island; also news from my relatives in          
England, etc.                                                                
  The question might be raised, whether a dream invariably refers to         
the events of the preceding day only, or whether the reference may           
be extended to include impressions from a longer period of time in the       
immediate past. This question is probably not of the first importance,       
but I am inclined to decide in favour of the exclusive priority of the       
day before the dream (the dream-day). Whenever I thought I had found a       
case where an impression two or three days old was the source of the         
dream, I was able to convince myself after careful investigation             
that this impression had been remembered the day before; that is, that       
a demonstrable reproduction on the day before had been interpolated          
between the day of the event and the time of the dream; and further, I       
was able to point to the recent occasion which might have given rise         
to the recollection of the older impression. On the other hand, I            
was unable to convince myself that a regular interval of biological          
significance (H. Swoboda gives the first interval of this kind as            
eighteen hours) elapses between the dream-exciting daytime                   
impression and its recurrence in the dream.                                  
  I believe, therefore, that for every dream a dream-stimulus may be         
found among these experiences "on which one has not yet slept."              
  Havelock Ellis, who has likewise given attention to this problem,          
states that he has not been able to find any such periodicity of             
reproduction in his dreams, although he has looked for it. He                
relates a dream in which he found himself in Spain; he wanted to             
travel to a place called Daraus, Varaus, or Zaraus. On awaking he            
was unable to recall any such place-names, and thought no more of            
the matter. A few months later he actually found the name Zaraus; it         
was that of a railway-station between San Sebastian and Bilbao,              
through which he had passed in the train eight months (250 days)             
before the date of the dream.                                                
  Thus the impressions of the immediate past (with the exception of          
the day before the night of the dream) stand in the same relation to         
the dream-content as those of periods indefinitely remote. The dream         
may select its material from any period of life, provided only that          
a chain of thought leads back from the experiences of the day of the         
dream (the recent impressions) of that earlier period.                       
  But why this preference for recent impressions? We shall arrive at         
some conjectures on this point if we subject one of the dreams already       
mentioned to a more precise analysis. I select the                           
-                                                                            
                   Dream of the Botanical Monograph                          
-                                                                            
  I have written a monograph on a certain plant. The book lies               
before me; I am just turning over a folded coloured plate. A dried           
specimen of the plant, as though from a herbarium, is bound up with          
every copy.                                                                  
-                                                                            
                               Analysis                                      
-                                                                            
  In the morning I saw in a bookseller's window a volume entitled            
The Genus Cyclamen, apparently a monograph on this plant.                    
  The cyclamen is my wife's favorite flower. I reproach myself for           
remembering so seldom to bring her flowers, as she would like me to          
do. In connection with the theme of giving her flowers, I am                 
reminded of a story which I recently told some friends of mine in            
proof of my assertion that we often forget in obedience to a purpose         
of the unconscious, and that forgetfulness always enables us to form a       
deduction about the secret disposition of the forgetful person. A            
young woman who has been accustomed to receive a bouquet of flowers          
from her husband on her birthday misses this token of affection on one       
of her birthdays, and bursts into tears. The husband comes in, and           
cannot understand why she is crying until she tells him: "Today is           
my birthday." He claps his hand to his forehead, and exclaims: "Oh,          
forgive me, I had completely forgotten it!" and proposes to go out           
immediately in order to get her flowers. But she refuses to be               
consoled, for she sees in her husband's forgetfulness a proof that she       
no longer plays the same part in his thoughts as she formerly did.           
This Frau L met my wife two days ago, told her that she was feeling          
well, and asked after me. Some years ago she was a patient of mine.          
  Supplementary facts: I did once actually write something like a            
monograph on a plant, namely, an essay on the coca plant, which              
attracted the attention of K. Koller to the anaesthetic properties           
of cocaine. I had hinted that the alkaloid might be employed as an           
anaesthetic, but I was not thorough enough to pursue the matter              
farther. It occurs to me, too, that on the morning of the day                
following the dream (for the interpretation of which I did not find          
time until the evening) I had thought of cocaine in a kind of                
day-dream. If I were ever afflicted with glaucoma, I would go to             
Berlin, and there undergo an operation, incognito, in the house of           
my Berlin friend, at the hands of a surgeon whom he would recommend.         
The surgeon, who would not know the name of his patient, would               
boast, as usual, how easy these operations had become since the              
introduction of cocaine; and I should not betray the fact that I             
myself had a share in this discovery. With this phantasy were                
connected thoughts of how awkward it really is for a physician to            
claim the professional services of a colleague. I should be able to          
pay the Berlin eye specialist, who did not know me, like anyone              
else. Only after recalling this day-dream do I realize that there is         
concealed behind it the memory of a definite event. Shortly after            
Koller's discovery, my father contracted glaucoma; he was operated           
on by my friend Dr. Koenigstein, the eye specialist. Dr. Koller was in       
charge of the cocaine anaesthetization, and he made the remark that on       
this occasion all the three persons who had been responsible for the         
introduction of cocaine had been brought together.                           
  My thoughts now pass on to the time when I was last reminded of            
the history of cocaine. This was a few days earlier, when I received a       
Festschrift, a publication in which grateful pupils had commemorated         
the jubilee of their teacher and laboratory director. Among the titles       
to fame of persons connected with the laboratory I found a note to the       
effect that the discovery of the anaesthetic properties of cocaine had       
been due to K. Koller. Now I suddenly become aware that the dream is         
connected with an experience of the previous evening. I had just             
accompanied Dr. Koenigstein to his home, and had entered into a              
discussion of a subject which excites me greatly whenever it is              
mentioned. While I was talking with him in the entrance-hall Professor       
Gartner and his young wife came up. I could not refrain from                 
congratulating them both upon their blooming appearance. Now Professor       
Gartner is one of the authors of the Festschrift of which I have             
just spoken, and he may well have reminded me of it. And Frau L, of          
whose birthday disappointment I spoke a little way back, had been            
mentioned, though of course in another connection, in my                     
conversation with Dr. Koenigstein.                                           
  I shall now try to elucidate the other determinants of the                 
dream-content. A dried specimen of the plant accompanies the                 
monograph, as though it were a herbarium. And herbarium reminds me           
of the Gymnasium. The director of our Gymnasium once called the pupils       
of the upper classes together, in order that they might examine and          
clean the Gymnasium herbarium. Small insects had been found-                 
book-worms. The director seemed to have little confidence in my              
ability to assist, for he entrusted me with only a few of the pages. I       
know to this day that there were crucifers on them. My interest in           
botany was never very great. At my preliminary examination in botany I       
was required to identify a crucifer, and failed to recognize it; had         
not my theoretical knowledge come to my aid, I should have fared badly       
indeed. Crucifers suggest composites. The artichoke is really a              
composite, and in actual fact one which I might call my favourite            
flower. My wife, more thoughtful than I, often brings this favourite         
flower of mine home from the market.                                         
  I see the monograph which I have written lying before me. Here again       
there is an association. My friend wrote to me yesterday from                
Berlin: "I am thinking a great deal about your dream-book. I see it          
lying before me, completed, and I turn the pages." How I envied him          
this power of vision! If only I could see it lying before me,                
already completed!                                                           
  The folded coloured plate. When I was a medical student I suffered a       
sort of craze for studying monographs exclusively. In spite of my            
limited means, I subscribed to a number of the medical periodicals,          
whose coloured plates afforded me much delight. I was rather proud           
of this inclination to thoroughness. When I subsequently began to            
publish books myself, I had to draw the plates for my own treatises,         
and I remember one of them turned out so badly that a well-meaning           
colleague ridiculed me for it. With this is associated, I do not             
exactly know how, a very early memory of my childhood. My father, by         
the way of a jest, once gave my elder sister and myself a book               
containing coloured plates (the book was a narrative of a journey            
through Persia) in order that we might destroy it. From an educational       
point of view this was hardly to be commended. I was at the time             
five years old, and my sister less than three, and the picture of us         
two children blissfully tearing the book to pieces (I should add, like       
an artichoke, leaf by leaf), is almost the only one from this period         
of my life which has remained vivid in my memory. When I afterwards          
became a student, I developed a conspicuous fondness for collecting          
and possessing books (an analogy to the inclination for studying             
from monographs, a hobby alluded to in my dream-thoughts, in                 
connection with cyclamen and artichoke). I became a book-worm (cf.           
herbarium). Ever since I have been engaged in introspection I have           
always traced this earliest passion of my life to this impression of         
my childhood: or rather, I have recognized in this childish scene a          
screen or concealing memory for my subsequent bibliophilia. * And of         
course I learned at an early age that our passions often become our          
misfortunes. When I was seventeen, I ran up a very considerable              
account at the bookseller's, with no means with which to settle it,          
and my father would hardly accept it as an excuse that my passion            
was at least a respectable one. But the mention of this experience           
of my youth brings me back to my conversation with my friend Dr.             
Koenigstein on the evening preceding the dream; for one of the               
themes of this conversation was the same old reproach- that I am             
much too absorbed in my hobbies.                                             
-                                                                            
  * Cf. The Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life.                               
-                                                                            
  For reasons which are not relevant here I shall not continue the           
interpretation of this dream, but will merely indicate the path              
which leads to it. In the course of the interpretation I was                 
reminded of my conversation with Dr. Koenigstein, and, indeed, of more       
than one portion of it. When I consider the subjects touched upon in         
this conversation, the meaning of the dream immediately becomes              
clear to me. All the trains of thought which have been started- my own       
inclinations, and those of my wife, the cocaine, the awkwardness of          
securing medical treatment from one's own colleagues, my preference          
for monographical studies, and my neglect of certain subjects, such as       
botany- all these are continued in and lead up to one branch or              
another of this widely-ramified conversation. The dream once more            
assumes the character of a justification, of a plea for my rights            
(like the dream of Irma's injection, the first to be analysed); it           
even continues the theme which that dream introduced, and discusses it       
in association with the new subject-matter which has been added in the       
interval between the two dreams. Even the dream's apparently                 
indifferent form of expression at once acquires a meaning. Now it            
means: "I am indeed the man who has written that valuable and                
successful treatise (on cocaine)," just as previously I declared in          
self-justification: "I am after all a thorough and industrious               
student"; and in both instances I find the meaning: "I can allow             
myself this." But I may dispense with the further interpretation of          
the dream, because my only purpose in recording it was to examine            
the relation of the dream-content to the experience of the previous          
day which arouses it. As long as I know only the manifest content of         
this dream, only one relation to any impression of the day is obvious;       
but after I have completed the interpretation, a second source of            
the dream becomes apparent in another experience of the same day.            
The first of these impressions to which the dream refers is an               
indifferent one, a subordinate circumstance. I see a book in a shop          
window whose title holds me for a moment, but whose contents would           
hardly interest me. The second experience was of great psychic               
value; I talked earnestly with my friend, the eye specialist, for            
about an hour; I made allusions in this conversation which must have         
ruffled the feelings of both of us, and which in me awakened                 
memories in connection with which I was aware of a great variety of          
inner stimuli. Further, this conversation was broken off unfinished,         
because some acquaintances joined us. What, now, is the relation of          
these two impressions of the day to one another, and to the dream            
which followed during the night?                                             
  In the manifest dream-content I find merely an allusion to the             
indifferent impression, and I am thus able to reaffirm that the              
dream prefers to take up into its content experiences of a                   
non-essential character. In the dream-interpretation, on the contrary,       
everything converges upon the important and justifiably disturbing           
event. If I judge the sense of the dream in the only correct way,            
according to the latent content which is brought to light in the             
analysis, I find that I have unwittingly lighted upon a new and              
important discovery. I see that the puzzling theory that the dream           
deals only with the worthless odds and ends of the day's experiences         
has no justification; I am also compelled to contradict the                  
assertion that the psychic life of the waking state is not continued         
in the dream, and that hence, the dream wastes our psychic energy on         
trivial material. The very opposite is true; what has claimed our            
attention during the day dominates our dream-thoughts also, and we           
take pains to dream only in connection with such matters as have given       
us food for thought during the day.                                          
  Perhaps the most immediate explanation of the fact that I dream of         
the indifferent impression of the day, while the impression which            
has with good reason excited me causes me to dream, is that here again       
we are dealing with the phenomenon of dream-distortion, which we             
have referred to as a psychic force playing the part of a                    
censorship. The recollection of the monograph on the genus cyclamen is       
utilized as though it were an allusion to the conversation with my           
friend, just as the mention of my patient's friend in the dream of the       
deferred supper is represented by the allusion smoked salmon. The only       
question is: by what intermediate links can the impression of the            
monograph come to assume the relation of allusion to the                     
conversation with the eye specialist, since such a relation is not           
at first perceptible? In the example of the deferred supper, the             
relation is evident at the outset; smoked salmon, as the favourite           
dish of the patient's friend, belongs to the circle of ideas which the       
friend's personality would naturally evoke in the mind of the dreamer.       
In our new example we are dealing with two entirely separate                 
impressions, which at first glance seem to have nothing in common,           
except indeed that they occur on the same day. The monograph                 
attracts my attention in the morning: in the evening I take part in          
the conversation. The answer furnished by the analysis is as                 
follows: Such relations between the two impressions as do not exist          
from the first are established subsequently between the idea-content         
of the one impression and the idea-content of the other. I have              
already picked out the intermediate links emphasized in the course           
of writing the analysis. Only under some outside influence, perhaps          
the recollection of the flowers missed by Frau L, would the idea of          
the monograph on the cyclamen have attached itself to the idea that          
the cyclamen is my wife's favourite flower. I do not believe that            
these inconspicuous thoughts would have sufficed to evoke a dream.           
-                                                                            
          There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave                 
          To tell us this,                                                   
-                                                                            
  as we read in Hamlet. But behold! in the analysis I am reminded that       
the name of the man who interrupted our conversation was Gartner             
(gardener), and that I thought his wife looked blooming; indeed, now I       
even remember that one of my female patients, who bears the pretty           
name of Flora, was for a time the main subject of our conversation. It       
must have happened that by means of these intermediate links from            
the sphere of botanical ideas the association was effected between the       
two events of the day, the indifferent one and the stimulating one.          
Other relations were then established, that of cocaine for example,          
which can with perfect appropriateness form a link between the               
person of Dr. Koenigstein and the botanical monograph which I have           
written, and thus secure the fusion of the two circles of ideas, so          
that now a portion of the first experience may be used as an                 
allusion to the second.                                                      
  I am prepared to find this explanation attacked as either                  
arbitrary or artificial. What would have happened if Professor Gartner       
and his blooming wife had not appeared, and if the patient who was           
under discussion had been called, not Flora, but Anna? And yet the           
answer is not hard to find. If these thought-relations had not been          
available, others would probably have been selected. It is easy to           
establish relations of this sort, as the jocular questions and               
conundrums with which we amuse ourselves suffice to show. The range of       
wit is unlimited. To go a step farther: if no sufficiently fertile           
associations between the two impressions of the day could have been          
established, the dream would simply have followed a different                
course; another of the indifferent impressions of the day, such as           
come to us in multitudes and are forgotten, would have taken the place       
of the monograph in the dream, would have formed an association with         
the content of the conversation, and would have represented this in          
the dream. Since it was the impression of the monograph and no other         
that was fated to perform this function, this impression was                 
probably that most suitable for the purpose. One need not, like              
Lessing's Hanschen Schlau, be astonished that "only the rich people of       
the world possess the most money."                                           
  Still the psychological process by which, according to our                 
exposition, the indifferent experience substitutes itself for the            
psychologically important one seems to us odd and open to question. In       
a later chapter we shall undertake the task of making the                    
peculiarities of this seemingly incorrect operation more intelligible.       
Here we are concerned only with the result of this process, which we         
were compelled to accept by constantly recurring experiences in the          
analysis of dreams. In this process it is as though, in the course           
of the intermediate steps, a displacement occurs- let us say, of the         
psychic accent- until ideas of feeble potential, by taking over the          
charge from ideas which have a stronger initial potential, reach a           
degree of intensity which enables them to force their way into               
consciousness. Such displacements do not in the least surprise us when       
it is a question of the transference of affective magnitudes or of           
motor activities. That the lonely spinster transfers her affection           
to animals, that the bachelor becomes a passionate collector, that the       
soldier defends a scrap of coloured cloth- his flag- with his                
life-blood, that in a love-affair a clasp of the hands a moment longer       
than usual evokes a sensation of bliss, or that in Othello a lost            
handkerchief causes an outburst of rage- all these are examples of           
psychic displacements which to us seem incontestable. But if, by the         
same means, and in accordance with the same fundamental principles,          
a decision is made as to what is to reach our consciousness and what         
is to be withheld from it- that is to say, what we are to think-             
this gives us the impression of morbidity, and if it occurs in               
waking life we call it an error of thought. We may here anticipate the       
result of a discussion which will be undertaken later, namely, that          
the psychic process which we have recognized in dream-displacement           
proves to be not a morbidly deranged process, but one merely differing       
from the normal, one of a more primary nature.                               
  Thus we interpret the fact that the dream-content takes up                 
remnants of trivial experiences as a manifestation of dream-distortion       
(by displacement), and we thereupon remember that we have recognized         
this dream-distortion as the work of a censorship operating between          
the two psychic instances. We may therefore expect that dream-analysis       
will constantly show us the real and psychically significant source of       
the dream in the events of the day, the memory of which has                  
transferred its accentuation to some indifferent memory. This                
conception is in complete opposition to Robert's theory, which               
consequently has no further value for us. The fact which Robert was          
trying to explain simply does not exist; its assumption is based on          
a misunderstanding, on a failure to substitute the real meaning of the       
dream for its apparent meaning. A further objection to Robert's              
doctrine is as follows: If the task of the dream were really to rid          
our memory, by means of a special psychic activity, of the slag of the       
day's recollections, our sleep would perforce be more troubled,              
engaged in more strenuous work, than we can suppose it to be,                
judging by our waking thoughts. For the number of the indifferent            
impressions of the day against which we should have to protect our           
memory is obviously immeasurably large; the whole night would not be         
long enough to dispose of them all. It is far more probable that the         
forgetting of the indifferent impressions takes place without any            
active interference on the part of our psychic powers.                       
  Still, something cautions us against taking leave of Robert's theory       
without further consideration. We have left unexplained the fact             
that one of the indifferent impressions of the day- indeed, even of          
the previous day- constantly makes a contribution to the                     
dream-content. The relations between this impression and the real            
source of the dream in the unconscious do not always exist from the          
outset; as we have seen, they are established subsequently, while            
the dream is actually at work, as though to serve the purpose of the         
intended displacement. Something, therefore, must necessitate the            
opening up of connections in the direction of the recent but                 
indifferent impression; this impression must possess some quality that       
gives it a special fitness. Otherwise it would be just as easy for the       
dream-thoughts to shift their accentuation to some inessential               
component of their own sphere of ideas.                                      
  Experiences such as the following show us the way to an explanation:       
If the day has brought us two or more experiences which are worthy           
to evoke a dream, the dream will blend the allusion of both into a           
single whole: it obeys a compulsion to make them into a single               
whole. For example: One summer afternoon I entered a railway                 
carriage in which I found two acquaintances of mine who were unknown         
to one another. One of them was an influential colleague, the other          
a member of a distinguished family which I had been attending in my          
professional capacity. I introduced the two gentlemen to each other;         
but during the long journey they conversed with each other through me,       
so that I had to discuss this or that topic now with one, now with the       
other. I asked my colleague to recommend a mutual acquaintance who had       
just begun to practise as a physician. He replied that he was                
convinced of the young man's ability, but that his undistinguished           
appearance would make it difficult for him to obtain patients in the         
upper ranks of society. To this I rejoined: "That is precisely why           
he needs recommendation." A little later, turning to my other                
fellow-traveller, I inquired after the health of his aunt- the               
mother of one of my patients- who was at this time prostrated by a           
serious illness. On the night following this journey I dreamt that the       
young friend whom I had asked one of my companions to recommend was in       
a fashionable drawing-room, and with all the bearing of a man of the         
world was making- before a distinguished company, in which I                 
recognized all the rich and aristocratic persons of my acquaintance- a       
funeral oration over the old lady (who in my dream had already died)         
who was the aunt of my second fellow-traveller. (I confess frankly           
that I had not been on good terms with this lady.) Thus my dream had         
once more found the connection between the two impressions of the day,       
and by means of the two had constructed a unified situation.                 
  In view of many similar experiences, I am persuaded to advance the         
proposition that a dream works under a kind of compulsion which forces       
it to combine into a unified whole all the sources of                        
dream-stimulation which are offered to it. * In a subsequent chapter         
(on the function of dreams) we shall consider this impulse of                
combination as part of the process of condensation, another primary          
psychic process.                                                             
-                                                                            
  * The tendency of the dream at work to blend everything present of         
interest into a single transaction has already been noticed by several       
authors, for instance, by Delage and Delboeuf.                               
-                                                                            
  I shall now consider the question whether the dream-exciting               
source to which our analysis leads us must always be a recent (and           
significant) event, or whether a subjective experience- that is to           
say, the recollection of a psychologically significant event, a              
train of thought- may assume the role of a dream-stimulus. The very          
definite answer, derived from numerous analyses, is as follows: The          
stimulus of the dream may be a subjective transaction, which has             
been made recent, as it were, by the mental activity of the day.             
  And this is perhaps the best time to summarize in schematic form the       
different conditions under which the dream-sources are operative.            
  The source of a dream may be:                                              
  (a) A recent and psychologically significant event which is directly       
represented in the dream. *                                                  
  (b) Several recent and significant events, which are combined by the       
dream in a single whole. *(2)                                                
  (c) One or more recent and significant events, which are represented       
in the dream-content by allusion to a contemporary but indifferent           
event. *(3)                                                                  
  (d) A subjectively significant experience (recollection, train of          
thought), which is constantly represented in the dream by allusion           
to a recent but indifferent impression. *(4)                                 
-                                                                            
  * The dream of Irma's injection; the dream of the friend who is my         
uncle.                                                                       
  *(2) The dream of the funeral oration delivered by the young               
physician.                                                                   
  *(3) The dream of the botanical monograph.                                 
  *(4) The dreams of my patients during analysis are mostly of this          
kind.                                                                        
-                                                                            
  As may be seen, in dream-interpretation the condition is always            
fulfilled that one component of the dream-content repeats a recent           
impression of the day of the dream. The component which is destined to       
be represented in the dream may either belong to the same circle of          
ideas as the dream-stimulus itself (as an essential or even an               
inessential element of the same); or it may originate in the                 
neighbourhood of an indifferent impression, which has been brought           
by more or less abundant associations into relation with the sphere of       
the dream-stimulus. The apparent multiplicity of these conditions            
results merely from the alternative, that a displacement has or has          
not occurred, and it may here be noted that this alternative enables         
us to explain the contrasts of the dream quite as readily as the             
medical theory of the dream explains the series of states from the           
partial to the complete waking of the brain cells.                           
  In considering this series of sources we note further that the             
psychologically significant but not recent element (a train of               
thought, a recollection) may be replaced for the purposes of                 
dream-formation by a recent but psychologically indifferent element,         
provided the two following conditions are fulfilled: (1) the                 
dream-content preserves a connection with things recently experienced;       
(2) the dream-stimulus is still a psychologically significant event.         
In one single case (a) both these conditions are fulfilled by the same       
impression. If we now consider that these same indifferent                   
impressions, which are utilized for the dream as long as they are            
recent, lose this qualification as soon as they are a day (or at             
most several days) older, we are obliged to assume that the very             
freshness of an impression gives it a certain psychological value            
for dream-formation, somewhat equivalent to the value of emotionally         
accentuated memories or trains of thought. Later on, in the light of         
certain Psychological considerations, we shall be able to divine the         
explanation of this importance of recent impressions in dream                
formation. *                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * Cf. Chap. VII on "transference."                                         
-                                                                            
  Incidentally our attention is here called to the fact that at night,       
and unnoticed by our consciousness, important changes may occur in the       
material comprised by our ideas and memories. The injunction that            
before making a final decision in any matter one should sleep on it          
for a night is obviously fully justified. But at this point we find          
that we have passed from the psychology of dreaming to the                   
psychology of sleep, a step which there will often be occasion to            
take.                                                                        
  At this point there arises an objection which threatens to                 
invalidate the conclusions at which we have just arrived. If                 
indifferent impressions can find their way into the dream only so long       
as they are of recent origin, how does it happen that in the                 
dream-content we find elements also from earlier periods of our lives,       
which, at the time when they were still recent, possessed, as                
Strumpell puts it, no psychic value, and which, therefore, ought to          
have been forgotten long ago; elements, that is, which are neither           
fresh nor psychologically significant?                                       
  This objection can be disposed of completely if we have recourse           
to the results of the psychoanalysis of neurotics. The solution is           
as follows: The process of shifting and rearrangement which replaces         
material of psychic significance by material which is indifferent            
(whether one is dreaming or thinking) has already taken place in these       
earlier periods of life, and has since become fixed in the memory.           
Those elements which were originally indifferent are in fact no longer       
so, since they have acquired the value of psychologically                    
significant material. That which has actually remained indifferent can       
never be reproduced in the dream.                                            
  From the foregoing exposition the reader may rightly conclude that I       
assert that there are no indifferent dream-stimuli, and therefore no         
guileless dreams. This I absolutely and unconditionally believe to           
be the case, apart from the dreams of children, and perhaps the              
brief dream-reactions to nocturnal sensations. Apart from these              
exceptions, whatever one dreams is either plainly recognizable as            
being psychically significant, or it is distorted and can be judged          
correctly only after complete interpretation, when it proves, after          
all, to be of psychic significance. The dream never concerns itself          
with trifles; we do not allow sleep to be disturbed by trivialities. *       
Dreams which are apparently guileless turn out to be the reverse of          
innocent, if one takes the trouble to interpret them; if I may be            
permitted the expression, they ail show "the mark of the beast." Since       
this is another point on which I may expect contradiction, and since I       
am glad of an opportunity to show dream-distortion at work, I shall          
here subject to analysis a number of guileless dreams from my                
collection.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * Havelock Ellis, a kindly critic of The Interpretation of Dreams,         
writes in The World of Dreams (p. 169): "From this point on, not             
many of us will be able to follow F." But Mr. Ellis has not undertaken       
any analyses of dreams, and will not believe how unjustifiable it is         
to judge them by the manifest dream-content.                                 
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  An intelligent and refined young woman, who in real life is                
distinctly reserved, one of those people of whom one says that               
"still waters run deep," relates the following dream: "I dreamt that I       
arrived at the market too late, and could get nothing from either            
the butcher or the greengrocer woman." Surely a guileless dream, but         
as it has not the appearance of a real dream I induce her to relate it       
in detail. Her report then runs as follows: She goes to the market           
with her cook, who carries the basket. The butcher tells her, after          
she has asked him for something: "That is no longer to be obtained,"         
and waits to give her something else, with the remark: "That is              
good, too." She refuses, and goes to the greengrocer woman. The latter       
tries to sell her a peculiar vegetable, which is bound up in                 
bundles, and is black in colour. She says: "I don't know that, I won't       
take it."                                                                    
  The connection of the dream with the preceding day is simple enough.       
She had really gone to the market too late, and had been unable to buy       
anything. The meatshop was already closed, comes into one's mind as          
a description of the experience. But wait, is not that a very vulgar         
phrase which- or rather, the opposite of which- denotes a certain            
neglect with regard to man's clothing? The dreamer has not used              
these words; she has perhaps avoided them: but let us look for the           
interpretation of the details contained in the dream.                        
  When in a dream something has the character of a spoken utterance-         
that is, when it is said or heard, not merely thought, and the               
distinction can usually be made with certainty- then it originates           
in the utterances of waking life, which have, of course, been                
treated as raw material, dismembered, and slightly altered, and              
above all removed from their context. * In the work of                       
interpretation we may take such utterances as our starting-point.            
Where, then, does the butcher's statement, That is no longer to be           
obtained, come from? From myself; I had explained to her some days           
previously "that the oldest experiences of childhood are no longer           
to be obtained as such, but will be replaced in the analysis by              
transferences and dreams." Thus, I am the butcher, and she refuses           
to accept these transferences to the present of old ways of thinking         
and feeling. Where does her dream utterance, I don't know that, I            
won't take it, come from? For the purposes of the analysis this has to       
be dissected. I don't know that she herself had said to her cook, with       
whom she had a dispute on the previous day, but she had then added:          
Behave yourself decently. Here a displacement is palpable; of the            
two sentences which she spoke to her cook, she included the                  
insignificant one in her dream; but the suppressed sentence, Behave          
yourself decently! alone fits in with the rest of the dream-content.         
One might use the words to a man who was making indecent overtures,          
and had neglected "to close his meat-shop." That we have really hit          
upon the trail of the interpretation is proved by its agreement with         
the allusions made by the incident with the greengrocer woman. A             
vegetable which is sold tied up in bundles (a longish vegetable, as          
she subsequently adds), and is also black: what can this be but a            
dream-combination of asparagus and black radish? I need not                  
interpret asparagus to the initiated; and the other vegetable, too           
(think of the exclamation: "Blacky, save yourself!"), seems to me to         
point to the sexual theme at which we guessed in the beginning, when         
we wanted to replace the story of the dream by "the meat-shop is             
closed." We are not here concerned with the full meaning of the dream;       
so much is certain, that it is full of meaning and by no means               
guileless. *(2)                                                              
-                                                                            
  * Cf. what is said of speech in dreams in the chapter on "The              
Dream-Work." Only one of the writers on the subject- Delboeuf- seems         
to have recognized the origin of the speeches heard in dreams; he            
compares them with cliches.                                                  
  *(2) For the curious, I may remark that behind the dream there is          
hidden a phantasy of indecent, sexually provoking conduct on my              
part, and of repulsion on the part of the lady. If this interpretation       
should seem preposterous, I would remind the reader of the numerous          
cases in which physicians have been made the object of such charges by       
hysterical women, with whom the same phantasy has not appeared in a          
distorted form as a dream, but has become undisguisedly conscious            
and delusional. With this dream the patient began her                        
psycho-analytical treatment. It was only later that I learned that           
with this dream she repeated the initial trauma in which her                 
neurosis originated, and since then I have noticed the same                  
behaviour in other persons who in their childhood were victims of            
sexual attacks, and now, as it were, wish in their dreams for them           
to be repeated.                                                              
-                                                                            
                                 II.                                         
-                                                                            
  Another guileless dream of the same patient, which in some                 
respects is a pendant to the above. Her husband asks her: "Oughtn't we       
to have the piano tuned?" She replies: "It's not worth while, the            
hammers would have to be rebuffed as well." Again we have the                
reproduction of an actual event of the preceding day. Her husband            
had asked her such a question, and she had answered it in such               
words. But what is the meaning of her dreaming it? She says of the           
piano that it is a disgusting old box which has a bad tone; it               
belonged to her husband before they were married, * etc., but the            
key to the true solution lies in the phrase: It isn't worth while.           
This has its origin in a call paid yesterday to a woman friend. She          
was asked to take off her coat, but declined, saying: "Thanks, it            
isn't worth while, I must go in a moment." At this point I recall that       
yesterday, during the analysis, she suddenly took hold of her coat, of       
which a button had come undone. It was as though she meant to say:           
"Please don't look in, it isn't worth while." Thus box becomes               
chest, and the interpretation of the dream leads to the years when she       
was growing out of her childhood, when she began to be dissatisfied          
with her figure. It leads us back, indeed, to earlier periods, if we         
take into consideration the disgusting and the bad tone, and                 
remember how often in allusions and in dreams the two small                  
hemispheres of the female body take the place- as a substitute and           
an antithesis- of the large ones.                                            
-                                                                            
  * A substitution by the opposite, as will be clear after analysis.         
-                                                                            
                                 III.                                        
-                                                                            
  I will interrupt the analysis of this dreamer in order to insert a         
short, innocent dream which was dreamed by a young man. He dreamt that       
he was putting on his winter overcoat again; this was terrible. The          
occasion for this dream is apparently the sudden advent of cold              
weather. On more careful examination we note that the two brief              
fragments of the dream do not fit together very well, for what could         
be terrible about wearing a thick or heavy coat in cold weather?             
Unfortunately for the innocency of this dream, the first                     
association, under analysis, yields the recollection that yesterday          
a lady had confidentially confessed to him that her last child owed          
its existence to the splitting of a condom. He now reconstructs his          
thoughts in accordance with this suggestion: A thin condom is                
dangerous, a thick one is bad. The condom is a "pullover" (Ueberzieher       
= literally pullover), for it is pulled over something: and                  
Uebersieher is the German term for a light overcoat. An experience           
like that related by the lady would indeed be terrible for an                
unmarried man.                                                               
  We will now return to our other innocent dreamer.                          
-                                                                            
                                 IV.                                         
-                                                                            
  She puts a candle into a candlestick; but the candle is broken, so         
that it does not stand up. The girls at school say she is clumsy;            
but she replies that it is not her fault.                                    
  Here, too, there is an actual occasion for the dream; the day before       
she had actually put a candle into a candlestick; but this one was not       
broken. An obvious symbolism has here been employed. The candle is           
an object which excites the female genitals; its being broken, so that       
it does not stand upright, signifies impotence on the man's part (it         
is not her fault). But does this young woman, carefully brought up,          
and a stranger to all obscenity, know of such an application of the          
candle? By chance she is able to tell how she came by this                   
information. While paddling a canoe on the Rhine, a boat passed her          
which contained some students, who were singing rapturously, or rather       
yelling: "When the Queen of Sweden, behind closed shutters, with the         
candles of Apollo..."                                                        
  She does not hear or else understand the last word. Her husband            
was asked to give her the required explanation. These verses are             
then replaced in the dream-content by the innocent recollection of a         
task which she once performed clumsily at her boarding-school, because       
of the closed shutters. The connection between the theme of                  
masturbation and that of impotence is clear enough. Apollo in the            
latent dream-content connects this dream with an earlier one in              
which the virgin Pallas figured. All this is obviously not innocent.         
-                                                                            
                                  V.                                         
-                                                                            
  Lest it may seem too easy a matter to draw conclusions from dreams         
concerning the dreamer's real circumstances, I add another dream             
originating with the same person, which once more appears innocent. "I       
dreamt of doing something," she relates, "which I actually did               
during the day, that is to say, I filled a little trunk so full of           
books that I had difficulty in closing it. My dream was just like            
the actual occurrence." Here the dreamer herself emphasizes the              
correspondence between the dream and the reality. All such                   
criticisms of the dream, and comments on the dream, although they have       
found a place in the waking thoughts, properly belong to the latent          
dream-content, as further examples will confirm. We are told, then,          
that what the dream relates has actually occurred during the day. It         
would take us too far afield to show how we arrive at the idea of            
making use of the English language to help us in the interpretation of       
this dream. Suffice it to say that it is again a question of a               
little box (cf. chap. IV, the dream of the dead child in the box)            
which has been filled so full that nothing can go into it.                   
  In all these "innocent" dreams the sexual factor as the motive of          
the censorship is very prominent. But this is a subject of primary           
significance, which we must consider later.                                  
                                                                             
V|B                                                                          
           B. Infantile Experiences as the Source of Dreams                  
-                                                                            
  As the third of the peculiarities of the dream-content, we have            
adduced the fact, in agreement with all other writers on the subject         
(excepting Robert), that impressions from our childhood may appear           
in dreams, which do not seem to be at the disposal of the waking             
memory. It is, of course, difficult to decide how seldom or how              
frequently this occurs, because after waking the origin of the               
respective elements of the dream is not recognized. The proof that           
we are dealing with impressions of our childhood must thus be                
adduced objectively, and only in rare instances do the conditions            
favour such proof. The story is told by A. Maury, as being                   
particularly conclusive, of a man who decides to visit his                   
birthplace after an absence of twenty years. On the night before his         
departure he dreams that he is in a totally unfamiliar locality, and         
that he there meets a strange man with whom he holds a conversation.         
Subsequently, upon his return home, he is able to convince himself           
that this strange locality really exists in the vicinity of his              
home, and the strange man in the dream turns out to be a friend of his       
dead father's, who is living in the town. This is, of course, a              
conclusive proof that in his childhood he had seen both the man and          
the locality. The dream, moreover, is to be interpreted as a dream           
of impatience, like the dream of the girl who carries in her pocket          
the ticket for a concert, the dream of the child whose father had            
promised him an excursion to the Hameau (ch. III), and so forth. The         
motives which reproduce just these impressions of childhood for the          
dreamer cannot, of course, be discovered without analysis.                   
  One of my colleagues, who attended my lectures, and who boasted that       
his dreams were very rarely subject to distortion, told me that he had       
sometime previously seen, in a dream, his former tutor in bed with his       
nurse, who had remained in the household until his eleventh year.            
The actual location of this scene was realized even in the dream. As         
he was greatly interested, he related the dream to his elder                 
brother, who laughingly confirmed its reality. The brother said that         
he remembered the affair very distinctly, for he was six years old           
at the time. The lovers were in the habit of making him, the elder           
boy, drunk with beer whenever circumstances were favourable to their         
nocturnal intercourse. The younger child, our dreamer, at that time          
three years of age, slept in the same room as the nurse, but was not         
regarded as an obstacle.                                                     
  In yet another case it may be definitely established, without the          
aid of dream-interpretation, that the dream contains elements from           
childhood- namely, if the dream is a so-called perennial dream, one          
which, being first dreamt in childhood, recurs again and again in            
adult years. I may add a few examples of this sort to those already          
known, although I have no personal knowledge of perennial dreams. A          
physician, in his thirties, tells me that a yellow lion, concerning          
which he is able to give the precisest information, has often appeared       
in his dream-life, from his earliest childhood up to the present             
day. This lion, known to him from his dreams, was one day discovered         
in natura, as a long-forgotten china animal. The young man then              
learned from his mother that the lion had been his favourite toy in          
early childhood, a fact which he himself could no longer remember.           
  If we now turn from the manifest dream-content to the dream-thoughts       
which are revealed only on analysis, the experiences of childhood            
may be found to recur even in dreams whose content would not have            
led us to suspect anything of the sort. I owe a particularly                 
delightful and instructive example of such a dream to my esteemed            
colleague of the "yellow lion." After reading Nansen's account of            
his polar expedition, he dreamt that he was giving the intrepid              
explorer electrical treatment on an ice-floe for the sciatica of which       
the latter complained! During the analysis of this dream he remembered       
an incident of his childhood, without which the dream would be               
wholly unintelligible. When he was three or four years of age he was         
one day listening attentively to the conversation of his elders;             
they were talking of exploration, and he presently asked his father          
whether exploration was a bad illness. He had apparently confounded          
Reisen (journey, trips) with Reissen (gripes, tearing pains), and            
the derision of his brothers and sisters prevented his ever forgetting       
the humiliating experience.                                                  
  We have a precisely similar case when, in the analysis of the              
dream of the monograph on the genus cyclamen, I stumble upon a memory,       
retained from childhood, to the effect that when I was five years            
old my father allowed me to destroy a book embellished with coloured         
plates. It will perhaps be doubted whether this recollection really          
entered into the composition of the dream-content, and it may be             
suggested that the connection was established subsequently by the            
analysis. But the abundance and intricacy of the associative                 
connections vouch for the truth of my explanation: cyclamen- favourite       
flower- favourite dish- artichoke; to pick to pieces like an                 
artichoke, leaf by leaf (a phrase which at that time one heard               
daily, a propos of the dividing up of the Chinese empire);                   
herbarium- bookworm, whose favourite food is books. I can further            
assure the reader that the ultimate meaning of the dream, which I have       
not given here, is most intimately connected with the content of the         
scene of childish destruction.                                               
  In another series of dreams we learn from analysis that the very           
wish which has given rise to the dream, and whose fulfilment the dream       
proves to be, has itself originated in childhood, so that one is             
astonished to find that the child with all his impulses survives in          
the dream.                                                                   
  I shall now continue the interpretation of a dream which has already       
proved instructive: I refer to the dream in which my friend R is my          
uncle. We have carried its interpretation far enough for the                 
wish-motive- the wish to be appointed professor- to assert itself            
palpably; and we have explained the affection felt for my friend R           
in the dream as the outcome of opposition to, and defiance of, the two       
colleagues who appear in the dream-thoughts. Thee dream was my own;          
I may, therefore, continue the analysis by stating that I did not feel       
quite satisfied with the solution arrived at. I knew that my opinion         
of these colleagues. who were so badly treated in my dream-thoughts,         
would have been expressed in very different language in my waking            
life; the intensity of the wish that I might not share their fate as         
regards the appointment seemed to me too slight fully to account for         
the discrepancy between my dream-opinion and my waking opinion. If the       
desire to be addressed by another title were really so intense, it           
would be proof of a morbid ambition, which I do not think I cherish,         
and which I believe I was far from entertaining. I do not know how           
others who think they know me would judge me; perhaps I really was           
ambitious; but if I was, my ambition has long since been transferred         
to objects other than the rank and title of Professor extraordinarius.       
  Whence, then, the ambition which the dream has ascribed to me?             
Here I am reminded of a story which I heard often in my childhood,           
that at my birth an old peasant woman had prophesied to my happy             
mother (whose first-born I was) that she had brought a great man             
into the world. Such prophecies must be made very frequently; there          
are so many happy and expectant mothers, and so many old peasant             
women, and other old women who, since their mundane powers have              
deserted them, turn their eyes toward the future; and the prophetess         
is not likely to suffer for her prophecies. Is it possible that my           
thirst for greatness has originated from this source? But here I             
recollect an impression from the later years of my childhood, which          
might serve even better as an explanation. One evening, at a                 
restaurant on the Prater, where my parents were accustomed to take           
me when I was eleven or twelve years of age, we noticed a man who            
was going from table to table and, for a small sum, improvising verses       
upon any subject that was given him. I was sent to bring the poet to         
our table, and he showed his gratitude. Before asking for a subject he       
threw off a few rhymes about myself, and told us that if he could            
trust his inspiration I should probably one day become a minister. I         
can still distinctly remember the impression produced by this second         
prophecy. It was in the days of the "bourgeois Ministry"; my father          
had recently brought home the portraits of the bourgeois university          
graduates, Herbst, Giskra, Unger, Berger and others, and we                  
illuminated the house in their honour. There were even Jews among            
them; so that every diligent Jewish schoolboy carried a ministerial          
portfolio in his satchel. The impression of that time must be                
responsible for the fact that until shortly before I went to the             
university I wanted to study jurisprudence, and changed my mind only         
at the last moment. A medical man has no chance of becoming a                
minister. And now for my dream: It is only now that I begin to see           
that it translates me from the sombre present to the hopeful days of         
the bourgeois Ministry, and completely fulfils what was then my              
youthful ambition. In treating my two estimable and learned                  
colleagues, merely because they are Jews, so badly, one as though he         
were a simpleton and the other as though he were a criminal, I am            
acting as though I were the Minister; I have put myself in his               
place. What a revenge I take upon his Excellency! He refuses to              
appoint me Professor extraordinarius, and so in my dream I put               
myself in his place.                                                         
  In another case I note the fact that although the wish that                
excites the dream is a contemporary wish it is nevertheless greatly          
reinforced by memories of childhood. I refer to a series of dreams           
which are based on the longing to go to Rome. For a long time to             
come I shall probably have to satisfy this longing by means of dreams,       
since, at the season of the year when I should be able to travel, Rome       
is to be avoided for reasons of health. * Thus I once dreamt that I          
saw the Tiber and the bridge of Sant' Angelo from the window of a            
railway carriage; presently the train started, and I realized that I         
had never entered the city at all. The view that appeared in the dream       
was modelled after a well-known engraving which I had casually noticed       
the day before in the drawing-room of one of my patients. In another         
dream someone took me up a hill and showed me Rome half shrouded in          
mist, and so distant that I was astonished at the distinctness of            
the view. The content of this dream is too rich to be fully reported         
here. The motive, "to see the promised land afar," is here easily            
recognizable. The city which I thus saw in the mist is Lubeck; the           
original of the hill is the Gleichenberg. In a third dream I am at           
last in Rome. To my disappointment the scenery is anything but               
urban: it consists of a little stream of black water, on one side of         
which are black rocks, while on the other are meadows with large white       
flowers. I notice a certain Herr Zucker (with whom I am                      
superficially acquainted), and resolve to ask him to show me the way         
into the city. It is obvious that I am trying in vain to see in my           
dream a city which I have never seen in my waking life. If I resolve         
the landscape into its elements, the white flowers point to Ravenna,         
which is known to me, and which once, for a time, replaced Rome as the       
capital of Italy. In the marshes around Ravenna we had found the             
most beautiful water-lilies in the midst of black pools of water;            
the dream makes them grow in the meadows, like the narcissi of our own       
Aussee, because we found it so troublesome to cull them from the             
water. The black rock so close to the water vividly recalls the valley       
of the Tepl at Karlsbad. Karlsbad now enables me to account for the          
peculiar circumstance that I ask Herr Zucker to show me the way. In          
the material of which the dream is woven I am able to recognize two of       
those amusing Jewish anecdotes which conceal such profound and, at           
times, such bitter worldly wisdom, and which we are so fond of quoting       
in our letters and conversation. One is the story of the constitution;       
it tells how a poor Jew sneaks into the Karlsbad express without a           
ticket; how he is detected, and is treated more and more harshly by          
the conductor at each succeeding call for tickets; and how, when a           
friend whom he meets at one of the stations during his miserable             
journey asks him where he is going, he answers: "To Karlsbad- if my          
constitution holds out." Associated in memory with this is another           
story about a Jew who is ignorant of French, and who has express             
instructions to ask in Paris for the Rue Richelieu. Paris was for many       
years the goal of my own longing, and I regarded the satisfaction with       
which I first set foot on the pavements of Paris as a warrant that I         
should attain to the fulfilment of other wishes also. Moreover, asking       
the way is a direct allusion to Rome, for, as we know, "all roads lead       
to Rome." And further, the name Zucker (sugar) again points to               
Karlsbad, whither we send persons afflicted with the constitutional          
disease, diabetes (Zuckerkrankheit, sugar-disease.) The occasion for         
this dream was the proposal of my Berlin friend that we should meet in       
Prague at Easter. A further association with sugar and diabetes              
might be found in the matters which I had to discuss with him.               
-                                                                            
  * I long ago learned that the fulfilment of such wishes only               
called for a little courage, and I then became a zealous pilgrim to          
Rome.                                                                        
-                                                                            
  A fourth dream, occurring shortly after the last-mentioned, brings         
me back to Rome. I see a street corner before me, and am astonished          
that so many German placards should be posted there. On the previous         
day, when writing to my friend, I had told him, with truly prophetic         
vision, that Prague would probably not be a comfortable place for            
German travellers. The dream, therefore, expressed simultaneously            
the wish to meet him in Rome instead of in the Bohemian capital, and         
the desire, which probably originated during my student days, that the       
German language might be accorded more tolerance in Prague. As a             
matter of fact, I must have understood the Czech language in the first       
years of my childhood, for I was born in a small village in Moravia,         
amidst a Slay population. A Czech nursery rhyme, which I heard in my         
seventeenth year, became, without effort on my part, so imprinted upon       
my memory that I can repeat it to this day, although I have no idea of       
its meaning. Thus in these dreams also there is no lack of manifold          
relations to the impressions of my early childhood.                          
  During my last Italian journey, which took me past Lake                    
Trasimenus, I at length discovered, after I had seen the Tiber, and          
had reluctantly turned back some fifty miles from Rome, what a               
reinforcement my longing for the Eternal City had received from the          
impressions of my childhood. I had just conceived a plan of travelling       
to Naples via Rome the following year when this sentence, which I must       
have read in one of our German classics, occurred to me: * "It is a          
question which of the two paced to and fro in his room the more              
impatiently after he had conceived the plan of going to Rome-                
Assistant Headmaster Winckelmann or the great General Hannibal." I           
myself had walked in Hannibal's footsteps; like him I was destined           
never to see Rome, and he too had gone to Campania when all were             
expecting him in Rome. Hannibal, with whom I had achieved this point         
of similarity, had been my favourite hero during my years at the             
Gymnasium; like so many boys of my age, I bestowed my sympathies in          
the Punic war not on the Romans, but on the Carthaginians. Moreover,         
when I finally came to realize the consequences of belonging to an           
alien race, and was forced by the anti-Semitic feeling among my              
class-mates to take a definite stand, the figure of the Semitic              
commander assumed still greater proportions in my imagination.               
Hannibal and Rome symbolized, in my youthful eyes, the struggle              
between the tenacity of the Jews and the organization of the                 
Catholic Church. The significance for our emotional life which the           
anti-Semitic movement has since assumed helped to fix the thoughts and       
impressions of those earlier days. Thus the desire to go to Rome has         
in my dream-life become the mask and symbol for a number of warmly           
cherished wishes, for whose realization one had to work with the             
tenacity and single-mindedness of the Punic general, though their            
fulfilment at times seemed as remote as Hannibal's life-long wish to         
enter Rome.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * The writer in whose works I found this passage was probably Jean         
Paul Richter.                                                                
-                                                                            
  And now, for the first time, I happened upon the youthful experience       
which even to-day still expresses its power in all these emotions            
and dreams. I might have been ten or twelve years old when my father         
began to take me with him on his walks, and in his conversation to           
reveal his views on the things of this world. Thus it was that he once       
told me the following incident, in order to show me that I had been          
born into happier times than he: "When I was a young man, I was              
walking one Saturday along the street in the village where you were          
born; I was well-dressed, with a new fur cap on my head. Up comes a          
Christian, who knocks my cap into the mud, and shouts, 'Jew, get off         
the pavement!'"- "And what did you do?"- "I went into the street and         
picked up the cap," he calmly replied. That did not seem heroic on the       
part of the big, strong man who was leading me, a little fellow, by          
the hand. I contrasted this situation, which did not please me, with         
another, more in harmony with my sentiments- the scene in which              
Hannibal's father, Hamilcar Barcas, made his son swear before the            
household altar to take vengeance on the Romans. * Ever since then           
Hannibal has had a place in my phantasies.                                   
-                                                                            
  * In the first edition of this book I gave here the name                   
"Hasdrubal," an amazing error, which I explained in my                       
Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life.                                           
-                                                                            
  I think I can trace my enthusiasm for the Carthaginian general still       
further back into my childhood, so that it is probably only an               
instance of an already established emotional relation being                  
transferred to a new vehicle. One of the first books which fell into         
my childish hands after I learned to read was Thiers' Consulate and          
Empire. I remember that I pasted on the flat backs of my wooden              
soldiers little labels bearing the names of the Imperial marshals, and       
that at that time Massena (as a Jew, Menasse) was already my avowed          
favourite. * This preference is doubtless also to be explained by            
the fact of my having been born, a hundred years later, on the same          
date. Napoleon himself is associated with Hannibal through the               
crossing of the Alps. And perhaps the development of this martial            
ideal may be traced yet farther back, to the first three years of my         
childhood, to wishes which my alternately friendly and hostile               
relations with a boy a year older than myself must have evoked in            
the weaker of the two playmates.                                             
-                                                                            
  * The Jewish descent of the Marshal is somewhat doubtful.                  
-                                                                            
  The deeper we go into the analysis of dreams, the more often are           
we put on the track of childish experiences which play the part of           
dream-sources in the latent dream-content.                                   
  We have learned that dreams very rarely reproduce memories in such a       
manner as to constitute, unchanged and unabridged, the sole manifest         
dream-content. Nevertheless, a few authentic examples which show             
such reproduction have been recorded, and I can add a few new ones,          
which once more refer to scenes of childhood. In the case of one of my       
patients a dream once gave a barely distorted reproduction of a sexual       
incident, which was immediately recognized as an accurate                    
recollection. The memory of it had never been completely lost in the         
waking life, but it had been greatly obscured, and it was revivified         
by the previous work of analysis. The dreamer had at the age of twelve       
visited a bedridden schoolmate, who had exposed himself, probably only       
by a chance movement in bed. At the sight of the boy's genitals he was       
seized by a kind of compulsion, exposed himself, and took hold of            
the member of the other boy who, however, looked at him in surprise          
and indignation, whereupon he became embarrassed and let it go. A            
dream repeated this scene twenty-three years later, with all the             
details of the accompanying emotions, changing it, however, in this          
respect, that the dreamer played the passive instead of the active           
role, while the person of the schoolmate was replaced by a                   
contemporary.                                                                
  As a rule, of course, a scene from childhood is represented in the         
manifest dream-content only by an allusion, and must be disentangled         
from the dream by interpretation. The citation of examples of this           
kind cannot be very convincing, because any guarantee that they are          
really experiences of childhood is lacking; if they belong to an             
earlier period of life, they are no longer recognized by our memory.         
The conclusion that such childish experiences recur at all in dreams         
is justified in psychoanalytic work by a great number of factors,            
which in their combined results appear to be sufficiently reliable.          
But when, for the purposes of dream-interpretation, such references to       
childish experiences are torn out of their context, they may not             
perhaps seem very impressive, especially where I do not even give            
all the material upon which the interpretation is based. However, I          
shall not let this deter me from giving a few examples.                      
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  With one of my female patients all dreams have the character of            
hurry; she is hurrying so as to be in time, so as not to miss her            
train, and so on. In one dream she has to visit a girl friend; her           
mother had told her to ride and not walk; she runs, however, and keeps       
on calling. The material that emerged in the analysis allowed one to         
recognize a memory of childish romping, and, especially for one dream,       
went back to the popular childish game of rapidly repeating the              
words of a sentence as though it was all one word. All these                 
harmless jokes with little friends were remembered because they              
replaced other less harmless ones. *                                         
-                                                                            
  * In the original this paragraph contains many plays on the word           
Hetz (hurry, chase, scurry, game, etc.).- TR.                                
-                                                                            
                                 II.                                         
-                                                                            
  The following dream was dreamed by another female patient: She is in       
a large room in which there are all sorts of machines; it is rather          
like what she would imagine an orthopaedic institute to be. She              
hears that I am pressed for time, and that she must undergo                  
treatment along with five others. But she resists, and is unwilling to       
lie down on the bed- or whatever it is- which is intended for her. She       
stands in a corner, and waits for me to say "It is not true." The            
others, meanwhile, laugh at her, saying it is all foolishness on her         
part. At the same time, it is as though she were called upon to make a       
number of little squares.                                                    
  The first part of the content of this dream is an allusion to the          
treatment and to the transference to myself. The second contains an          
allusion to a scene of childhood; the two portions are connected by          
the mention of the bed. The orthopaedic institute is an allusion to          
one of my talks, in which I compared the treatment, with regard to its       
duration and its nature. to an orthopaedic treatment. At the beginning       
of the treatment I had to tell her that for the present I had little         
time to give her, but that later on I would devote a whole hour to her       
daily. This aroused in her the old sensitiveness, which is a leading         
characteristic of children who are destined to become hysterical.            
Their desire for love is insatiable. My patient was the youngest of          
six brothers and sisters (hence, with five others), and as such her          
father's favourite, but in spite of this she seems to have felt that         
her beloved father devoted far too little time and attention to her.         
Her waiting for me to say It is not trite was derived as follows: A          
little tailor's apprentice had brought her a dress, and she had              
given him the money for it. Then she asked her husband whether she           
would have to pay the money again if the boy were to lose it. To tease       
her, her husband answered "Yes" (the teasing in the dream), and she          
asked again and again, and waited for him to say "It is not true." The       
thought of the latent dream-content may now be construed as follows:         
Will she have to pay me double the amount when I devote twice as             
much time to her?- a thought which is stingy or filthy (the                  
uncleanliness of childhood is often replaced in dreams by greed for          
money; the word filthy here supplies the bridge). If all the passage         
referring to her waiting until I say It is not true is intended in the       
dream as a circumlocution for the word dirty, the                            
standing-in-the-corner and not lying-down-on-the-bed are in keeping          
with this word, as component parts of a scene of her childhood in            
which she had soiled her bed, in punishment for which she was put into       
the corner, with a warning that papa would not love her any more,            
whereupon her brothers and sisters laughed at her, etc. The little           
squares refer to her young niece, who showed her the arithmetical            
trick of writing figures in nine squares (I think) in such a way             
that on being added together in any direction they make fifteen.             
-                                                                            
                                 III.                                        
-                                                                            
  Here is a man's dream: He sees two boys tussling with each other;          
they are cooper's boys, as he concludes from the tools which are lying       
about; one of the boys has thrown the other down; the prostrate boy is       
wearing ear-rings with blue stones. He runs towards the assailant with       
lifted cane, in order to chastise him. The boy takes refuge behind a         
woman, as though she were his mother, who is standing against a wooden       
fence. She is the wife of a day-labourer, and she turns her back to          
the man who is dreaming. Finally she turns about and stares at him           
with a horrible look, so that he runs away in terror; the red flesh of       
the lower lid seems to stand out from her eyes.                              
  This dream has made abundant use of trivial occurrences from the           
previous day, in the course of which he actually saw two boys in the         
street, one of whom threw the other down. When he walked up to them in       
order to settle the quarrel, both of them took to their heels.               
Cooper's boys- this is explained only by a subsequent dream, in the          
analysis of which he used the proverbial expression: "To knock the           
bottom out of the barrel." Ear-rings with blue stones, according to          
his observation, are worn chiefly by prostitutes. This suggests a            
familiar doggerel rhyme about two boys: "The other boy was called            
Marie": that is, he was a girl. The woman standing by the fence: after       
the scene with the two boys he went for a walk along the bank of the         
Danube and, taking advantage of being alone, urinated against a wooden       
fence. A little farther on a respectably dressed, elderly lady               
smiled at him very pleasantly and wanted to hand him her card with her       
address.                                                                     
  Since, in the dream, the woman stood as he had stood while                 
urinating, there is an allusion to a woman urinating, and this               
explains the horrible look and the prominence of the red flesh,              
which can only refer to the genitals gaping in a squatting posture;          
seen in childhood, they had appeared in later recollection as proud          
flesh, as a wound. The dream unites two occasions upon which, as a           
little boy, the dreamer was enabled to see the genitals of little            
girls, once by throwing the little girl down, and once while the child       
was urinating; and, as is shown by another association, he had               
retained in his memory the punishment administered or threatened by          
his father on account of these manifestations of sexual curiosity.           
-                                                                            
                                 IV.                                         
-                                                                            
  A great mass of childish memories, which have been hastily                 
combined into a phantasy, may be found behind the following dream of         
an elderly lady: She goes out in a hurry to do some shopping. On the         
Graben she sinks to her knees as though she had broken down. A               
number of people collect around her, especially cab-drivers, but no          
one helps her to get up. She makes many vain attempts; finally she           
must have succeeded, for she is put into a cab which is to take her          
home. A large, heavily laden basket (something like a market-basket)         
is thrown after her through the window.                                      
  This is the woman who is always harassed in her dreams; just as            
she used to be harassed when a child. The first situation of the dream       
is apparently taken from the sight of a fallen horse; just as broken         
down points to horse-racing. In her youth she was a rider; still             
earlier she was probably also a horse. With the idea of falling down         
is connected her first childish reminiscence of the seventeen-year-old       
son of the hall porter, who had an epileptic seizure in the street and       
was brought home in a cab. Of this, of course, she had only heard, but       
the idea of epileptic fits, of falling down, acquired a great                
influence over her phantasies, and later on influenced the form of her       
own hysterical attacks. When a person of the female sex dreams of            
falling, this almost always has a sexual significance; she becomes a         
fallen woman, and, for the purpose of the dream under consideration,         
this interpretation is probably the least doubtful, for she falls in         
the Graben, the street in Vienna which is known as the concourse of          
prostitutes. The market-basket admits of more than one interpretation;       
in the sense of refusal (German, Korb = basket = snub, refusal) it           
reminds her of the many snubs which she at first administered to her         
suitors and which, she thinks, she herself received later. This agrees       
with the detail: no one will help her up, which she herself interprets       
as being disdained. Further, the market-basket recalls phantasies            
which have already appeared in the course of analysis, in which she          
imagines that she has married far beneath her station and now goes           
to the market as a market-woman. Lastly, the market-basket might be          
interpreted as the mark of a servant. This suggests further memories         
of her childhood- of a cook who was discharged because she stole; she,       
too, sank to her knees and begged for mercy. The dreamer was at that         
time twelve years of age. Then emerges a recollection of a                   
chamber-maid, who was dismissed because she had an affair with the           
coachman of the household, who, incidentally, married her                    
afterwards. This recollection, therefore, gives us a clue to the             
cab-drivers in the dream (who, in opposition to the reality, do not          
stand by the fallen woman). But there still remains to be explained          
the throwing of the basket; in particular, why it is thrown through          
the window? This reminds her of the forwarding of luggage by rail,           
to the custom of Fensterln * in the country, and to trivial                  
impressions of a summer resort, of a gentleman who threw some blue           
plums into the window of a lady's room, and of her little sister,            
who was frightened because an idiot who was passing looked in at the         
window. And now, from behind all this emerges an obscure                     
recollection from her tenth year of a nurse in the country to whom one       
of the men-servants made love (and whose conduct the child may have          
noticed), and who was sent packing, thrown out, together with her            
lover (in the dream we have the expression: thrown into); an                 
incident which we have been approaching by several other paths. The          
luggage or box of a servant is disparagingly described in Vienna as          
"seven plums." "Pack up your seven plums and get out!"                       
-                                                                            
  * Fensterln is the custom, now falling into disuse, found in rural         
districts of the German Schwarzwald, of lovers who woo their                 
sweethearts at their bedroom windows, to which they ascend by means of       
a ladder, enjoying such intimacy that the relation practically amounts       
to a trial marriage. The reputation of the young woman never suffers         
on account of Fensterln, unless she becomes intimate with too many           
suitors.- TR.                                                                
-                                                                            
  My collection, of course, contains a plethora of such patients'            
dreams, the analysis of which leads back to impressions of                   
childhood, often dating back to the first three years of life, which         
are remembered obscurely, or not at all. But it is a questionable            
proceeding to draw conclusions from these and apply them to dreams           
in general, for they are mostly dreams of neurotic, and especially           
hysterical, persons; and the part played in these dreams by childish         
scenes might be conditioned by the nature of the neurosis, and not           
by the nature of dreams in general. In the interpretation of my own          
dreams, however, which is assuredly not undertaken on account of grave       
symptoms of illness, it happens just as frequently that in the               
latent dream-content I am unexpectedly confronted with a scene of my         
childhood, and that a whole series of my dreams will suddenly converge       
upon the paths proceeding from a single childish experience. I have          
already given examples of this, and I shall give yet more in different       
connections. Perhaps I cannot close this chapter more fittingly than         
by citing several dreams of my own, in which recent events and               
long-forgotten experiences of my childhood appear together as                
dream-sources.                                                               
  I. After I have been travelling, and have gone to bed hungry and           
tired, the prime necessities of life begin to assert their claims in         
sleep, and I dream as follows: I go into a kitchen in order to ask for       
some pudding. There three women are standing, one of whom is the             
hostess; she is rolling something in her hands, as though she were           
making dumplings. She replies that I must wait until she has                 
finished (not distinctly as a speech). I become impatient, and go away       
affronted. I want to put on an overcoat; but the first I try on is too       
long. I take it off, and am somewhat astonished to find that it is           
trimmed with fur. A second coat has a long strip of cloth with a             
Turkish design sewn into it. A stranger with a long face and a               
short, pointed beard comes up and prevents me from putting it on,            
declaring that it belongs to him. I now show him that it is covered          
all over with Turkish embroideries. He asks: "How do the Turkish             
(drawings, strips of cloth...) concern you?" But we soon become              
quite friendly.                                                              
  In the analysis of this dream I remember, quite unexpectedly, the          
first novel which I ever read, or rather, which I began to read from         
the end of the first volume, when I was perhaps thirteen years of age.       
I have never learned the name of the novel, or that of its author, but       
the end remains vividly in my memory. The hero becomes insane, and           
continually calls out the names of the three women who have brought          
the greatest happiness and the greatest misfortune into his life.            
Pelagie is one of these names. I still do not know what to make of           
this recollection during the analysis. Together with the three women         
there now emerge the three Parcae, who spin the fates of men, and I          
know that one of the three women, the hostess in the dream, is the           
mother who gives life, and who, moreover, as in my own case, gives the       
child its first nourishment. Love and hunger meet at the mother's            
breast. A young man- so runs an anecdote- who became a great admirer         
of womanly beauty, once observed, when the conversation turned upon          
the handsome wet-nurse who had suckled him as a child, that he was           
sorry that he had not taken better advantage of his opportunities. I         
am in the habit of using the anecdote to elucidate the factor of             
retrospective tendencies in the mechanism of the psychoneuroses. One         
of the Parcae, then, is rubbing the palms of her hands together, as          
though she were making dumplings. A strange occupation for one of            
the Fates, and urgently in need of explanation! This explanation is          
furnished by another and earlier memory of my childhood. When I was          
six years old, and receiving my first lessons from my mother, I was          
expected to believe that we are made of dust, and must, therefore,           
return to dust. But this did not please me, and I questioned the             
doctrine. Thereupon my mother rubbed the palms of her hands                  
together-just as in making dumplings, except that there was no dough         
between them- and showed me the blackish scales of epidermis which           
were thus rubbed off, as a proof that it is of dust that we are              
made. Great was my astonishment at this demonstration ad oculos, and I       
acquiesced in the idea which I was later to hear expressed in the            
words: "Thou owest nature a death." * Thus the women to whom I go in         
the kitchen, as I so often did in my childhood when I was hungry and         
my mother, sitting by the fire, admonished me to wait until lunch            
was ready, are really the Parcae. And now for the dumplings! At              
least one of my teachers at the University- the very one to whom I           
am indebted for my histological knowledge (epidermis)- would be              
reminded by the name Knodl (Knodl means dumpling), of a person whom he       
had to prosecute for plagiarizing his writings. Committing a                 
plagiarism, taking anything one can lay hands on, even though it             
belongs to another, obviously leads to the second part of the dream,         
in which I am treated like the overcoat thief who for some time              
plied his trade in the lecture-halls. I have written the word                
plagiarism- without definite intention- because it occurred to me, and       
now I see that it must belong to the latent dream-content and that           
it will serve as a bridge between the different parts of the                 
manifest dream-content. The chain of associations- Pelagie-                  
plagiarism- plagiostomi *(2) (sharks)- fish-bladder- connects the            
old novel with the affair of Knodl and the overcoats (German:                
Uberzieher = pullover, overcoat or condom), which obviously refer to         
an appliance appertaining to the technique of sex. This, it is true,         
is a very forced and irrational connection, but it is nevertheless one       
which I could not have established in waking life if it had not              
already been established by the dream-work. Indeed, as though                
nothing were sacred to this impulse to enforce associations, the             
beloved name, Brucke (bridge of words, see above), now serves to             
remind me of the very institute in which I spent my happiest hours           
as a student, wanting for nothing. "So will you at the breasts of            
Wisdom every day more pleasure find"), in the most complete contrast         
to the desires which plague me (German: plagen) while I dream. And           
finally, there emerges the recollection of another dear teacher, whose       
name once more sounds like something edible (Fleischl- Fleisch = meat-       
like Knodl = dumplings), and of a pathetic scene in which the scales         
of epidermis play a part (mother- hostess), and mental derangement           
(the novel), and a remedy from the Latin pharmacopeia (Kuche =               
kitchen) which numbs the sensation of hunger, namely, cocaine.               
-                                                                            
  * Both the affects pertaining to these childish scenes- astonishment       
and resignation to the inevitable- appeared in a dream of slightly           
earlier date, which first reminded me of this incident of my                 
childhood.                                                                   
  *(2) I do not bring in the plagiostomi arbitrarily; they recall a          
painful incident of disgrace before the same teacher.                        
 
-                                                                            
  In this manner I could follow the intricate trains of thought              
still farther, and could fully elucidate that part of the dream              
which is lacking in the analysis; but I must refrain, because the            
personal sacrifice which this would involve is too great. I shall take       
up only one of the threads, which will serve to lead us directly to          
one of the dream-thoughts that lie at the bottom of the medley. The          
stranger with the long face and pointed beard, who wants to prevent me       
from putting on the overcoat, has the features of a tradesman of             
Spalato, of whom my wife bought a great deal of Turkish cloth. His           
name was Popovic, a suspicious name, which even gave the humorist            
Stettenheim a pretext for a suggestive remark: "He told me his name,         
and blushingly shook my hand." * For the rest, I find the same               
misuse of names as above in the case of Pelagie, Knodl, Brucke,              
Fleischl. No one will deny that such playing with names is a                 
childish trick; if I indulge in it the practice amounts to an act of         
retribution, for my own name has often enough been the subject of such       
feeble attempts at wit. Goethe once remarked how sensitive a man is in       
respect to his name, which he feels that he fills even as he fills his       
skin; Herder having written the following lines on his name:                 
-                                                                            
     Der du von Gottern abstammst, von Gothen oder vom Kote.                 
     So seid ihr Gotterbilder auch zu Staub.                                 
-                                                                            
     [Thou who art born of the gods, of the Goths, or of the mud.            
     Thus are thy godlike images even dust.]                                 
-                                                                            
  I realize that this digression on the misuse of names was intended         
merely to justify this complaint. But here let us stop.... The               
purchase at Spalato reminds me of another purchase at Cattaro, where I       
was too cautious, and missed the opportunity of making an excellent          
bargain. (Missing an opportunity at the breast of the wet-nurse; see         
above.) One of the dream-thoughts occasioned by the sensation of             
hunger really amounts to this: We should let nothing escape; we should       
take what we can get, even if we do a little wrong; we should never          
let an opportunity go by; life is so short, and death inevitable.            
Because this is meant even sexually, and because desire is unwilling         
to check itself before the thought of doing wrong, this philosophy           
of carpe diem has reason to fear the censorship, and must conceal            
itself behind a dream. And so all sorts of counter-thoughts find             
expression, with recollections of the time when spiritual                    
nourishment alone was sufficient for the dreamer, with hindrances of         
every kind and even threats of disgusting sexual punishments.                
-                                                                            
  * Popo = "backside," in German nursery language.                           
-                                                                            
  II. A second dream requires a longer preliminary statement:                
  I had driven to the Western Station in order to start on a holiday         
trip to the Aussee, but I went on to the platform in time for the            
Ischl train, which leaves earlier. There I saw Count Thun, who was           
again going to see the Emperor at Ischl. In spite of the rain he             
arrived in an open carriage, came straight through the entrance-gate         
for the local trains, and with a curt gesture and not a word of              
explanation he waved back the gatekeeper, who did not know him and           
wanted to take his ticket. After he had left in the Ischl train, I was       
asked to leave the platform and return to the waiting-room; but              
after some difficulty I obtained permission to remain. I passed the          
time noting how many people bribed the officials to secure a                 
compartment; I fully intended to make a complaint- that is, to               
demand the same privilege. Meanwhile I sang something to myself, which       
I afterwards recognized as the aria from The Marriage of Figaro:             
-                                                                            
       If my lord Count would tread a measure, tread a measure,              
           Let him but say his pleasure,                                     
           And I will play the tune.                                         
-                                                                            
  (Possibly another person would not have recognized the tune.)              
  The whole evening I was in a high-spirited, pugnacious mood; I             
chaffed the waiter and the cab-driver, I hope without hurting their          
feelings; and now all kinds of bold and revolutionary thoughts came          
into my mind, such as would fit themselves to the words of Figaro, and       
to memories of Beaumarchais' comedy, of which I had seen a performance       
at the Comedie Francaise. The speech about the great men who have            
taken the trouble to be born; the seigneurial right which Count              
Almaviva wishes to exercise with regard to Susanne; the jokes which          
our malicious Opposition journalists make on the name of Count Thun          
(German, thun = do), calling him Graf Nichtsthun, Count-Do-Nothing.          
I really do not envy him; he now has a difficult audience with the           
Emperor before him, and it is I who am the real Count-Do-Nothing,            
for I am going off for a holiday. I make all sorts of amusing plans          
for the vacation. Now a gentleman arrives whom I know as a                   
Government representative at the medical examinations, and who has won       
the flattering nickname of "the Governmental bed-fellow" (literally,         
by-sleeper) by his activities in this capacity. By insisting on his          
official status he secured half a first-class compartment, and I heard       
one guard say to another: "Where are we going to put the gentleman           
with the first-class half-compartment?" A pretty sort of                     
favouritism! I am paying for a whole first-class compartment. I did          
actually get a whole compartment to myself, but not in a through             
carriage, so there was no lavatory at my disposal during the night. My       
complaints to the guard were fruitless; I revenged myself by                 
suggesting that at least a hole be made in the floor of this                 
compartment, to serve the possible needs of passengers. At a quarter         
to three in the morning I wake, with an urgent desire to urinate, from       
the following dream:                                                         
  A crowd, a students' meeting.... A certain Count (Thun or Taaffe) is       
making a speech. Being asked to say something about the Germans, he          
declares, with a contemptuous gesture, that their favourite flower           
is coltsfoot, and he then puts into his buttonhole something like a          
torn leaf, really the crumpled skeleton of a leaf. I jump up, and I          
jump up, * but I am surprised at my implied attitude. Then, more             
indistinctly: It seems as though this were the vestibule (Aula); the         
exits are thronged, and one must escape. I make my way through a suite       
of handsomely appointed rooms, evidently ministerial apartments,             
with furniture of a colour between brown and violet, and at last I           
come to a corridor in which a housekeeper, a fat, elderly woman, is          
seated. I try to avoid speaking to her, but she apparently thinks I          
have a right to pass this way, because she asks whether she shall            
accompany me with the lamp. I indicate with a gesture, or tell her,          
that she is to remain standing on the stairs, and it seems to me             
that I am very clever, for after all I am evading detection. Now I           
am downstairs, and I find a narrow, steeply rising path, which I             
follow.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  * This repetition has crept into the text of the dream, apparently         
through absent-mindedness, and I have left it because analysis shows         
that it has a meaning.                                                       
-                                                                            
  Again indistinctly: It is as though my second task were to get             
away from the city, just as my first was to get out of the building. I       
am riding in a one-horse cab, and I tell the driver to take me to a          
railway station. "I can't drive with you on the railway line                 
itself," I say, when he reproaches me as though I had tired him out.         
Here it seems as though I had already made a journey in his cab              
which is usually made by rail. The stations are crowded; I am                
wondering whether to go to Krems or to Znaim, but I reflect that the         
Court will be there, and I decide in favour of Graz or some such             
place. Now I am seated in the railway carriage, which is rather like a       
tram, and I have in my button-hole a peculiar long braided thing, on         
which are violet-brown violets of stiff material, which makes a              
great impression on people. Here the scene breaks off.                       
  I am once more in front of the railway station, but I am in the            
company of an elderly gentleman. I think out a scheme for remaining          
unrecognized, but I see this plan already being carried out.                 
Thinking and experiencing are here, as it were, the same thing. He           
pretends to be blind, at least in one eye, and I hold before him a           
male glass urinal (which we have to buy in the city, or have                 
bought). I am thus a sick-nurse, and have to give him the urinal             
because he is blind. If the conductor sees us in this position, he           
must pass us by without drawing attention to us. At the same time            
the position of the elderly man, and his urinating organ, is                 
plastically perceived. Then I wake with a desire to urinate.                 
  The whole dream seems a sort of phantasy, which takes the dreamer          
back to the year of revolution, 1848, the memory of which had been           
revived by the jubilee of 1898, as well as by a little excursion to          
Wachau, on which I visited Emmersdorf, the refuge of the student             
leader Fischof, * to whom several features of the manifest                   
dream-content might refer. The association of ideas then leads me to         
England, to the house of my brother, who used in jest to twit his wife       
with the title of Tennyson's poem Fifty Years Ago, whereupon the             
children were used to correct him: Fifteen Years Ago. This phantasy,         
however, which attaches itself to the thoughts evoked by the sight           
of Count Thun, is, like the facade of an Italian church, without             
organic connection with the structure behind it, but unlike such a           
facade it is full of gaps, and confused, and in many places portions         
of the interior break through. The first situation of the dream is           
made up of a number of scenes, into which I am able to dissect it. The       
arrogant attitude of the Count in the dream is copied from a scene           
at my school which occurred in my fifteenth year. We had hatched a           
conspiracy against an unpopular and ignorant teacher; the leading            
spirit in this conspiracy was a schoolmate who since that time seems         
to have taken Henry VIII of England as his model. It fell to me to           
carry out the coup d'etat, and a discussion of the importance of the         
Danube (German, Donau) to Austria (Wachau!) was the occasion of an           
open revolt. One of our fellow-conspirators was our only                     
aristocratic schoolmate- he was called "the giraffe" on account of his       
conspicuous height- and while he was being reprimanded by the tyrant         
of the school, the professor of the German language, he stood just           
as the Count stood in the dream. The explanation of the favourite            
flower, and the putting into a button-hole of something that must have       
been a flower (which recalls the orchids which I had given that day to       
a friend, and also a rose of Jericho) prominently recalls the incident       
in Shakespeare's historical play which opens the civil wars of the Red       
and the White Roses; the mention of Henry VIII has paved the way to          
this reminiscence. Now it is not very far from roses to red and              
white carnations. (Meanwhile two little rhymes, the one German, the          
other Spanish, insinuate themselves into the analysis: Rosen,                
Tulpen, Nelken, alle Blumen welken, *(2) and Isabelita, no llores, que       
se marchitan las flores. *(3) The Spanish line occurs in Figaro.) Here       
in Vienna white carnations have become the badge of the                      
Anti-Semites, red ones of the Social Democrats. Behind this is the           
recollection of an anti-Semitic challenge during a railway journey           
in beautiful Saxony (Anglo-Saxon). The third scene contributing to the       
formation of the first situation in the dream dates from my early            
student days. There was a debate in a German students' club about            
the relation of philosophy to the general sciences. Being a green            
youth, full of materialistic doctrines, I thrust myself forward in           
order to defend an extremely one-sided position. Thereupon a sagacious       
older fellow-student, who has since then shown his capacity for              
leading men and organizing the masses, and who, moreover, bears a name       
belonging to the animal kingdom, rose and gave us a thorough                 
dressing-down; he too, he said, had herded swine in his youth, and had       
then returned repentant to his father's house. I jumped up (as in            
the dream), became piggishly rude, and retorted that since I knew he         
had herded swine, I was not surprised at the tone of his discourse.          
(In the dream I am surprised at my German Nationalistic feelings.)           
There was a great commotion, and an almost general demand that I             
should retract my words, but I stood my ground. The insulted student         
was too sensible to take the advice which was offered him, that he           
should send me a challenge, and let the matter drop.                         
-                                                                            
  * This is an error and not a slip, for I learned later that the            
Emmersdorf in Wachau is not identical with the refuge of the                 
revolutionist Fischof, a place of the same name.                             
  *(2) Roses, tulips, and carnations, flowers all will wither.               
  *(3) Do not cry, little Isabella because your flowers have faded.          
-                                                                            
  The remaining elements of this scene of the dream are of more remote       
origin. What does it mean that the Count should make a scornful              
reference to coltsfoot? Here I must question my train of associations.       
Coltsfoot (German: Huflattich), Lattice (lettuce), Salathund (the            
dog that grudges others what he cannot eat himself). Here plenty of          
opprobrious epithets may be discerned: Gir-affe (German: Affe =              
monkey, ape), pig, sow, dog; I might even arrive, by way of the              
name, at donkey, and thereby pour contempt upon an academic professor.       
Furthermore, I translate coltsfoot (Huflattich)- I do not know whether       
I do so correctly- by pisse-en-lit. I get this idea from Zola's              
Germinal, in which some children are told to bring some dandelion            
salad with them. The dog- chien- has a name sounding not unlike the          
verb for the major function (chier, as pisser stands for the minor           
one). Now we shall soon have the indecent in all its three physical          
categories, for in the same Germinal, which deals with the future            
revolution, there is a description of a very peculiar contest, which         
relates to the production of the gaseous excretions known as flatus. *       
And now I cannot but observe how the way to this flatus has been             
prepared a long while since, beginning with the flowers, and                 
proceeding to the Spanish rhyme of Isabelita, to Ferdinand and               
Isabella, and, by way of Henry VIII, to English history at the time of       
the Armada, after the victorious termination of which the English            
struck a medal with the inscription: Flavit et dissipati sunt, for the       
storm had scattered the Spanish fleet. *(2) I had thought of using           
this phrase, half jestingly, as the title of a chapter on "Therapy,"         
if I should ever succeed in giving a detailed account of my conception       
and treatment of hysteria.                                                   
-                                                                            
  * Not in Germinal, but in La Terre- a mistake of which I became            
aware only in the analysis. Here I would call attention to the               
identity of letters in Huflattich and Flatus.                                
  *(2) An unsolicited biographer, Dr. F. Wittels, reproaches me for          
having omitted the name of Jehovah from the above motto. The English         
medal contains the name of the Deity, in Hebrew letters, on the              
background of a cloud, and placed in such a manner that one may              
equally well regard it as part of the picture or as part of the              
inscription.                                                                 
-                                                                            
  I cannot give so detailed an interpretation of the second scene of         
the dream, out of sheer regard for the censorship. For at this point I       
put myself in the place of a certain eminent gentleman of the                
revolutionary period, who had an adventure with an eagle (German:            
Adler) and who is said to have suffered from incontinence of the             
bowels, incontinentia and, etc.; and here I believe that I should            
not be justified in passing the censorship, even though it was an            
aulic councillor (aula, consiliarizis aulicus) who told me the greater       
part of this history. The suite of rooms in the dream is suggested           
by his Excellency's private saloon carriage, into which I was able           
to glance; but it means, as it so often does in dreams, a woman. * The       
personality of the housekeeper is an ungrateful allusion to a witty          
old lady, which ill repays her for the good times and the many good          
stories which I have enjoyed in her house. The incident of the lamp          
goes back to Grillparzer, who notes a charming experience of a similar       
nature, of which he afterwards made use in Hero and Leander (the waves       
of the sea and of love- the Armada and the storm).                           
-                                                                            
  * Frauenzimmer, German, Zimmer-room, is appended to Frauen-woman, in       
order to imply a slight contempt.- TR.                                       
-                                                                            
  I must forego a detailed analysis of the two remaining portions of         
the dream; I shall single out only those elements which lead me back         
to the two scenes of my childhood for the sake of which alone I have         
selected the dream. The reader will rightly assume that it is sexual         
material which necessitates the suppression; but he may not be content       
with this explanation. There are many things of which one makes no           
secret to oneself, but which must be treated as secrets in                   
addressing others, and here we are concerned not with the reasons            
which induce me to conceal the solution, but with the motive of the          
inner censorship which conceals the real content of the dream even           
from myself. Concerning this, I will confess that the analysis reveals       
these three portions of the dream as impertinent boasting, the               
exuberance of an absurd megalomania, long ago suppressed in my               
waking life, which, however, dares to show itself, with individual           
ramifications, even in the manifest dream-content (it seems to me that       
I am a cunning fellow), making the high-spirited mood of the evening         
before the dream perfectly intelligible. Boasting of every kind,             
indeed thus, the mention of Graz points to the phrase: "What price           
Graz?" which one is wont to use when one feels unusually wealthy.            
Readers who recall Master Rabelais's inimitable description of the           
life and deeds of Gargantua and his son Pantagruel will be able to           
enroll even the suggested content of the first portion of the dream          
among the boasts to which I have alluded. But the following belongs to       
the two scenes of childhood of which I have spoken: I had bought a new       
trunk for this journey, the colour of which, a brownish violet,              
appears in the dream several times (violet-brown violets of a stiff          
cloth, on an object which is known as a girl-catcher- the furniture in       
the ministerial chambers). Children, we know, believe that one               
attracts people's attention with anything new. Now I have been told of       
the following incident of my childhood; my recollection of the               
occurrence itself has been replaced by my recollection of the story. I       
am told that at the age of two I still used occasionally to wet my           
bed, and that when I was reproved for doing so I consoled my father by       
promising to buy him a beautiful new red bed in N (the nearest large         
town). Hence, the interpolation in the dream, that we had bought the         
urinal in the city or had to buy it; one must keep one's promises.           
(One should note, moreover, the association of the male urinal and the       
woman's trunk, box.) All the megalomania of the child is contained           
in this promise. The significance of dreams of urinary difficulties in       
the case of children has already been considered in the interpretation       
of an earlier dream (cf. the dream in chapter V., A.). The                   
psycho-analysis of neurotics has taught us to recognize the intimate         
connection between wetting the bed and the character trait of                
ambition.                                                                    
  Then, when I was seven or eight years of age another domestic              
incident occurred which I remember very well. One evening, before            
going to bed, I had disregarded the dictates of discretion, and had          
satisfied my needs in my parents' bedroom, and in their presence.            
Reprimanding me for this delinquency, my father remarked: "That boy          
will never amount to anything." This must have been a terrible affront       
to my ambition, for allusions to this scene recur again and again in         
my dreams, and are constantly coupled with enumerations of my                
accomplishments and successes, as though I wanted to say: "You see,          
I have amounted to something after all." This childish scene furnishes       
the elements for the last image of the dream, in which the roles are         
interchanged, of course for the purpose of revenge. The elderly man          
obviously my father, for the blindness in one eye signifies his              
one-sided glaucoma, * is now urinating before me as I once urinated          
before him. By means of the glaucoma I remind my father of cocaine,          
which stood him in good stead during his operation, as though I had          
thereby fulfilled my promise. Besides, I make sport of him; since he         
is blind, I must hold the glass in front of him, and I delight in            
allusions to my knowledge of the theory of hysteria, of which I am           
proud. *(2)                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * Another interpretation: He is one-eyed like Odin, the father of          
the gods- Odin's consolation. The consolation in the childish scene: I       
will buy him a new bed.                                                      
  *(2) Here is some more material for interpretation: Holding the            
urine-glass recalls the story of a peasant (illiterate) at the               
optician's, who tried on now one pair of spectacles, now another,            
but was still unable to read.- (Peasant-catcher- girl-catcher in the         
preceding portion of the dream.)- The peasants' treatment of the             
feeble-minded father in Zola's La Terre.- The tragic atonement, that         
in his last days my father soiled his bed like a child; hence, I am          
his nurse in the dream.- "Thinking and experiencing are here, as it          
were, identical"; this recalls a highly revolutionary closet drama           
by Oscar Panizza, in which God, the Father, is ignominiously treated         
as a palsied greybeard. With Him will and deed are one, and in the           
book he has to be restrained by His archangel, a sort of Ganymede,           
from scolding and swearing, because His curses would immediately be          
fulfilled.- Making plans is a reproach against my father, dating             
from a later period in the development of the critical faculty, much         
as the whole rebellious content of the dream, which commits lese             
majeste and scorns authority, may be traced to a revolt against my           
father. The sovereign is called the father of his country                    
(Landesvater), and the father is the first and oldest, and for the           
child the only authority, from whose absolutism the other social             
authorities have evolved in the course of the history of human               
civilization (in so far as mother-right does not necessitate a               
qualification of this doctrine).- The words which occurred to me in          
the dream, "thinking and experiencing are the same thing," refer to          
the explanation of hysterical symptoms with which the male urinal            
(glass) is also associated.- I need not explain the principle of             
Gschnas to a Viennese; it consists in constructing objects of rare and       
costly appearance out of trivial, and preferably comical and worthless       
material- for example, making suits of armour out of kitchen utensils,       
wisps of straw and Salzstangeln (long rolls), as our artists are             
fond of doing at their jolly parties. I had learned that hysterical          
subjects do the same thing; besides what really happens to them,             
they unconsciously conceive for themselves horrible or extravagantly         
fantastic incidents, which they build up out of the most harmless            
and commonplace material of actual experience. The symptoms attach           
themselves primarily to these phantasies, not to the memory of real          
events, whether serious or trivial. This explanation had helped me           
to overcome many difficulties, and afforded me much pleasure. I was          
able to allude to it by means of the dream-element "male urine-glass,"       
because I had been told that at the last Gschnas evening a                   
poison-chalice of Lucretia Borgia's had been exhibited, the chief            
constituent of which had consisted of a glass urinal for men, such           
as is used in hospitals.                                                     
-                                                                            
  If the two childish scenes of urination are, according to my theory,       
closely associated with the desire for greatness, their                      
resuscitation on the journey to the Aussee was further favoured by the       
accidental circumstance that my compartment had no lavatory, and             
that I must be prepared to postpone relief during the journey, as            
actually happened in the morning when I woke with the sensation of a         
bodily need. I suppose one might be inclined to credit this                  
sensation with being the actual stimulus of the dream; I should,             
however, prefer a different explanation, namely, that the                    
dream-thoughts first gave rise to the desire to urinate. It is quite         
unusual for me to be disturbed in sleep by any physical need, least of       
all at the time when I woke on this occasion- a quarter to four in the       
morning. I would forestall a further objection by remarking that I           
have hardly ever felt a desire to urinate after waking early on              
other journeys made under more comfortable circumstances. However, I         
can leave this point undecided without weakening my argument.                
  Further, since experience in dream-analysis has drawn my attention         
to the fact that even from dreams the interpretation of which seems at       
first sight complete, because the dream-sources and the wish-stimuli         
are easily demonstrable, important trains of thought proceed which           
reach back into the earliest years of childhood, I had to ask myself         
whether this characteristic does not even constitute an essential            
condition of dreaming. If it were permissible to generalize this             
notion, I should say that every dream is connected through its               
manifest content with recent experiences, while through its latent           
content it is connected with the most remote experiences; and I can          
actually show in the analysis of hysteria that these remote                  
experiences have in a very real sense remained recent right up to            
the present. But I still find it very difficult to prove this                
conjecture; I shall have to return to the probable role in                   
dream-formation of the earliest experiences of our childhood in              
another connection (chapter VII).                                            
  Of the three peculiarities of the dream-memory considered above,           
one- the preference for the unimportant in the dream-content- has been       
satisfactorily explained by tracing it back to dream-distortion. We          
have succeeded in establishing the existence of the other two                
peculiarities- the preferential selection of recent and also of              
infantile material- but we have found it impossible to derive them           
from the motives of the dream. Let us keep in mind these two                 
characteristics, which we still have to explain or evaluate; a place         
will have to be found for them elsewhere, either in the discussion           
of the psychology of the sleeping state, or in the consideration of          
the structure of the psychic apparatus- which we shall undertake later       
after we have seen that by means of dream-interpretation we are able         
to glance as through an inspection-hole into the interior of this            
apparatus.                                                                   
  But here and now I will emphasize another result of the last few           
dream-analyses. The dream often appears to have several meanings;            
not only may several wish-fulfilments be combined in it, as our              
examples show, but one meaning or one wish-fulfilment may conceal            
another. until in the lowest stratum one comes upon the fulfilment           
of a wish from the earliest period of childhood; and here again it may       
be questioned whether the word often at the beginning of this sentence       
may not more correctly be replaced by constantly. *                          
-                                                                            
  * The stratification of the meanings of dreams is one of the most          
delicate but also one of the most fruitful problems of                       
dream-interpretation. Whoever forgets the possibility of such                
stratification is likely to go astray and to make untenable assertions       
concerning the nature of dreams. But hitherto this subject has been          
only too imperfectly investigated. So far, a fairly orderly                  
stratification of symbols in dreams due to urinary stimulus has been         
subjected to a thorough evaluation only by Otto Rank.                        
                                                                             
V|C                                                                          
                   C. The Somatic Sources of Dreams                          
-                                                                            
  If we attempt to interest a cultured layman in the problems of             
dreams, and if, with this end in view, we ask him what he believes           
to be the source of dreams, we shall generally find that he feels            
quite sure he knows at least this part of the solution. He thinks            
immediately of the influence exercised on the formation of dreams by a       
disturbed or impeded digestion ("Dreams come from the stomach"), an          
accidental position of the body, a trifling occurrence during sleep.         
He does not seem to suspect that even after all these factors have           
been duly considered something still remains to be explained.                
  In the introductory chapter we examined at length the opinion of           
scientific writers on the role of somatic stimuli in the formation           
of dreams, so that here we need only recall the results of this              
inquiry. We have seen that three kinds of somatic stimuli will be            
distinguished: the objective sensory stimuli which proceed from              
external objects, the inner states of excitation of the sensory              
organs, having only a subjective reality, and the bodily stimuli             
arising within the body; and we have also noticed that the writers           
on dreams are inclined to thrust into the background any psychic             
sources of dreams which may operate simultaneously with the somatic          
stimuli, or to exclude them altogether. In testing the claims made           
on behalf of these somatic stimuli we have learned that the                  
significance of the objective excitation of the sensory organs-              
whether accidental stimuli operating during sleep, or such as cannot         
be excluded from the dormant relation of these dream-images and              
ideas to the internal bodily stimuli and confirmed by experiment; that       
the part played by the subjective sensory stimuli appears to be              
demonstrated by the recurrence of hypnagogic sensory images in dreams;       
and that, although the broadly accepted relation of these dream-images       
and ideas to the internal bodily stimuli cannot be exhaustively              
demonstrated, it is at all events confirmed by the well-known                
influence which an excited state of the digestive, urinary and               
sexual organs exercises upon the content of our dreams.                      
  Nerve stimulus and bodily stimulus would thus be the anatomical            
sources of dreams; that is, according to many writers, the sole and          
exclusive sources of dreams.                                                 
  But we have already considered a number of doubtful points, which          
seem to question not so much the correctness of the somatic theory           
as its adequacy.                                                             
  However confident the representatives of this theory may be of its         
factual basis- especially in respect of the accidental and external          
nerve stimuli, which may without difficulty be recognized in the             
dream-content- nevertheless they have all come near to admitting             
that the rich content of ideas found in dreams cannot be derived             
from the external nerve-stimuli alone. In this connection Miss Mary          
Whiton Calkins tested her own dreams, and those of a second person,          
for a period of six weeks, and found that the element of external            
sensory perception was demonstrable in only 13.2 per cent and 6.7            
percent of these dreams respectively. Only two dreams in the whole           
collection could be referred to organic sensations. These statistics         
confirm what a cursory survey of our own experience would already,           
have led us to suspect.                                                      
  A distinction has often been made between nerve-stimulus dreams            
which have already been thoroughly investigated, and other forms of          
dreams. Spitta, for example, divided dreams into nerve-stimulus dreams       
and association-dreams. But it was obvious that this solution remained       
unsatisfactory unless the link between the somatic sources of dreams         
and their ideational content could be indicated.                             
  In addition to the first objection, that of the insufficient               
frequency of the external sources of stimulus, a second objection            
presents itself, namely, the inadequacy of the explanations of               
dreams afforded by this category of dream-sources. There are two             
things which the representatives of this theory have failed to               
explain: firstly, why the true nature of the external stimulus is            
not recognized in the dream, but is constantly mistaken for                  
something else; and secondly, why the result of the reaction of the          
perceiving mind to this misconceived stimulus should be so                   
indeterminate and variable. We have seen that Strumpell, in answer           
to these questions, asserts that the mind, since it turns away from          
the outer world during sleep, is not in a position to give the correct       
interpretation of the objective sensory stimulus, but is forced to           
construct illusions on the basis of the indefinite stimulation               
arriving from many directions. In his own words (Die Natur und               
Entstehung der Traume, p. 108).                                              
  "When by an external or internal nerve-stimulus during sleep a             
feeling, or a complex of feelings, or any sort of psychic process            
arises in the mind, and is perceived by the mind, this process calls         
up from the mind perceptual images belonging to the sphere of the            
waking experiences, that is to say, earlier perceptions, either              
unembellished, or with the psychic values appertaining to them. It           
collects about itself, as it were, a greater or lesser number of             
such images, from which the impression resulting from the                    
nerve-stimulus receives its psychic value. In this connection it is          
commonly said, as in ordinary language we say of the waking procedure,       
that the mind interprets in sleep the impressions of nervous                 
stimuli. The result of this interpretation is the so-called                  
nerve-stimulus dream- that is, a dream the components of which are           
conditioned by the fact that a nerve-stimulus produces its psychical         
effect in the life of the mind in accordance with the laws of                
reproduction."                                                               
  In all essential points identical with this doctrine is Wundt's            
statement that the concepts of dreams proceed, at all events for the         
most part, from sensory stimuli, and especially from the stimuli of          
general sensation, and are therefore mostly phantastic illusions-            
probably only to a small extent pure memory-conceptions raised to            
the condition of hallucinations. To illustrate the relation between          
dream-content and dream-stimuli which follows from this theory,              
Strumpell makes use of an excellent simile. It is "as though ten             
fingers of a person ignorant of music were to stray over the                 
keyboard of an instrument." The implication is that the dream is not a       
psychic phenomenon, originating from psychic motives, but the result         
of a physiological stimulus, which expresses itself in psychic               
symptomatology because the apparatus affected by the stimulus is not         
capable of any other mode of expression. Upon a similar assumption           
is based the explanation of obsessions which Meynert attempted in            
his famous simile of the dial on which individual figures are most           
deeply embossed.                                                             
  Popular though this theory of the somatic dream-stimuli has                
become, and seductive though it may seem, it is none the less easy           
to detect its weak point. Every somatic dream-stimulus which                 
provokes the psychic apparatus in sleep to interpretation by the             
formation of illusions may evoke an incalculable number of such              
attempts at interpretation. It may consequently be represented in            
the dream-content by an extraordinary number of different concepts. *        
But the theory of Strumpell and Wundt cannot point to any sort of            
motive which controls the relation between the external stimulus and         
the dream-concept chosen to interpret it, and therefore it cannot            
explain the "peculiar choice" which the stimuli "often enough make           
in the course of their productive activity" (Lipps, Grundtatsachen des       
Seelen-lebens, p. 170). Other objections may be raised against the           
fundamental assumption behind the theory of illusions- the                   
assumption that during sleep the mind is not in a condition to               
recognize the real nature of the objective sensory stimuli. The old          
physiologist Burdach shows us that the mind is quite capable even            
during sleep of a correct interpretation of the sensory impressions          
which reach it, and of reacting in accordance with this correct              
interpretation, inasmuch as he demonstrates that certain sensory             
impressions which seem important to the individual may be excepted           
from the general neglect of the sleeping mind (as in the example of          
nurse and child), and that one is more surely awakened by one's own          
name than by an indifferent auditory impression; all of which                
presupposes, of course, that the mind discriminates between                  
sensations, even in sleep. Burdach infers from these observations that       
we must not assume that the mind is incapable of interpreting                
sensory stimuli in the sleeping state, but rather that it is not             
sufficiently interested in them. The arguments which Burdach                 
employed in 1830 reappear unchanged in the works of Lipps (in the year       
1883), where they are employed for the purpose of attacking the theory       
of somatic stimuli. According to these arguments the mind seems to           
be like the sleeper in the anecdote, who, on being asked, "Are you           
asleep?" answers "No," and on being again addressed with the words:          
"Then lend me ten florins," takes refuge in the excuse: "I am asleep."       
-                                                                            
  * I would advise everyone to read the exact and detailed records           
(collected in two volumes) of the dreams experimentally produced by          
Mourly Vold in order to convince himself how little the conditions           
of the experiments help to explain the content of the individual             
dream, and how little such experiments help us towards an                    
understanding of the problems of dreams.                                     
-                                                                            
  The inadequacy of the theory of somatic dream-stimuli may be further       
demonstrated in another way. Observation shows that external stimuli         
do not oblige me to dream, even though these stimuli appear in the           
dream-content as soon as I begin to dream- supposing that I do               
dream. In response to a touch or pressure-stimulus experienced while I       
am asleep, a variety of reactions are at my disposal. I may overlook         
it, and find on waking that my leg has become uncovered, or that I           
have been lying on an arm; indeed, pathology offers me a host of             
examples of powerfully exciting sensory and motor stimuli of different       
kinds which remain ineffective during sleep. I may perceive the              
sensation during sleep, and through my sleep, as it were, as                 
constantly happens in the case of pain stimuli, but without weaving          
the pain into the texture of a dream. And thirdly, I may wake up in          
response to the stimulus, simply in order to avoid it. Still                 
another, fourth, reaction is possible: namely, that the nerve-stimulus       
may cause me to dream; but the other possible reactions occur quite as       
frequently as the reaction of dream-formation. This, however, would          
not be the case if the incentive to dreaming did not lie outside the         
somatic dream-sources.                                                       
  Appreciating the importance of the above-mentioned lacunae in the          
explanation of dreams by somatic stimuli, other writers- Scherner, for       
example, and, following him, the philosopher Volkelt- endeavoured to         
determine more precisely the nature of the psychic activities which          
cause the many-coloured images of our dreams to proceed from the             
somatic stimuli, and in so doing they approached the problem of the          
essential nature of dreams as a problem of psychology, and regarded          
dreaming as a psychic activity. Scherner not only gave a poetical,           
vivid and glowing description of the psychic peculiarities which             
unfold themselves in the course of dream-formation, but he also              
believed that he had hit upon the principle of the method the mind           
employs in dealing with the stimuli which are offered to it. The             
dream, according to Scherner, in the free activity of the phantasy,          
which has been released from the shackles imposed upon it during the         
day, strives to represent symbolically the nature of the organ from          
which the stimulus proceeds. Thus there exists a sort of dream-book, a       
guide to the interpretation of dreams, by means of which bodily              
sensations, the conditions of the organs, and states of stimulation,         
may be inferred from the dream-images. "Thus the image of a cat              
expressed extreme ill-temper; the image of pale, smooth pastry the           
nudity of the body. The human body as a whole is pictured by the             
phantasy of the dream as a house, and the individual organs of the           
body as parts of the house. In toothache-dreams a vaulted vestibule          
corresponds to the mouth, and a staircase to the descent from the            
pharynx to the oesophagus; in the headache-dream a ceiling covered           
with disgusting toad-like spiders is chosen to denote the upper part         
of the head." "Many different symbols are employed by our dreams for         
the same organ: thus the breathing lung finds its symbol in a                
roaring stove, filled with flames, the heart in empty boxes and              
baskets, and the bladder in round, bag-shaped or merely hollow               
objects. It is of particular significance that at the close of the           
dream the stimulating organ or its function is often represented             
without disguise and usually on the dreamer's own body. Thus the             
toothache-dream commonly ends by the dreamer drawing a tooth out of          
his mouth." It cannot be said that this theory of dream-interpretation       
has found much favour with other writers. It seems, above all,               
extravagant; and so Scherner's readers have hesitated to give it             
even the small amount of credit to which it is, in my opinion,               
entitled. As will be seen, it tends to a revival of                          
dream-interpretation by means of symbolism, a method employed by the         
ancients; only the province from which the interpretation is to be           
derived is restricted to the human body. The lack of a                       
scientifically comprehensible technique of interpretation must               
seriously limit the applicability of Scherner's theory.                      
Arbitrariness in the interpretation of dreams would appear to be by no       
means excluded, especially since in this case also a stimulus may be         
expressed in the dream-content by several representative symbols; thus       
even Scherner's follower Volkelt was unable to confirm the                   
representation of the body as a house. Another objection is that             
here again the dream-activity is regarded as a useless and aimless           
activity of the mind, since, according to this theory, the mind is           
content with merely forming phantasies around the stimulus with              
which it is dealing, without even remotely attempting to abolish the         
stimulus.                                                                    
  Scherner's theory of the symbolization of bodily stimuli by the            
dream is seriously damaged by yet another objection. These bodily            
stimuli are present at all times, and it is generally assumed that the       
mind is more accessible to them during sleep than in the waking state.       
It is therefore impossible to understand why the mind does not dream         
continuously all night long, and why it does not dream every night           
about all the organs. If one attempts to evade this objection by             
positing the condition that special excitations must proceed from            
the eye, the ear, the teeth, the bowels, etc., in order to arouse            
the dream-activity, one is confronted with the difficulty of proving         
that this increase of stimulation is objective; and proof is                 
possible only in a very few cases. If the dream of flying is a               
symbolization of the upward and downward motion of the pulmonary             
lobes, either this dream, as has already been remarked by Strumpell,         
should be dreamt much oftener, or it should be possible to show that         
respiration is more active during this dream. Yet a third                    
alternative is possible- and it is the most probable of all- namely,         
that now and again special motives are operative to direct the               
attention to the visceral sensations which are constantly present. But       
this would take us far beyond the scope of Scherner's theory.                
  The value of Scherner's and Volkelt's disquisitions resides in their       
calling our attention to a number of characteristics of the                  
dream-content which are in need of explanation, and which seem to            
promise fresh discoveries. It is quite true that symbolizations of the       
bodily organs and functions do occur in dreams: for example, that            
water in a dream often signifies a desire to urinate, that the male          
genital organ may be represented by an upright staff, or a pillar,           
etc. With dreams which exhibit a very animated field of vision and           
brilliant colours, in contrast to the dimness of other dreams, the           
interpretation that they are "dreams due to visual stimulation" can          
hardly be dismissed, nor can we dispute the participation of                 
illusion-formation in dreams which contain noise and a medley of             
voices. A dream like that of Scherner's, that two rows of fair               
handsome boys stood facing one another on a bridge, attacking one            
another, and then resuming their positions, until finally the                
dreamer himself sat down on a bridge and drew a long tooth from his          
jaw; or a similar dream of Volkelt's, in which two rows of drawers           
played a part, and which again ended in the extraction of a tooth;           
dream-formations of this kind, of which both writers relate a great          
number, forbid our dismissing Scherner's theory as an idle invention         
without seeking the kernel of truth which may be contained in it. We         
are therefore confronted with the task of finding a different                
explanation of the supposed symbolization of the alleged dental              
stimulus.                                                                    
  Throughout our consideration of the theory of the somatic sources of       
dreams, I have refrained from urging the argument which arises from          
our analyses of dreams. If, by a procedure which has not been followed       
by other writers in their investigation of dreams, we can prove that         
the dream possesses intrinsic value as psychic action, that a wish           
supplies the motive of its formation, and that the experiences of            
the previous day furnish the most obvious material of its content, any       
other theory of dreams which neglects such an important method of            
investigation- and accordingly makes the dream appear a useless and          
enigmatical psychic reaction to somatic stimuli- may be dismissed            
without special criticism. For in this case there would have to be-          
and this is highly improbable- two entirely different kinds of dreams,       
of which only one kind has come under our observation, while the other       
kind alone has been observed by the earlier investigators. It only           
remains now to find a place in our theory of dreams for the facts on         
which the current doctrine of somatic dream-stimuli is based.                
  We have already taken the first step in this direction in                  
advancing the thesis that the dream-work is under a compulsion to            
elaborate into a unified whole all the dream-stimuli which are               
simultaneously present (chapter V., A, above). We have seen that             
when two or more experiences capable of making an impression on the          
mind have been left over from the previous day, the wishes that result       
from them are united into one dream; similarly, that the impressions         
possessing psychic value and the indifferent experiences of the              
previous day unite in the dream-material, provided that connecting           
ideas between the two can be established. Thus the dream appears to be       
a reaction to everything which is simultaneously present as actual           
in the sleeping mind. As far as we have hitherto analysed the                
dream-material, we have discovered it to be a collection of psychic          
remnants and memory-traces, which we were obliged to credit (on              
account of the preference shown for recent and for infantile material)       
with a character of psychological actuality, though the nature of this       
actuality was not at the time determinable. We shall now have little         
difficulty in predicting what will happen when to these actualities of       
the memory fresh material in the form of sensations is added during          
sleep. These stimuli, again, are of importance to the dream because          
they are actual; they are united with the other psychic actualities to       
provide the material for dream-formation. To express it in other             
words, the stimuli which occur during sleep are elaborated into a            
wish-fulfilment, of which the other components are the psychic               
remnants of daily experience with which we are already familiar.             
This combination, however, is not inevitable; we have seen that more         
than one kind of behaviour toward the physical stimuli received during       
sleep is possible. Where this combination is effected, a conceptual          
material for the dream-content has been found which will represent           
both kinds of dream-sources, the somatic as well as the psychic.             
  The nature of the dream is not altered when somatic material is            
added to the psychic dream-sources; it still remains a                       
wish-fulfilment, no matter how its expression is determined by the           
actual material available.                                                   
  I should like to find room here for a number of peculiarities              
which are able to modify the significance of external stimuli for            
the dream. I imagine that a co-operation of individual,                      
physiological and accidental factors, which depend on the                    
circumstances of the moment, determines how one will behave in               
individual cases of more intensive objective stimulation during sleep;       
habitual or accidental profundity of sleep, in conjunction with the          
intensity of the stimulus, will in one case make it possible so to           
suppress the stimulus that it will not disturb the sleeper, while in         
another case it will force the sleeper to wake, or will assist the           
attempt to subdue the stimulus by weaving it into the texture of the         
dream. In accordance with the multiplicity of these constellations,          
external objective stimuli will be expressed more rarely or more             
frequently in the case of one person than in that of another. In my          
own case. since I am an excellent sleeper, and obstinately refuse to         
allow myself to be disturbed during sleep on any pretext whatever,           
this intrusion of external causes of excitation into my dreams is very       
rare, whereas psychic motives apparently cause me to dream very              
easily. Indeed, I have noted only a single dream in which an                 
objective, painful source of stimulation is demonstrable, and it             
will be highly instructive to see what effect the external stimulus          
had in this particular dream.                                                
  I am riding a gray horse, at first timidly and awkwardly, as               
though I were merely carried along. Then I meet a colleague, P, also         
on horseback, and dressed in rough frieze; he is sitting erect in            
the saddle; he calls my attention to something (probably to the fact         
that I have a very bad seat). Now I begin to feel more and more at           
ease on the back of my highly intelligent horse; I sit more                  
comfortably, and I find that I am quite at home up here. My saddle           
is a sort of pad, which completely fills the space between the neck          
and the rump of the horse. I ride between two vans, and just manage to       
clear them. After riding up the street for some distance, I turn round       
and wish to dismount, at first in front of a little open chapel              
which is built facing on to the street. Then I do really dismount in         
front of a chapel which stands near the first one; the hotel is in the       
same street; I might let the horse go there by itself, but I prefer to       
lead it thither. It seems as though I should be ashamed to arrive            
there on horseback. In front of the hotel there stands a page-boy, who       
shows me a note of mine which has been found, and ridicules me on            
account of it. On the note is written, doubly underlined, "Eat               
nothing," and then a second sentence (indistinct): something like            
"Do not work"; at the same time a hazy idea that I am in a strange           
city, in which I do not work.                                                
  It will not at once be apparent that this dream originated under the       
influence, or rather under the compulsion, of a pain-stimulus. The day       
before, however, I had suffered from boils, which made every                 
movement a torture, and at last a boil had grown to the size of an           
apple at the root of the scrotum, and had caused me the most                 
intolerable pains at every step; a feverish lassitude, lack of               
appetite, and the hard work which I had nevertheless done during the         
day, had conspired with the pain to upset me. I was not altogether           
in a condition to discharge my duties as a physician, but in view of         
the nature and the location of the malady, it was possible to                
imagine something else for which I was most of all unfit, namely             
riding. Now it is this very activity of riding into which I am plunged       
by the dream; it is the most energetic denial of the pain which              
imagination could conceive. As a matter of fact, I cannot ride; I do         
not dream of doing so; I never sat on a horse but once- and then             
without a saddle- and I did not like it. But in this dream I ride as         
though I had no boil on the perineum; or rather, I ride, just                
because I want to have none. To judge from the description, my               
saddle is the poultice which has enabled me to fall asleep.                  
Probably, being thus comforted, I did not feel anything of my pain           
during the first few hours of my sleep. Then the painful sensations          
made themselves felt, and tried to wake me; whereupon the dream came         
and said to me, soothingly: "Go on sleeping, you are not going to            
wake! You have no boil, for you are riding on horseback, and with a          
boil just there no one could ride!" And the dream was successful;            
the pain was stifled, and I went on sleeping.                                
  But the dream was not satisfied with "suggesting away" the boil by         
tenaciously holding fast to an idea incompatible with the malady (thus       
behaving like the hallucinatory insanity of a mother who has lost            
her child, or of a merchant who has lost his fortune). In addition,          
the details of the sensation denied and of the image used to                 
suppress it serve the dream also as a means to connect other                 
material actually present in the mind with the situation in the dream,       
and to give this material representation. I am riding on a gray horse-       
the colour of the horse exactly corresponds with the pepper-and-salt         
suit in which I last saw my colleague P in the country. I have been          
warned that highly seasoned food is the cause of boils, and in any           
case it is preferable as an aetiological explanation to sugar, which         
might be thought of in connection with furunculosis. My friend P likes       
to ride the high horse with me ever since he took my place in the            
treatment of a female patient, in whose case I had performed great           
feats (Kuntstucke: in the dream I sit the horse at first sideways,           
like a trick-rider, Kunstreiter), but who really, like the horse in          
the story of the Sunday equestrian, led me wherever she wished. Thus         
the horse comes to be a symbolic representation of a lady patient            
(in the dream it is highly intelligent). I feel quite at home refers         
to the position which I occupied in the patient's household until I          
was replaced by my colleague P. "I thought you were safe in the saddle       
up there," one of my few well-wishers among the eminent physicians           
of the city recently said to me, with reference to the same household.       
And it was a feat to practise psychotherapy for eight to ten hours a         
day, while suffering such pain, but I know that I cannot continue my         
peculiarly strenuous work for any length of time without perfect             
physical health, and the dream is full of dismal allusions to the            
situation which would result if my illness continued (the note, such         
as neurasthenics carry and show to their doctors): Do not work, do not       
eat. On further interpretation I see that the dream-activity has             
succeeded in finding its way from the wish-situation of riding to some       
very early childish quarrels which must have occurred between myself         
and a nephew, who is a year older than I, and is now living in               
England. It has also taken up elements from my journeys in Italy:            
the street in the dream is built up out of impressions of Verona and         
Siena. A still deeper interpretation leads to sexual dream-thoughts,         
and I recall what the dream-allusions to that beautiful country were         
supposed to mean in the dream of a female patient who had never been         
to Italy (to Italy, German: gen Italien = Genitalien = genitals); at         
the same time there are references to the house in which I preceded my       
friend P as physician, and to the place where the boil is located.           
  In another dream, I was similarly successful in warding off a              
threatened disturbance of my sleep; this time the threat came from a         
sensory stimulus. It was only chance, however, that enabled me to            
discover the connection between the dream and the accidental                 
dream-stimulus, and in this way to understand the dream. One midsummer       
morning in a Tyrolese mountain resort I woke with the knowledge that I       
had dreamed: The Pope is dead. I was not able to interpret this short,       
non-visual dream. I could remember only one possible basis of the            
dream, namely, that shortly before this the newspapers had reported          
that His Holiness was slightly indisposed. But in the course of the          
morning my wife asked me: "Did you hear the dreadful tolling of the          
church bells this morning?" I had no idea that I had heard it, but now       
I understood my dream. It was the reaction of my need for sleep to the       
noise by which the pious Tyroleans were trying to wake me. I avenged         
myself on them by the conclusion which formed the content of my dream,       
and continued to sleep, without any further interest in the tolling of       
the bells.                                                                   
  Among the dreams mentioned in the previous chapters there are              
several which might serve as examples of the elaboration of                  
so-called nerve-stimuli. The dream of drinking in long draughts is           
such an example; here the somatic stimulus seems to be the sole source       
of the dream, and the wish arising from the sensation- thirst- the           
only motive for dreaming. We find much the same thing in other               
simple dreams, where the somatic stimulus is able of itself to               
generate a wish. The dream of the sick woman who throws the cooling          
apparatus from her cheek at night is an instance of an unusual               
manner of reacting to a pain-stimulus with a wish-fulfilment; it seems       
as though the patient had temporarily succeeded in making herself            
analgesic, and accompanied this by ascribing her pains to a stranger.        
  My dream of the three Parcae is obviously a hunger-dream, but it has       
contrived to shift the need for food right back to the child's longing       
for its mother's breast, and to use a harmless desire as a mask for          
a more serious one that cannot venture to express itself so openly. In       
the dream of Count Thun we were able to see by what paths an                 
accidental physical need was brought into relation with the strongest,       
but also the most rigorously repressed impulses of the psychic life.         
And when, as in the case reported by Garnier, the First Consul               
incorporates the sound of an exploding infernal machine into a dream         
of battle before it causes him to wake, the true purpose for which           
alone psychic activity concerns itself with sensations during sleep is       
revealed with unusual clarity. A young lawyer, who is full of his            
first great bankruptcy case, and falls asleep in the afternoon,              
behaves just as the great Napoleon did. He dreams of a certain G.            
Reich in Hussiatyn, whose acquaintance he has made in connection             
with the bankruptcy case, but Hussiatyn (German: husten, to cough)           
forces itself upon his attention still further; he is obliged to wake,       
only to hear his wife- who is suffering from bronchial catarrh-              
violently coughing.                                                          
  Let us compare the dream of Napoleon I- who, incidentally, was an          
excellent sleeper- with that of the sleepy student, who was awakened         
by his landlady with the reminder that he had to go to the hospital,         
and who thereupon dreamt himself into a bed in the hospital, and             
then slept on, the underlying reasoning being as follows: If I am            
already in the hospital, I needn't get up to go there. This is               
obviously a convenience-dream; the sleeper frankly admits to himself         
his motive in dreaming; but he thereby reveals one of the secrets of         
dreaming in general. In a certain sense, all dreams are                      
convenience-dreams; they serve the purpose of continuing to sleep            
instead of waking. The dream is the guardian of sleep, not its               
disturber. In another place we shall have occasion to justify this           
conception in respect to the psychic factors that make for waking; but       
we can already demonstrate its applicability to the objective external       
stimuli. Either the mind does not concern itself at all with the             
causes of sensations during sleep, if it is able to carry this               
attitude through as against the intensity of the stimuli, and their          
significance, of which it is well aware; or it employs the dream to          
deny these stimuli; or, thirdly, if it is obliged to recognize the           
stimuli, it seeks that interpretation of them which will represent the       
actual sensation as a component of a desired situation which is              
compatible with sleep. The actual sensation is woven into the dream in       
order to deprive it of its reality. Napoleon is permitted to go on           
sleeping; it is only a dream-memory of the thunder of the guns at            
Arcole which is trying to disturb him. *                                     
-                                                                            
  * The two sources from which I know of this dream do not entirely          
agree as to its content.                                                     
-                                                                            
  The wish to sleep, to which the conscious ego has adjusted itself,         
and which (together with the dream-censorship and the "secondary             
elaboration" to be mentioned later) represents the ego's                     
contribution to the dream, must thus always be taken into account as a       
motive of dream-formation, and every successful dream is a                   
fulfilment of this wish. The relation of this general, constantly            
present, and unvarying sleep-wish to the other wishes of which now one       
and now another is fulfilled by the dream-content, will be the subject       
of later consideration. In the wish to sleep we have discovered a            
motive capable of supplying the deficiency in the theory of                  
Strumpell and Wundt, and of explaining the perversity and                    
capriciousness of the interpretation of the external stimulus. The           
correct interpretation, of which the sleeping mind is perfectly              
capable, would involve active interest, and would require the                
sleeper to wake; hence, of those interpretations which are possible at       
all, only such are admitted as are acceptable to the dictatorial             
censorship of the sleep-wish. The logic of dream situations would run,       
for example: "It is the nightingale, and not the lark." For if it is         
the lark, love's night is at an end. From among the interpretations of       
the stimulus which are thus admissible, that one is selected which can       
secure the best connection with the wish-impulses that are lying in          
wait in the mind. Thus everything is definitely determined, and              
nothing is left to caprice. The misinterpretation is not an                  
illusion, but- if you will- an excuse. Here again, as in                     
substitution by displacement in the service of the dream-censorship,         
we have an act of deflection of the normal psychic procedure.                
  If the external nerve-stimuli and the inner bodily stimuli are             
sufficiently intense to compel psychic attention, they represent- that       
is, if they result in dreaming at all, and not in waking- a fixed            
point for dream-formation, a nucleus in the dream-material, for              
which an appropriate wish-fulfilment is sought, just as (see above)          
mediating ideas between two psychical dream-stimuli are sought. To           
this extent it is true of a number of dreams that the somatic                
element dictates the dream-content. In this extreme case even a wish         
that is not actually present may be aroused for the purpose of               
dream-formation. But the dream cannot do otherwise than represent a          
wish in some situation as fulfilled; it is, as it were, confronted           
with the task of discovering what wish can be represented as fulfilled       
by the given sensation. Even if this given material is of a painful or       
disagreeable character, yet it is not unserviceable for the purposes         
of dream-formation. The psychic life has at its disposal even wishes         
whose fulfilment evokes displeasure, which seems a contradiction,            
but becomes perfectly intelligible if we take into account the               
presence of two sorts of psychic instance and the censorship that            
subsists between them.                                                       
  In the psychic life there exist, as we have seen, repressed                
wishes, which belong to the first system, and to whose fulfilment            
the second system is opposed. We do not mean this in a historic sense-       
that such wishes have once existed and have subsequently been                
destroyed. The doctrine of repression, which we need in the study of         
psychoneuroses, asserts that such repressed wishes still exist, but          
simultaneously with an inhibition which weighs them down. Language has       
hit upon the truth when it speaks of the suppression (sub-pression, or       
pushing under) of such impulses. The psychic mechanism which enables         
such suppressed wishes to force their way to realization is retained         
in being and in working order. But if it happens that such a                 
suppressed wish is fulfilled, the vanquished inhibition of the               
second system (which is capable of consciousness) is then expressed as       
discomfort. And, in order to conclude this argument: If sensations           
of a disagreeable character which originate from somatic sources are         
present during sleep, this constellation is utilized by the                  
dream-activity to procure the fulfilment- with more or less                  
maintenance of the censorship- of an otherwise suppressed wish.              
  This state of affairs makes possible a certain number of                   
anxiety-dreams, while others of these dream-formations which are             
unfavourable to the wish-theory exhibit a different mechanism. For the       
anxiety in dreams may of course be of a psychoneurotic character,            
originating in psycho-sexual excitation, in which case, the anxiety          
corresponds to repressed libido. Then this anxiety, like the whole           
anxiety-dream, has the significance of a neurotic symptom, and we            
stand at the dividing-line where the wish-fulfilling tendency of             
dreams is frustrated. But in other anxiety-dreams the feeling of             
anxiety comes from somatic sources (as in the case of persons                
suffering from pulmonary or cardiac trouble, with occasional                 
difficulty in breathing), and then it is used to help such strongly          
suppressed wishes to attain fulfilment in a dream, the dreaming of           
which from psychic motives would have resulted in the same release           
of anxiety. It is not difficult to reconcile these two apparently            
contradictory cases. When two psychic formations, an affective               
inclination and a conceptual content, are intimately connected, either       
one being actually present will evoke the other, even in a dream;            
now the anxiety of somatic origin evokes the suppressed conceptual           
content, now it is the released conceptual content, accompanied by           
sexual excitement, which causes the release of anxiety. In the one           
case, it may be said that a somatically determined affect is                 
psychically interpreted; in the other case, all is of psychic                
origin, but the content which has been suppressed is easily replaced         
by a somatic interpretation which fits the anxiety. The difficulties         
which lie in the way of understanding all this have little to do             
with dreams; they are due to the fact that in discussing these               
points we are touching upon the problems of the development of anxiety       
and of repression.                                                           
  The general aggregate of bodily sensation must undoubtedly be              
included among the dominant dream-stimuli of internal bodily origin.         
Not that it is capable of supplying the dream-content; but it forces         
the dream-thoughts to make a choice from the material destined to            
serve the purpose of representation in the dream-content, inasmuch           
as it brings within easy reach that part of the material which is            
adapted to its own character, and holds the rest at a distance.              
Moreover, this general feeling, which survives from the preceding day,       
is of course connected with the psychic residues that are                    
significant for the dream. Moreover, this feeling itself may be either       
maintained or overcome in the dream, so that it may, if it is painful,       
veer round into its opposite.                                                
  If the somatic sources of excitation during sleep- that is, the            
sensations of sleep- are not of unusual intensity, the part which they       
play in dream-formation is, in my judgment, similar to that of those         
impressions of the day which are still recent, but of no great               
significance. I mean that they are utilized for the dream-formation if       
they are of such a kind that they can be united with the conceptual          
content of the psychic dream-source, but not otherwise. They are             
treated as a cheap ever-ready material, which can be used whenever           
it is needed, and not as valuable material which itself prescribes the       
manner in which it must be utilized. I might suggest the analogy of          
a connoisseur giving an artist a rare stone, a piece of onyx, for            
example, in order that it may be fashioned into a work of art. Here          
the size of the stone, its colour, and its markings help to decide           
what head or what scene shall be represented; while if he is dealing         
with a uniform and abundant material such as marble or sandstone,            
the artist is guided only by the idea which takes shape in his mind.         
Only in this way, it seems to me, can we explain the fact that the           
dream-content furnished by physical stimuli of somatic origin which          
are not unusually accentuated does not make its appearance in all            
dreams and every night. *                                                    
-                                                                            
  * Rank has shown, in a number of studies, that certain                     
awakening-dreams provoked by organic stimuli (dreams of urination            
and ejaculation) are especially calculated to demonstrate the conflict       
between the need for sleep and the demands of the organic need, as           
well as the influence of the latter on the dream-content.                    
-                                                                            
  Perhaps an example which takes us back to the interpretation of            
dreams will best illustrate my meaning. One day I was trying to              
understand the significance of the sensation of being inhibited, of          
not being able to move from the spot, of not being able to get               
something done, etc., which occurs so frequently in dreams, and is           
so closely allied to anxiety. That night I had the following dream:          
I am very incompletely dressed, and I go from a flat on the                  
ground-floor up a flight of stairs to an upper story. In doing this          
I jump up three stairs at a time, and I am glad to find that I can           
mount the stairs so quickly. Suddenly I notice that a servant-maid           
is coming down the stairs- that is, towards me. I am ashamed, and            
try to hurry away, and now comes this feeling of being inhibited; I am       
glued to the stairs, and cannot move from the spot.                          
  Analysis: The situation of the dream is taken from an every-day            
reality. In a house in Vienna I have two apartments, which are               
connected only by the main staircase. My consultation-rooms and my           
study are on the raised ground-floor, and my living-rooms are on the         
first floor. Late at night, when I have finished my work downstairs, I       
go upstairs to my bedroom. On the evening before the dream I had             
actually gone this short distance with my garments in disarray- that         
is, I had taken off my collar, tie and cuffs; but in the dream this          
had changed into a more advanced, but, as usual, indefinite degree           
of undress. It is a habit of mine to run up two or three steps at a          
time; moreover, there was a wish-fulfilment recognized even in the           
dream, for the ease with which I run upstairs reassures me as to the         
condition of my heart. Further, the manner in which I run upstairs           
is an effective contrast to the sensation of being inhibited, which          
occurs in the second half of the dream. It shows me- what needed no          
proof- that dreams have no difficulty in representing motor actions          
fully and completely carried out; think, for example, of flying in           
dreams!                                                                      
  But the stairs up which I go are not those of my own house; at first       
I do not recognize them; only the person coming towards me informs           
me of their whereabouts. This woman is the maid of an old lady whom          
I visit twice daily in order to give her hypodermic injections; the          
stairs, too, are precisely similar to those which I have to climb            
twice a day in this old lady's house.                                        
  How do these stairs and this woman get into my dream? The shame of         
not being fully dressed is undoubtedly of a sexual character; the            
servant of whom I dream is older than I, surly, and by no means              
attractive. These questions remind me of the following incident:             
When I pay my morning visit at this house I am usually seized with a         
desire to clear my throat; the sputum falls on the stairs. There is no       
spittoon on either of the two floors, and I consider that the stairs         
should be kept clean not at my expense, but rather by the provision of       
a spittoon. The housekeeper, another elderly, curmudgeonly person,           
but, as I willingly admit, a woman of cleanly instincts, takes a             
different view of the matter. She lies in wait for me, to see                
whether I shall take the liberty referred to, and, if she sees that          
I do, I can distinctly hear her growl. For days thereafter, when we          
meet she refuses to greet me with the customary signs of respect. On         
the day before the dream the housekeeper's attitude was reinforced           
by that of the maid. I had just furnished my usual hurried visit to          
the patient when the servant confronted me in the ante-room,                 
observing: "You might as well have wiped your shoes today, doctor,           
before you came into the room. The red carpet is all dirty again             
from your feet." This is the only justification for the appearance           
of the stairs and the maid in my dream.                                      
  Between my leaping upstairs and my spitting on the stairs there is         
an intimate connection. Pharyngitis and cardiac troubles are both            
supposed to be punishments for the vice of smoking, on account of            
which vice my own housekeeper does not credit me with excessive              
tidiness, so that my reputation suffers in both the houses which my          
dream fuses into one.                                                        
  I must postpone the further interpretation of this dream until I can       
indicate the origin of the typical dream of being incompletely               
clothed. In the meantime, as a provisional deduction from the dream          
just related, I note that the dream-sensation of inhibited movement is       
always aroused at a point where a certain connection requires it. A          
peculiar condition of my motor system during sleep cannot be                 
responsible for this dream-content, since a moment earlier I found           
myself, as though in confirmation of this fact, skipping lightly up          
the stairs.                                                                  
                                                                             
V|D                                                                          
                          D. Typical Dreams                                  
-                                                                            
  Generally speaking, we are not in a position to interpret another          
person's dream if he is unwilling to furnish us with the unconscious         
thoughts which lie behind the dream-content, and for this reason the         
practical applicability of our method of dream-interpretation is often       
seriously restricted. * But there are dreams which exhibit a                 
complete contrast to the individual's customary liberty to endow his         
dream-world with a special individuality, thereby making it                  
inaccessible to an alien understanding: there are a number of dreams         
which almost every one has dreamed in the same manner, and of which we       
are accustomed to assume that they have the same significance in the         
case of every dreamer. A peculiar interest attaches to these typical         
dreams, because, no matter who dreams them, they presumably all derive       
from the same sources, so that they would seem to be particularly            
fitted to provide us with information as to the sources of dreams.           
-                                                                            
  * The statement that our method of dream-interpretation is                 
inapplicable when we have not at our disposal the dreamer's                  
association-material must be qualified. In one case our work of              
interpretation is independent of these associations: namely, when            
the dreamer make use of symbolic elements in his dream. We then employ       
what is, strictly speaking, a second auxiliary method of                     
dream-interpretation. (See below).                                           
-                                                                            
  With quite special expectations, therefore, we shall proceed to test       
our technique of dream-interpretation on these typical dreams, and           
only with extreme reluctance shall we admit that precisely in                
respect of this material our method is not fully verified. In the            
interpretation of typical dreams we as a rule fail to obtain those           
associations from the dreamer which in other cases have led us to            
comprehension of the dream, or else these associations are confused          
and inadequate, so that they do not help us to solve our problem.            
  Why this is the case, and how we can remedy this defect in our             
technique, are points which will be discussed in a later chapter.            
The reader will then understand why I can deal with only a few of            
the group of typical dreams in this chapter, and why I have                  
postponed the discussion of the others.                                      
-                                                                            
               (a) THE EMBARRASSMENT-DREAM OF NAKEDNESS                      
-                                                                            
  In a dream in which one is naked or scantily clad in the presence of       
strangers, it sometimes happens that one is not in the least ashamed         
of one's condition. But the dream of nakedness demands our attention         
only when shame and embarrassment are felt in it, when one wishes to         
escape or to hide, and when one feels the strange inhibition of              
being unable to stir from the spot, and of being utterly powerless           
to alter the painful situation. It is only in this connection that the       
dream is typical; otherwise the nucleus of its content may be involved       
in all sorts of other connections, or may be replaced by individual          
amplifications. The essential point is that one has a painful                
feeling of shame, and is anxious to hide one's nakedness, usually by         
means of locomotion, but is absolutely unable to do so. I believe that       
the great majority of my readers will at some time have found                
themselves in this situation in a dream.                                     
  The nature and manner of the exposure is usually rather vague. The         
dreamer will say, perhaps, "I was in my chemise," but this is rarely a       
clear image; in most cases the lack of clothing is so indeterminate          
that it is described in narrating the dream by an alternative: "I            
was in my chemise or my petticoat." As a rule the deficiency in              
clothing is not serious enough to justify the feeling of shame               
attached to it. For a man who has served in the army, nakedness is           
often replaced by a manner of dressing that is contrary to                   
regulations. "I was in the street without my sabre, and I saw some           
officers approaching," or "I had no collar," or "I was wearing checked       
civilian trousers," etc.                                                     
  The persons before whom one is ashamed are almost always                   
strangers, whose faces remain indeterminate. It never happens, in            
the typical dream, that one is reproved or even noticed on account           
of the lack of clothing which causes one such embarrassment. On the          
contrary, the people in the dream appear to be quite indifferent;            
or, as I was able to note in one particularly vivid dream, they have         
stiff and solemn expressions. This gives us food for thought.                
  The dreamer's embarrassment and the spectator's indifference               
constitute a contradition such as often occurs in dreams. It would           
be more in keeping with the dreamer's feelings if the strangers were         
to look at him in astonishment, or were to laugh at him, or be               
outraged. I think, however, that this obnoxious feature has been             
displaced by wish-fulfilment, while the embarrassment is for some            
reason retained, so that the two components are not in agreement. We         
have an interesting proof that the dream which is partially                  
distorted by wish-fulfilment has not been properly understood; for           
it has been made the basis of a fairy-tale familiar to us all in             
Andersen's version of The Emperor's New Clothes, and it has more             
recently received poetical treatment by Fulda in The Talisman. In            
Andersen's fairy-tale we are told of two impostors who weave a               
costly garment for the Emperor, which shall, however, be visible             
only to the good and true. The Emperor goes forth clad to this               
invisible garment, and since the imaginary fabric serves as a sort           
of touchstone, the people are frightened into behaving as though             
they did not notice the Emperor's nakedness.                                 
  But this is really the situation in our dream. It is not very              
venturesome to assume that the unintelligible dream-content has              
provided an incentive to invent a state of undress which gives meaning       
to the situation present in the memory. This situation is thereby            
robbed of its original meaning, and made to serve alien ends. But we         
shall see that such a misunderstanding of the dream-content often            
occurs through the conscious activity of a second psychic system,            
and is to be recognized as a factor of the final form of the dream;          
and further, that in the development of obsessions and phobias similar       
misunderstandings- still, of course, within the same psychic                 
personality- play a decisive part. It is even possible to specify            
whence the material for the fresh interpretation of the dream is             
taken. The impostor is the dream, the Emperor is the dreamer                 
himself, and the moralizing tendency betrays a hazy knowledge of the         
fact that there is a question, in the latent dream-content, of               
forbidden wishes, victims of repression. The connection in which             
such dreams appear during my analysis of neurotics proves beyond a           
doubt that a memory of the dreamer's earliest childhood lies at the          
foundation of the dream. Only in our childhood was there a time when         
we were seen by our relatives, as well as by strange nurses,                 
servants and visitors, in a state of insufficient clothing, and at           
that time we were not ashamed of our nakedness. * In the case of             
many rather older children it may be observed that being undressed has       
an exciting effect upon them, instead of making them feel ashamed.           
They laugh, leap about, slap or thump their own bodies; the mother, or       
whoever is present, scolds them, saying: "Fie, that is shameful- you         
mustn't do that!" Children often show a desire to display                    
themselves; it is hardly possible to pass through a village in country       
districts without meeting a two-or three-year-old child who lifts up         
his or her blouse or frock before the traveller, possibly in his             
honour. One of my patients has retained in his conscious memory a            
scene from his eighth year, in which, after undressing for bed, he           
wanted to dance into his little sister's room in his shirt, but was          
prevented by the servant. In the history of the childhood of                 
neurotics, exposure before children of the opposite sex plays a              
prominent part; in paranoia, the delusion of being observed while            
dressing and undressing may be directly traced to these experiences;         
and among those who have remained perverse, there is a class in whom         
the childish impulse is accentuated into a symptom: the class of             
exhibitionists.                                                              
-                                                                            
  * The child appears in the fairy-tale also, for there a little child       
suddenly cries out: "But he hasn't anything on at all!"                      
-                                                                            
  This age of childhood, in which the sense of shame is unknown, seems       
a paradise when we look back upon it later, and paradise itself is           
nothing but the mass-phantasy of the childhood of the individual. This       
is why in paradise men are naked and unashamed, until the moment             
arrives when shame and fear awaken; expulsion follows, and sexual life       
and cultural development begin. Into this paradise dreams can take           
us back every night; we have already ventured the conjecture that            
the impressions of our earliest childhood (from the prehistoric period       
until about the end of the third year) crave reproduction for their          
own sake, perhaps without further reference to their content, so             
that their repetition is a wish-fulfilment. Dreams of nakedness, then,       
are exhibition-dreams. *                                                     
-                                                                            
  * Ferenczi has recorded a number of interesting dreams of                  
nakedness in women which were without difficulty traced to the               
infantile delight in exhibitionism, but which differ in many                 
features from the typical dream of nakedness discussed above.                
-                                                                            
  The nucleus of an exhibition-dream is furnished by one's own person,       
which is seen not as that of a child, but as it exists in the present,       
and by the idea of scanty clothing which emerges indistinctly, owing         
to the superimposition of so many later situations of being                  
partially clothed, or out of consideration for the censorship; to            
these elements are added the persons in whose presence one is ashamed.       
I know of no example in which the actual spectators of these infantile       
exhibitions reappear in a dream; for a dream is hardly ever a simple         
recollection. Strangely enough, those persons who are the objects of         
our sexual interest in childhood are omitted from all reproductions,         
in dreams, in hysteria or in obsessional neurosis; paranoia alone            
restores the spectators, and is fanatically convinced of their               
presence, although they remain unseen. The substitute for these              
persons offered by the dream, the number of strangers who take no            
notice of the spectacle offered them, is precisely the counter-wish to       
that single intimately-known person for whom the exposure was                
intended. "A number of strangers," moreover, often occur in dreams           
in all sorts of other connections; as a counter-wish they always             
signify a secret. * It will be seen that even that restitution of            
the old state of affairs that occurs in paranoia complies with this          
counter-tendency. One is no longer alone; one is quite positively            
being watched; but the spectators are a number of strange, curiously         
indeterminate people.                                                        
-                                                                            
  * For obvious reasons the presence of the whole family in the              
dream has the same significance.                                             
-                                                                            
  Furthermore, repression finds a place in the exhibition-dream. For         
the disagreeable sensation of the dream is, of course, the reaction on       
the part of the second psychic instance to the fact that the                 
exhibitionistic scene which has been condemned by the censorship has         
nevertheless succeeded in presenting itself. The only way to avoid           
this sensation would be to refrain from reviving the scene.                  
  In a later chapter we shall deal once again with the feeling of            
inhibition. In our dreams it represents to perfection a conflict of          
the will, a denial. According to our unconscious purpose, the                
exhibition is to proceed; according to the demands of the                    
censorship, it is to come to an end.                                         
  The relation of our typical dreams to fairy-tales and other                
fiction and poetry is neither sporadic nor accidental. Sometimes the         
penetrating insight of the poet has analytically recognized the              
process of transformation of which the poet is otherwise the                 
instrument, and has followed it up in the reverse direction; that is         
to say, has traced a poem to a dream. A friend has called my attention       
to the following passage in G. Keller's Der Grune Heinrich: "I do            
not wish, dear Lee, that you should ever come to realize from                
experience the exquisite and piquant truth in the situation of               
Odysseus, when he appears, naked and covered with mud, before Nausicaa       
and her playmates! Would you like to know what it means? Let us for          
a moment consider the incident closely. If you are ever parted from          
your home, and from all that is dear to you, and wander about in a           
strange country; if you have seen much and experienced much; if you          
have cares and sorrows, and are, perhaps, utterly wretched and               
forlorn, you will some night inevitably dream that you are approaching       
your home; you will see it shining and glittering in the loveliest           
colours; lovely and gracious figures will come to meet you; and then         
you will suddenly discover that you are ragged, naked, and covered           
with dust. An indescribable feeling of shame and fear overcomes you;         
you try to cover yourself, to hide, and you wake up bathed in sweat.         
As long as humanity exists, this will be the dream of the                    
care-laden, tempest-tossed man, and thus Homer has drawn this                
situation from the profoundest depths of the eternal nature of               
humanity."                                                                   
  What are the profoundest depths of the eternal nature of humanity,         
which the poet commonly hopes to awaken in his listeners, but these          
stirrings of the psychic life which are rooted in that age of                
childhood, which subsequently becomes prehistoric? Childish wishes,          
now suppressed and forbidden, break into the dream behind the                
unobjectionable and permissibly conscious wishes of the homeless             
man, and it is for this reason that the dream which is objectified           
in the legend of Nausicaa regularly develops into an anxiety-dream.          
  My own dream of hurrying upstairs, which presently changed into            
being glued to the stairs, is likewise an exhibition-dream, for it           
reveals the essential ingredients of such a dream. It must therefore         
be possible to trace it back to experiences in my childhood, and the         
knowledge of these should enable us to conclude how far the                  
servant's behaviour to me (i.e., her reproach that I had soiled the          
carpet) helped her to secure the position which she occupies in the          
dream. Now I am actually able to furnish the desired explanation.            
One learns in a psycho-analysis to interpret temporal proximity by           
material connection; two ideas which are apparently without                  
connection, but which occur in immediate succession, belong to a unity       
which has to be deciphered; just as an a and a b, when written in            
succession, must be pronounced as one syllable, ab. It is just the           
same with the interrelations of dreams. The dream of the stairs has          
been taken from a series of dreams with whose other members I am             
familiar, having interpreted them. A dream included in this series           
must belong to the same context. Now, the other dreams of the series         
are based on the memory of a nurse to whom I was entrusted for a             
season, from the time when I was still at the breast to the age of two       
and a half, and of whom a hazy recollection has remained in my               
consciousness. According to information which I recently obtained from       
my mother, she was old and ugly, but very intelligent and thorough;          
according to the inferences which I am justified in drawing from my          
dreams, she did not always treat me quite kindly, but spoke harshly to       
me when I showed insufficient understanding of the necessity for             
cleanliness. Inasmuch as the maid endeavoured to continue my education       
in this respect, she is entitled to be treated, in my dream, as an           
incarnation of the prehistoric old woman. It is to be assumed, of            
course, that the child was fond of his teacher in spite of her harsh         
behaviour. *                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * A supplementary interpretation of this dream: To spit (spucken) on       
the stairs, since spuken (to haunt) is the occupation of spirits             
(cf. English, "spook"), led me by a free translation to espirit              
d'escalier. "Stairwit" means unreadiness at repartee,                        
(Schlagfertigkeit = literally: "readiness to hit out") with which I          
really have to reproach myself. But was the nurse deficient in               
Schlagfertigkeit?                                                            
-                                                                            
              (b) DREAMS OF THE DEATH OF BELOVED PERSONS                     
-                                                                            
  Another series of dreams which may be called typical are those whose       
content is that a beloved relative, a parent, brother, sister,               
child, or the like, has died. We must at once distinguish two                
classes of such dreams: those in which the dreamer remains unmoved,          
and those in which he feels profoundly grieved by the death of the           
beloved person, even expressing this grief by shedding tears in his          
sleep.                                                                       
  We may ignore the dreams of the first group; they have no claim to         
be reckoned as typical. If they are analysed, it is found that they          
signify something that is not contained in them, that they are               
intended to mask another wish of some kind. This is the case in the          
dream of the aunt who sees the only son of her sister lying on a             
bier (chapter IV). The dream does not mean that she desires the              
death of her little nephew; as we have learned, it merely conceals the       
wish to see a certain beloved person again after a long separation-          
the same person whom she had seen after as long an interval at the           
funeral of another nephew. This wish, which is the real content of the       
dream, gives no cause for sorrow, and for that reason no sorrow is           
felt in the dream. We see here that the feeling contained in the dream       
does not belong to the manifest, but to the latent dream-content,            
and that the affective content has remained free from the distortion         
which has befallen the conceptual content.                                   
  It is otherwise with those dreams in which the death of a beloved          
relative is imagined, and in which a painful affect is felt. These           
signify, as their content tells us, the wish that the person in              
question might die; and since I may here expect that the feelings of         
all my readers and of all who have had such dreams will lead them to         
reject my explanation, I must endeavour to rest my proof on the              
broadest possible basis.                                                     
  We have already cited a dream from which we could see that the             
wishes represented as fulfilled in dreams are not always current             
wishes. They may also be bygone, discarded, buried and repressed             
wishes, which we must nevertheless credit with a sort of continued           
existence, merely on account of their reappearance in a dream. They          
are not dead, like persons who have died, in the sense that we know          
death, but are rather like the shades in the Odyssey which awaken to a       
certain degree of life so soon as they have drunk blood. The dream           
of the dead child in the box (chapter IV) contained a wish that had          
been present fifteen years earlier, and which had at that time been          
frankly admitted as real. Further- and this, perhaps, is not                 
unimportant from the standpoint of the theory of dreams- a                   
recollection from the dreamer's earliest childhood was at the root           
of this wish also. When the dreamer was a little child- but exactly          
when cannot be definitely determined- she heard that her mother,             
during the pregnancy of which she was the outcome, had fallen into a         
profound emotional depression, and had passionately wished for the           
death of the child in her womb. Having herself grown up and become           
pregnant, she was only following the example of her mother.                  
  If anyone dreams that his father or mother, his brother or sister,         
has died, and his dream expresses grief, I should never adduce this as       
proof that he wishes any of them dead now. The theory of dreams does         
not go as far as to require this; it is satisfied with concluding that       
the dreamer has wished them dead at some time or other during his            
childhood. I fear, however, that this limitation will not go far to          
appease my critics; probably they will just as energetically deny            
the possibility that they ever had such thoughts, as they protest that       
they do not harbour them now. I must, therefore, reconstruct a portion       
of the submerged infantile psychology on the basis of the evidence           
of the present. *                                                            
-                                                                            
  * Cf. also "Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy,"                  
Collected Papers, III; and "On the Sexual Theories of Children,"             
Ibid., II.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  Let us first of all consider the relation of children to their             
brothers and sisters. I do not know why we presuppose that it must           
be a loving one, since examples of enmity among adult brothers and           
sisters are frequent in everyone's experience, and since we are so           
often able to verify the fact that this estrangement originated during       
childhood, or has always existed. Moreover, many adults who today            
are devoted to their brothers and sisters, and support them in               
adversity, lived with them in almost continuous enmity during their          
childhood. The elder child ill-treated the younger, slandered him, and       
robbed him of his toys; the younger was consumed with helpless fury          
against the elder, envied and feared him, or his earliest impulse            
toward liberty and his first revolt against injustice were directed          
against his oppressor. The parents say that the children do not agree,       
and cannot find the reason for it. It is not difficult to see that the       
character even of a well-behaved child is not the character we               
should wish to find in an adult. A child is absolutely egoistical;           
he feels his wants acutely, and strives remorselessly to satisfy them,       
especially against his competitors, other children, and first of all         
against his brothers and sisters. And yet we do not on that account          
call a child wicked- we call him naughty; he is not responsible for          
his misdeeds, either in our own judgment or in the eyes of the law.          
And this is as it should be; for we may expect that within the very          
period of life which we reckon as childhood, altruistic impulses and         
morality will awake in the little egoist, and that, in the words of          
Meynert, a secondary ego will overlay and inhibit the primary ego.           
Morality, of course, does not develop simultaneously in all its              
departments, and furthermore, the duration of the amoral period of           
childhood differs in different individuals. Where this morality              
fails to develop we are prone to speak of degeneration; but here the         
case is obviously one of arrested development. Where the primary             
character is already overlaid by the later development it may be at          
least partially uncovered again by an attack of hysteria. The                
correspondence between the so-called hysterical character and that           
of a naughty child is positively striking. The obsessional neurosis,         
on the other hand, corresponds to a super-morality, which develops           
as a strong reinforcement against the primary character that is              
threatening to revive.                                                       
  Many persons, then, who now love their brothers and sisters, and who       
would feel bereaved by their death, harbour in their unconscious             
hostile wishes, survivals from an earlier period, wishes which are           
able to realize themselves in dreams. It is, however, quite especially       
interesting to observe the behaviour of little children up to their          
third and fourth year towards their younger brothers or sisters. So          
far the child has been the only one; now he is informed that the stork       
has brought a new baby. The child inspects the new arrival, and              
expresses his opinion with decision: "The stork had better take it           
back again!" *                                                               
-                                                                            
  * Hans, whose phobia was the subject of the analysis in the                
above-mentioned publication, cried out at the age of three and a half,       
while feverish, shortly after the birth of a sister: "But I don't want       
to have a little sister." In his neurosis, eighteen months later, he         
frankly confessed the wish that his mother should drop the child             
into the bath while bathing it, in order that it might die. With all         
this, Hans was a good-natured, affectionate child, who soon became           
fond of his sister, and took her under his special protection.               
-                                                                            
  I seriously declare it as my opinion that a child is able to               
estimate the disadvantages which he has to expect on account of a            
new-comer. A connection of mine, who now gets on very well with a            
sister, who is four years her junior, responded to the news of this          
sister's arrival with the reservation: "But I shan't give her my red         
cap, anyhow." If the child should come to realize only at a later            
stage that its happiness may be prejudiced by a younger brother or           
sister, its enmity will be aroused at this period. I know of a case          
where a girl, not three years of age, tried to strangle an infant in         
its cradle, because she suspected that its continued presence boded          
her no good. Children at this time of life are capable of a jealousy         
that is perfectly evident and extremely intense. Again, perhaps the          
little brother or sister really soon disappears, and the child once          
more draws to himself the whole affection of the household; then a new       
child is sent by the stork; is it not natural that the favourite             
should conceive the wish that the new rival may meet the same fate           
as the earlier one, in order that he may be as happy as he was               
before the birth of the first child, and during the interval after his       
death? * Of course, this attitude of the child towards the younger           
brother or sister is, under normal circumstances, a mere function of         
the difference of age. After a certain interval the maternal instincts       
of the older girl will be awakened towards the helpless new-born             
infant.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  * Such cases of death in the experience of children may soon be            
forgotten in the family, but psycho-analytical investigation shows           
that they are very significant for a later neurosis.                         
-                                                                            
  Feelings of hostility towards brothers and sisters must occur far          
more frequently in children than is observed by their obtuse elders. *       
-                                                                            
  * Since the above was written, a great many observations relating to       
the originally hostile attitude of children toward their brothers            
and sisters, and toward one of their parents, have been recorded in          
the literature of psycho-analysis. One writer, Spitteler, gives the          
following peculiarly sincere and ingenious description of this typical       
childish attitude as he experienced it in his earliest childhood:            
"Moreover, there was now a second Adolf. A little creature whom they         
declared was my brother, but I could not understand what he could be         
for, or why they should pretend he was a being like myself. I was            
sufficient unto myself: what did I want with a brother? And he was not       
only useless, he was also even troublesome. When I plagued my                
grandmother, he too wanted to plague her; when I was wheeled about           
in the baby-carriage he sat opposite me, and took up half the room, so       
that we could not help kicking one another."                                 
-                                                                            
  In the case of my own children, who followed one another rapidly,          
I missed the opportunity of making such observations, I am now               
retrieving it, thanks to my little nephew, whose undisputed domination       
was disturbed after fifteen months by the arrival of a feminine rival.       
I hear, it is true, that the young man behaves very chivalrously             
toward his little sister, that he kisses her hand and strokes her; but       
in spite of this I have convinced myself that even before the                
completion of his second year he is using his new command of                 
language to criticize this person, who, to him, after all, seems             
superfluous. Whenever the conversation turns upon her he chimes in,          
and cries angrily: "Too (l)ittle, too (l)ittle!" During the last few         
months, since the child has outgrown this disparagement, owing to            
her splendid development, he has found another reason for his                
insistence that she does not deserve so much attention. He reminds us,       
on every suitable pretext: "She hasn't any teeth." * We all of us            
recollect the case of the eldest daughter of another sister of mine.         
The child, who was then six years of age, spent a full half-hour in          
going from one aunt to another with the question: "Lucie can't               
understand that yet, can she?" Lucie was her rival- two and a half           
years younger.                                                               
-                                                                            
  * The three-and-a-half-year-old Hans embodied his devastating              
criticism of his little sister in these identical words (loc. cit.).         
He assumed that she was unable to speak on account of her lack of            
teeth.                                                                       
-                                                                            
  I have never failed to come across this dream of the death of              
brothers or sisters, denoting an intense hostility, e.g., I have met         
it in all my female patients. I have met with only one exception,            
which could easily be interpreted into a confirmation of the rule.           
Once, in the course of a sitting, when I was explaining this state           
of affairs to a female patient, since it seemed to have some bearing         
on the symptoms under consideration that day, she answered, to my            
astonishment, that she had never had such dreams. But another dream          
occurred to her, which presumably had nothing to do with the case- a         
dream which she had first dreamed at the age of four, when she was the       
youngest child, and had since then dreamed repeatedly. "A number of          
children, all her brothers and sisters with her boy and girl                 
cousins, were romping about in a meadow. Suddenly they all grew wings,       
flew up, and were gone." She had no idea of the significance of this         
dream; but we can hardly fail to recognize it as a dream of the              
death of all the brothers and sisters, in its original form, and but         
little influenced by the censorship. I will venture to add the               
following analysis of it: on the death of one out of this large number       
of children- in this case the children of two brothers were brought up       
together as brothers and sisters- would not our dreamer, at that             
time not yet four years of age, have asked some wise, grown-up person:       
"What becomes of children when they are dead?" The answer would              
probably have been: "They grow wings and become angels." After this          
explanation. all the brothers and sisters and cousins in the dream now       
have wings, like angels and- this is the important point- they fly           
away. Our little angel-maker is left alone: just think, the only one         
out of such a crowd! That the children romp about a meadow, from which       
they fly away, points almost certainly to butterflies- it is as though       
the child had been influenced by the same association of ideas which         
led the ancients to imagine Psyche, the soul, with the wings of a            
butterfly.                                                                   
  Perhaps some readers will now object that the inimical impulses of         
children toward their brothers and sisters may perhaps be admitted,          
but how does the childish character arrive at such heights of                
wickedness as to desire the death of a rival or a stronger playmate,         
as though all misdeeds could be atoned for only by death? Those who          
speak in this fashion forget that the child's idea of being dead has         
little but the word in common with our own. The child knows nothing of       
the horrors of decay, of shivering in the cold grave, of the terror of       
the infinite Nothing, the thought of which the adult, as all the myths       
of the hereafter testify, finds so intolerable. The fear of death is         
alien to the child; and so he plays with the horrid word, and                
threatens another child: "If you do that again, you will die, just           
like Francis died"; at which the poor mother shudders, unable                
perhaps to forget that the greater proportion of mortals do not              
survive beyond the years of childhood. Even at the age of eight, a           
child returning from a visit to a natural history museum may say to          
her mother: "Mamma, I do love you so; if you ever die, I am going to         
have you stuffed and set you up here in the room, so that I can              
always, always see you!" So different from our own is the childish           
conception of being dead. *                                                  
-                                                                            
  * To my astonishment, I was told that a highly intelligent boy of          
ten, after the sudden death of his father, said: "I understand that          
father is dead, but I can't see why he does not come home to                 
supper." Further material relating to this subject will be found in          
the section "Kinderseele," edited by Frau Dr. von HugHellmuth, in            
Imago Vol. i-v, 1912-18.                                                     
-                                                                            
  Being dead means, for the child, who has been spared the sight of          
the suffering that precedes death, much the same as being gone, and          
ceasing to annoy the survivors. The child does not distinguish the           
means by which this absence is brought about, whether by distance,           
or estrangement, or death. * If, during the child's prehistoric years,       
a nurse has been dismissed, and if his mother dies a little while            
later, the two experiences, as we discover by analysis, form links           
of a chain in his memory. The fact that the child does not very              
intensely miss those who are absent has been realized, to her                
sorrow, by many a mother, when she has returned home from an absence         
of several weeks, and has been told, upon inquiry: "The children             
have not asked for their mother once." But if she really departs to          
"that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns,"          
the children seem at first to have forgotten her, and only                   
subsequently do they begin to remember their dead mother.                    
-                                                                            
  * The observation of a father trained in psycho-analysis was able to       
detect the very moment when his very intelligent little daughter,            
age four, realized the difference between being away and being dead.         
The child was being troublesome at table, and noted that one of the          
waitresses in the pension was looking at her with an expression of           
annoyance. "Josephine ought to be dead," she thereupon remarked to her       
father. "But why dead?" asked the father, soothingly. "Wouldn't it           
be enough if she went away?" "No," replied the child, "then she              
would come back again." To the uncurbed self-love (narcissism) of            
the child, every inconvenience constitutes the crime of lese                 
majeste, and, as in the Draconian code, the child's feelings prescribe       
for all such crimes the one invariable punishment.                           
-                                                                            
  While, therefore, the child has its motives for desiring the absence       
of another child, it is lacking in all those restraints which would          
prevent it from clothing this wish in the form of a death-wish; and          
the psychic reaction to dreams of a death-wish proves that, in spite         
of all the differences of content, the wish in the case of the child         
is after all identical with the corresponding wish in an adult.              
  If, then, the death-wish of a child in respect of his brothers and         
sisters is explained by his childish egoism, which makes him regard          
his brothers and sisters as rivals, how are we to account for the same       
wish in respect of his parents, who bestow their love on him, and            
satisfy his needs, and whose preservation he ought to desire for these       
very egoistical reasons?                                                     
  Towards a solution of this difficulty we may be guided by our              
knowledge that the very great majority of dreams of the death of a           
parent refer to the parent of the same sex as the dreamer, so that a         
man generally dreams of the death of his father, and a woman of the          
death of her mother. I do not claim that this happens constantly;            
but that it happens in a great majority of cases is so evident that it       
requires explanation by some factor of general significance. * Broadly       
speaking, it is as though a sexual preference made itself felt at an         
early age, as though the boy regarded his father, and the girl her           
mother, as a rival in love- by whose removal he or she could but             
profit.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  * The situation is frequently disguised by the intervention of a           
tendency to punishment, which, in the form of a moral reaction,              
threatens the loss of the beloved parent.                                    
-                                                                            
  Before rejecting this idea as monstrous, let the reader again              
consider the actual relations between parents and children. We must          
distinguish between the traditional standard of conduct, the filial          
piety expected in this relation, and what daily observation shows us         
to be the fact. More than one occasion for enmity lies hidden amidst         
the relations of parents and children; conditions are present in the         
greatest abundance under which wishes which cannot pass the censorship       
are bound to arise. Let us first consider the relation between               
father and son. In my opinion the sanctity with which we have endorsed       
the injunctions of the Decalogue dulls our perception of the                 
reality. Perhaps we hardly dare permit ourselves to perceive that            
the greater part of humanity neglects to obey the fifth commandment.         
In the lowest as well as in the highest strata of human society,             
filial piety towards parents is wont to recede before other interests.       
The obscure legends which have been handed down to us from the               
primeval ages of human society in mythology and folklore give a              
deplorable idea of the despotic power of the father, and the                 
ruthlessness with which it was exercised. Kronos devours his children,       
as the wild boar devours the litter of the sow; Zeus emasculates his         
father * and takes his place as ruler. The more tyrannically the             
father ruled in the ancient family, the more surely must the son, as         
his appointed successor, have assumed the position of an enemy, and          
the greater must have been his impatience to attain to supremacy             
through the death of his father. Even in our own middle-class families       
the father commonly fosters the growth of the germ of hatred which           
is naturally inherent in the paternal relation, by refusing to allow         
the son to be a free agent or by denying him the means of becoming so.       
A physician often has occasion to remark that a son's grief at the           
loss of his father cannot quench his gratification that he has at last       
obtained his freedom. Fathers, as a rule, cling desperately to as much       
of the sadly antiquated potestas patris familias *(2) as still               
survives in our modern society, and the poet who, like Ibsen, puts the       
immemorial strife between father and son in the foreground of his            
drama is sure of his effect. The causes of conflict between mother and       
daughter arise when the daughter grows up and finds herself watched by       
her mother when she longs for real sexual freedom, while the mother is       
reminded by the budding beauty of her daughter that for her the time         
has come to renounce sexual claims.                                          
-                                                                            
  * At least in some of the mythological accounts. According to              
others, emasculation was inflicted only by Kronos on his father              
Uranos.                                                                      
  With regard to the mythological significance of this motive, cf.           
Otto Rank's Der Mythus von der Geburt des Helden, in No. v of                
Schriften zur angew. Seelen-kunde (1909), and Das Inzestmotiv in             
Dichtung und Sage (1912), chap. ix, 2.                                       
  *(2) Authority of the father.                                              
-                                                                            
  All these circumstances are obvious to everyone, but they do not           
help us to explain dreams of the death of their parents in persons for       
whom filial piety has long since come to be unquestionable. We are,          
however, prepared by the foregoing discussion to look for the origin         
of a death-wish in the earliest years of childhood.                          
  In the case of psychoneurotics, analysis confirms this conjecture          
beyond all doubt. For analysis tells us that the sexual wishes of            
the child- in so far as they deserve this designation in their nascent       
state- awaken at a very early age, and that the earliest affection           
of the girl-child is lavished on the father, while the earliest              
infantile desires of the boy are directed upon the mother. For the boy       
the father, and for the girl the mother, becomes an obnoxious rival,         
and we have already shown, in the case of brothers and sisters, how          
readily in children this feeling leads to the death-wish. As a general       
rule, sexual selection soon makes its appearance in the parents; it is       
a natural tendency for the father to spoil his little daughters, and         
for the mother to take the part of the sons, while both, so long as          
the glamour of sex does not prejudice their judgment, are strict in          
training the children. The child is perfectly conscious of this              
partiality, and offers resistance to the parent who opposes it. To           
find love in an adult is for the child not merely the satisfaction           
of a special need; it means also that the child's will is indulged           
in all other respects. Thus the child is obeying its own sexual              
instinct, and at the same time reinforcing the stimulus proceeding           
from the parents, when its choice between the parents corresponds with       
their own.                                                                   
  The signs of these infantile tendencies are for the most part              
over-looked; and yet some of them may be observed even after the early       
years of childhood. An eight-year-old girl of my acquaintance,               
whenever her mother is called away from the table, takes advantage           
of her absence to proclaim herself her successor. "Now I shall be            
Mamma; Karl, do you want some more vegetables? Have some more, do,"          
etc. A particularly clever and lively little girl, not yet four              
years of age, in whom this trait of child psychology is unusually            
transparent, says frankly: "Now mummy can go away; then daddy must           
marry me, and I will be his wife." Nor does this wish by any means           
exclude the possibility that the child may most tenderly love its            
mother. If the little boy is allowed to sleep at his mother's side           
whenever his father goes on a journey, and if after his father's             
return he has to go back to the nursery, to a person whom he likes far       
less, the wish may readily arise that his father might always be             
absent, so that he might keep his place beside his dear, beautiful           
mamma; and the father's death is obviously a means for the                   
attainment of this wish; for the child's experience has taught him           
that dead folks, like grandpapa, for example, are always absent;             
they never come back.                                                        
  While such observations of young children readily accommodate              
themselves to the interpretation suggested, they do not, it is true,         
carry the complete conviction which is forced upon a physician by            
the psycho-analysis of adult neurotics. The dreams of neurotic               
patients are communicated with preliminaries of such a nature that           
their interpretation as wish-dreams becomes inevitable. One day I find       
a lady depressed and weeping. She says: "I do not want to see my             
relatives any more; they must shudder at me." Thereupon, almost              
without any transition, she tells me that she has remembered a               
dream, whose significance, of course, she does not understand. She           
dreamed it when she was four years old, and it was this: A fox or a          
lynx is walking about the roof; then something falls down, or she            
falls down, and after that, her mother is carried out of the house-          
dead; whereat the dreamer weeps bitterly. I have no sooner informed          
her that this dream must signify a childish wish to see her mother           
dead, and that it is because of this dream that she thinks that her          
relatives must shudder at her, than she furnishes material in                
explanation of the dream. "Lynx-eye" is an opprobrious epithet which a       
street boy once bestowed on her when she was a very small child; and         
when she was three years old a brick or tile fell on her mother's            
head, so that she bled profusely.                                            
  I once had occasion to make a thorough study of a young girl who was       
passing through various psychic states. In the state of frenzied             
confusion with which her illness began, the patient manifested a quite       
peculiar aversion for her mother; she struck her and abused her              
whenever she approached the bed, while at the same period she was            
affectionate and submissive to a much older sister. Then there               
followed a lucid but rather apathetic condition, with badly                  
disturbed sleep. It was in this phase that I began to treat her and to       
analyse her dreams. An enormous number of these dealt, in a more or          
less veiled fashion, with the death of the girl's mother; now she            
was present at the funeral of an old woman, now she saw herself and          
her sister sitting at a table, dressed in mourning; the meaning of the       
dreams could not be doubted. During her progressive improvement              
hysterical phobias made their appearance, the most distressing of            
which was the fear that something had happened to her mother. Wherever       
she might be at the time, she had then to hurry home in order to             
convince herself that her mother was still alive. Now this case,             
considered in conjunction with the rest of my experience. was very           
instructive; it showed, in polyglot translations, as it were, the            
different ways in which the psychic apparatus reacts to the same             
exciting idea. In the state of confusion, which I regard as an               
overthrow of the second psychic instance by the first instance, at           
other times suppressed, the unconscious enmity towards the mother            
gained the upper hand, and found physical expression; then, when the         
patient became calmer, the insurrection was suppressed, and the              
domination of the censorship restored, and this enmity had access only       
to the realms of dreams, in which it realized the wish that the mother       
might die; and, after the normal condition had been still further            
strengthened, it created the excessive concern for the mother as a           
hysterical counter-reaction and defensive phenomenon. In the light           
of these considerations, it is no longer inexplicable why hysterical         
girls are so often extravagantly attached to their mothers.                  
  On another occasion I had an opportunity of obtaining a profound           
insight into the unconscious psychic life of a young man for whom an         
obsessional neurosis made life almost unendurable, so that he could          
not go into the streets, because he was tormented by the fear that           
he would kill everyone he met. He spent his days in contriving               
evidence of an alibi in case he should be accused of any murder that         
might have been committed in the city. It goes without saying that           
this man was as moral as he was highly cultured. The analysis-               
which, by the way, led to a cure- revealed, as the basis of this             
distressing obsession, murderous impulses in respect of his rather           
overstrict father- impulses which, to his astonishment, had                  
consciously expressed themselves when he was seven years old, but            
which, of course, had originated in a much earlier period of his             
childhood. After the painful illness and death of his father, when the       
young man was in his thirty-first year, the obsessive reproach made          
its appearance, which transferred itself to strangers in the form of         
this phobia. Anyone capable of wishing to push his own father from a         
mountain-top into an abyss cannot be trusted to spare the lives of           
persons less closely related to him; he therefore does well to lock          
himself into his room.                                                       
  According to my already extensive experience, parents play a leading       
part in the infantile psychology of all persons who subsequently             
become psychoneurotics. Falling in love with one parent and hating the       
other forms part of the permanent stock of the psychic impulses              
which arise in early childhood, and are of such importance as the            
material of the subsequent neurosis. But I do not believe that               
psychoneurotics are to be sharply distinguished in this respect from         
other persons who remain normal- that is, I do not believe that they         
are capable of creating something absolutely new and peculiar to             
themselves. It is far more probable- and this is confirmed by                
incidental observations of normal children- that in their amorous or         
hostile attitude toward their parents, psychoneurotics do no more than       
reveal to us, by magnification, something that occurs less markedly          
and intensively in the minds of the majority of children. Antiquity          
has furnished us with legendary matter which corroborates this belief,       
and the profound and universal validity of the old legends is                
explicable only by an equally universal validity of the                      
above-mentioned hypothesis of infantile psychology.                          
  I am referring to the legend of King Oedipus and the Oedipus Rex           
of Sophocles. Oedipus, the son of Laius, king of Thebes, and                 
Jocasta, is exposed as a suckling, because an oracle had informed            
the father that his son, who was still unborn, would be his                  
murderer. He is rescued, and grows up as a king's son at a foreign           
court, until, being uncertain of his origin, he, too, consults the           
oracle, and is warned to avoid his native place, for he is destined to       
become the murderer of his father and the husband of his mother. On          
the road leading away from his supposed home he meets King Laius,            
and in a sudden quarrel strikes him dead. He comes to Thebes, where he       
solves the riddle of the Sphinx, who is barring the way to the city,         
whereupon he is elected king by the grateful Thebans, and is                 
rewarded with the hand of Jocasta. He reigns for many years in peace         
and honour, and begets two sons and two daughters upon his unknown           
mother, until at last a plague breaks out- which causes the Thebians         
to consult the oracle anew. Here Sophocles' tragedy begins. The              
messengers bring the reply that the plague will stop as soon as the          
murderer of Laius is driven from the country. But where is he?               
-                                                                            
              Where shall be found,                                          
  Faint, and hard to be known, the trace of the ancient guilt?               
-                                                                            
  The action of the play consists simply in the disclosure, approached       
step by step and artistically delayed (and comparable to the work of a       
psycho-analysis) that Oedipus himself is the murderer of Laius, and          
that he is the son of the murdered man and Jocasta. Shocked by the           
abominable crime which he has unwittingly committed, Oedipus blinds          
himself, and departs from his native city. The prophecy of the               
oracle has been fulfilled.                                                   
  The Oedipus Rex is a tragedy of fate; its tragic effect depends on         
the conflict between the all-powerful will of the gods and the vain          
efforts of human beings threatened with disaster; resignation to the         
divine will, and the perception of one's own impotence is the lesson         
which the deeply moved spectator is supposed to learn from the               
tragedy. Modern authors have therefore sought to achieve a similar           
tragic effect by expressing the same conflict in stories of their            
own invention. But the playgoers have looked on unmoved at the               
unavailing efforts of guiltless men to avert the fulfilment of curse         
or oracle; the modern tragedies of destiny have failed of their              
effect.                                                                      
  If the Oedipus Rex is capable of moving a modern reader or                 
playgoer no less powerfully than it moved the contemporary Greeks, the       
only possible explanation is that the effect of the Greek tragedy does       
not depend upon the conflict between fate and human will, but upon the       
peculiar nature of the material by which this conflict is revealed.          
There must be a voice within us which is prepared to acknowledge the         
compelling power of fate in the Oedipus, while we are able to                
condemn the situations occurring in Die Ahnfrau or other tragedies           
of fate as arbitrary inventions. And there actually is a motive in the       
story of King Oedipus which explains the verdict of this inner               
voice. His fate moves us only because it might have been our own,            
because the oracle laid upon us before our birth the very curse              
which rested upon him. It may be that we were all destined to direct         
our first sexual impulses toward our mothers, and our first impulses         
of hatred and violence toward our fathers; our dreams convince us that       
we were. King Oedipus, who slew his father Laius and wedded his mother       
Jocasta, is nothing more or less than a wish-fulfilment- the                 
fulfilment of the wish of our childhood. But we, more fortunate than         
he, in so far as we have not become psychoneurotics, have since our          
childhood succeeded in withdrawing our sexual impulses from our              
mothers, and in forgetting our jealousy of our fathers. We recoil from       
the person for whom this primitive wish of our childhood has been            
fulfilled with all the force of the repression which these wishes have       
undergone in our minds since childhood. As the poet brings the guilt         
of Oedipus to light by his investigation, he forces us to become aware       
of our own inner selves, in which the same impulses are still                
extant, even though they are suppressed. The antithesis with which the       
chorus departs:                                                              
-                                                                            
       ...Behold, this is Oedipus,                                           
       Who unravelled the great riddle, and was first in power,              
       Whose fortune all the townsmen praised and envied;                    
       See in what dread adversity he sank!                                  
-                                                                            
  -this admonition touches us and our own pride, we who, since the           
years of our childhood, have grown so wise and so powerful in our            
own estimation. Like Oedipus, we live in ignorance of the desires that       
offend morality, the desires that nature has forced upon us and              
after their unveiling we may well prefer to avert our gaze from the          
scenes of our childhood. *                                                   
-                                                                            
  * None of the discoveries of psycho-analytical research has evoked         
such embittered contradiction, such furious opposition, and also             
such entertaining acrobatics of criticism, as this indication of the         
incestuous impulses of childhood which survive in the unconscious.           
An attempt has even been made recently, in defiance of all experience,       
to assign only a symbolic significance to incest. Ferenczi has given         
an ingenious reinterpretation of the Oedipus myth, based on a                
passage in one of Schopenhauer's letters, in Imago, i, (1912). The           
Oedipus complex, which was first alluded to here in The Interpretation       
of Dreams, has through further study of the subject, acquired an             
unexpected significance for the understanding of human history and the       
evolution of religion and morality. See Toten and Taboo.                     
-                                                                            
  In the very text of Sophocles' tragedy there is an unmistakable            
reference to the fact that the Oedipus legend had its source in              
dream-material of immemorial antiquity, the content of which was the         
painful disturbance of the child's relations to its parents caused           
by the first impulses of sexuality. Jocasta comforts Oedipus- who is         
not yet enlightened, but is troubled by the recollection of the              
oracle- by an allusion to a dream which is often dreamed, though it          
cannot, in her opinion, mean anything:                                       
-                                                                            
  For many a man hath seen himself in dreams His mother's mate, but he       
who gives no heed To suchlike matters bears the easier life.                 
-                                                                            
  The dream of having sexual intercourse with one's mother was as            
common then as it is today with many people, who tell it with                
indignation and astonishment. As may well be imagined, it is the key         
to the tragedy and the complement to the dream of the death of the           
father. The Oedipus fable is the reaction of phantasy to these two           
typical dreams, and just as such a dream, when occurring to an               
adult, is experienced with feelings of aversion, so the content of the       
fable must include terror and self-chastisement. The form which it           
subsequently assumed was the result of an uncomprehending secondary          
elaboration of the material, which sought to make it serve a                 
theological intention. * The attempt to reconcile divine omnipotence         
with human responsibility must, of course, fail with this material           
as with any other.                                                           
-                                                                            
  * Cf. the dream-material of exhibitionism, earlier in this chapter.        
-                                                                            
  Another of the great poetic tragedies, Shakespeare's Hamlet, is            
rooted in the same soil as Oedipus Rex. But the whole difference in          
the psychic life of the two widely separated periods of                      
civilization, and the progress, during the course of time, of                
repression in the emotional life of humanity, is manifested in the           
differing treatment of the same material. In Oedipus Rex the basic           
wish-phantasy of the child is brought to light and realized as it is         
in dreams; in Hamlet it remains repressed, and we learn of its               
existence- as we discover the relevant facts in a neurosis- only             
through the inhibitory effects which proceed from it. In the more            
modern drama, the curious fact that it is possible to remain in              
complete uncertainty as to the character of the hero has proved to           
 
be quite consistent with the over-powering effect of the tragedy.            
The play is based upon Hamlet's hesitation in accomplishing the task         
of revenge assigned to him; the text does not give the cause or the          
motive of this hesitation, nor have the manifold attempts at                 
interpretation succeeded in doing so. According to the still                 
prevailing conception, a conception for which Goethe was first               
responsible. Hamlet represents the type of man whose active energy           
is paralyzed by excessive intellectual activity: "Sicklied o'er with         
the pale cast of thought." According to another conception. the poet         
has endeavoured to portray a morbid, irresolute character, on the            
verge of neurasthenia. The plot of the drama, however, shows us that         
Hamlet is by no means intended to appear as a character wholly               
incapable of action. On two separate occasions we see him assert             
himself: once in a sudden outburst of rage, when he stabs the                
eavesdropper behind the arras, and on the other occasion when he             
deliberately, and even craftily, with the complete unscrupulousness of       
a prince of the Renaissance, sends the two courtiers to the death            
which was intended for himself. What is it, then, that inhibits him in       
accomplishing the task which his father's ghost has laid upon him?           
Here the explanation offers itself that it is the peculiar nature of         
this task. Hamlet is able to do anything but take vengeance upon the         
man who did away with his father and has taken his father's place with       
his mother- the man who shows him in realization the repressed desires       
of his own childhood. The loathing which should have driven him to           
revenge is thus replaced by self-reproach, by conscientious                  
scruples, which tell him that he himself is no better than the               
murderer whom he is required to punish. I have here translated into          
consciousness what had to remain unconscious in the mind of the              
hero; if anyone wishes to call Hamlet an hysterical subject I cannot         
but admit that this is the deduction to be drawn from my                     
interpretation. The sexual aversion which Hamlet expresses in                
conversation with Ophelia is perfectly consistent with this deduction-       
the same sexual aversion which during the next few years was                 
increasingly to take possession of the poet's soul, until it found its       
supreme utterance in Timon of Athens. It can, of course, be only the         
poet's own psychology with which we are confronted in Hamlet; and in a       
work on Shakespeare by Georg Brandes (1896) I find the statement             
that the drama was composed immediately after the death of                   
Shakespeare's father (1601)- that is to say, when he was still               
mourning his loss, and during a revival, as we may fairly assume, of         
his own childish feelings in respect of his father. It is known,             
too, that Shakespeare's son, who died in childhood, bore the name of         
Hamnet (identical with Hamlet). Just as Hamlet treats of the                 
relation of the son to his parents, so Macbeth, which was written            
about the same period, is based upon the theme of childlessness.             
Just as all neurotic symptoms, like dreams themselves, are capable           
of hyper-interpretation, and even require such hyper-interpretation          
before they become perfectly intelligible, so every genuine poetical         
creation must have proceeded from more than one motive, more than            
one impulse in the mind of the poet, and must admit of more than one         
interpretation. I have here attempted to interpret only the deepest          
stratum of impulses in the mind of the creative poet. *                      
-                                                                            
  * These indications in the direction of an analytical                      
understanding of Hamlet were subsequently developed by Dr. Ernest            
Jones, who defended the above conception against others which have           
been put forward in the literature of the subject (The Problem of            
Hamlet and the Oedipus Complex, [1911]). The relation of the                 
material of Hamlet to the myth of the birth of the hero has been             
demonstrated by O. Rank. Further attempts at an analysis of Macbeth          
will be found in my essay on "Some Character Types Met with in               
Psycho-Analytic Work," Collected Papers, IV., in L. Jeckel's                 
"Shakespeare's Macbeth," in Imago, V. (1918) and in "The Oedipus             
Complex as an Explanation of Hamlet's Mystery: a Study in Motive"            
(American Journal of Psycology [1910], vol. xxi).                            
-                                                                            
  With regard to typical dreams of the death of relatives, I must            
add a few words upon their significance from the point of view of            
the theory of dreams in general. These dreams show us the occurrence         
of a very unusual state of things; they show us that the dream-thought       
created by the repressed wish completely escapes the censorship, and         
is transferred to the dream without alteration. Special conditions           
must obtain in order to make this possible. The following two                
factors favour the production of these dreams: first, this is the last       
wish that we could credit ourselves with harbouring; we believe such a       
wish "would never occur to us even in a dream"; the dream-censorship         
is therefore unprepared for this monstrosity, just as the laws of            
Solon did not foresee the necessity of establishing a penalty for            
patricide. Secondly, the repressed and unsuspected wish is, in this          
special case, frequently met half-way by a residue from the day's            
experience, in the form of some concern for the life of the beloved          
person. This anxiety cannot enter into the dream otherwise than by           
taking advantage of the corresponding wish; but the wish is able to          
mask itself behind the concern which has been aroused during the             
day. If one is inclined to think that all this is really a very much         
simpler process, and to imagine that one merely continues during the         
night, and in one's dream, what was begun during the day, one                
removes the dreams of the death of those dear to us out of all               
connection with the general explanation of dreams, and a problem             
that may very well be solved remains a problem needlessly.                   
  It is instructive to trace the relation of these dreams to                 
anxiety-dreams. In dreams of the death of those dear to us the               
repressed wish has found a way of avoiding the censorship- and the           
distortion for which the censorship is responsible. An invariable            
concomitant phenomenon then, is that painful emotions are felt in            
the dream. Similarly, an anxiety-dream occurs only when the censorship       
is entirely or partially overpowered, and on the other hand, the             
overpowering of the censorship is facilitated when the actual                
sensation of anxiety is already present from somatic sources. It             
thus becomes obvious for what purpose the censorship performs its            
office and practises dream-distortion; it does so in order to                
prevent the development of anxiety or other forms of painful affect.         
  I have spoken in the foregoing sections of the egoism of the child's       
psyche, and I now emphasize this peculiarity in order to suggest a           
connection, for dreams too have retained this characteristic. All            
dreams are absolutely egoistical; in every dream the beloved ego             
appears, even though in a disguised form. The wishes that are realized       
in dreams are invariably the wishes of this ego; it is only a                
deceptive appearance if interest in another person is believed to have       
evoked a dream. I will now analyse a few examples which appear to            
contradict this assertion.                                                   
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  A boy not yet four years of age relates the following dream: He            
saw a large garnished dish, on which was a large joint of roast              
meat; and the joint was suddenly- not carved- but eaten up. He did not       
see the person who ate it. *                                                 
-                                                                            
  * Even the large, over-abundant, immoderate and exaggerated things         
occurring in dreams may be a childish characteristic. A child wants          
nothing more intensely than to grow big, and to eat as much of               
everything as grown-ups do; a child is hard to satisfy; he knows no          
such word as enough and insatiably demands the repetition of                 
whatever has pleased him or tasted good to him. He learns to                 
practise moderation, to be modest and resigned, only through training.       
As we know, the neurotic also is inclined to immoderation and excess.        
-                                                                            
  Who can he be, this strange person, of whose luxurious repast the          
little fellow dreams? The experience of the day must supply the              
answer. For some days past the boy, in accordance with the doctor's          
orders, had been living on a milk diet; but on the evening of the            
dream-day he had been naughty, and, as a punishment, had been deprived       
of his supper. He had already undergone one such hunger-cure, and            
had borne his deprivation bravely. He knew that he would get                 
nothing, but he did not even allude to the fact that he was hungry.          
Training was beginning to produce its effect; this is demonstrated           
even by the dream, which reveals the beginnings of dream-distortion.         
There is no doubt that he himself is the person whose desires are            
directed toward this abundant meal, and a meal of roast meat at              
that. But since he knows that this is forbidden him, he does not dare,       
as hungry children do in dreams (cf. my little Anna's dream about            
strawberries, chapter III), to sit down to the meal himself. The             
person remains anonymous.                                                    
-                                                                            
                                 II.                                         
-                                                                            
  One night I dream that I see on a bookseller's counter a new               
volume of one of those collectors' series, which I am in the habit           
of buying (monographs on artistic subjects, history, famous artistic         
centres, etc.). The new collection is entitled "Famous Orators" (or          
Orations), and the first number bears the name of Dr. Lecher.                
  On analysis it seems to me improbable that the fame of Dr. Lecher,         
the long-winded speaker of the German Opposition, should occupy my           
thoughts while I am dreaming. The fact is that a few days ago I              
undertook the psychological treatment of some new patients, and am now       
forced to talk for ten to twelve hours a day. Thus I myself am a             
long-winded speaker.                                                         
-                                                                            
                                 III.                                        
-                                                                            
  On another occasion I dream that a university lecturer of my               
acquaintance says to me: "My son, the myopic." Then follows a dialogue       
of brief observations and replies. A third portion of the dream              
follows, in which I and my sons appear, and so far as the latent             
dream-content is concerned, the father, the son, and Professor M,            
are merely lay figures, representing myself and my eldest son. Later         
on I shall examine this dream again, on account of another                   
peculiarity.                                                                 
-                                                                            
                                 IV.                                         
-                                                                            
  The following dream gives an example of really base, egoistical            
feelings, which conceal themselves behind an affectionate concern:           
  My friend Otto looks ill; his face is brown and his eyes protrude.         
  Otto is my family physician, to whom I owe a debt greater than I can       
ever hope to repay, since he has watched for years over the health           
of my children, has treated them successfully when they have been ill,       
and, moreover, has given them presents whenever he could find any            
excuse for doing so. He paid us a visit on the day of the dream, and         
my wife noticed that he looked tired and exhausted. At night I dream         
of him, and my dream attributes to him certain of the symptoms of            
Basedow's disease. If you were to disregard my rules for                     
dream-interpretation you would understand this dream to mean that I am       
concerned about the health of my friend, and that this concern is            
realized in the dream. It would thus constitute a contradiction not          
only of the assertion that a dream is a wish-fulfilment, but also of         
the assertion that it is accessible only to egoistical impulses. But         
will those who thus interpret my dream explain why I should fear             
that Otto has Basedow's disease, for which diagnosis his appearance          
does not afford the slightest justification? My analysis, on the other       
hand, furnishes the following material, deriving from an incident            
which had occurred six years earlier. We were driving- a small party         
of us, including Professor R- in the dark through the forest of N,           
which lies at a distance of some hours from where we were staying in         
the country. The driver, who was not quite sober, overthrew us and the       
carriage down a bank, and it was only by good fortune that we all            
escaped unhurt. But we were forced to spend the night at the nearest         
inn, where the news of our mishap aroused great sympathy. A certain          
gentleman, who showed unmistakable symptoms of morbus Basedowii- the         
brownish colour of the skin of the face and the protruding eyes, but         
no goitre- placed himself entirely at our disposal, and asked what           
he could do for us. Professor R answered in his decisive way,                
"Nothing, except lend me a nightshirt." Whereupon our generous               
friend replied: "I am sorry, but I cannot do that," and left us.             
  In continuing the analysis, it occurs to me that Basedow is the name       
not only of a physician but also of a famous pedagogue. (Now that I am       
wide awake, I do not feel quite sure of this fact.) My friend Otto           
is the person whom I have asked to take charge of the physical               
education of my children- especially during the age of puberty               
(hence the nightshirt) in case anything should happen to me. By seeing       
Otto in my dream with the morbid symptoms of our above-mentioned             
generous helper, I clearly mean to say: "If anything happens to me, he       
will do just as little for my children as Baron L did for us, in spite       
of his amiable offers." The egoistical flavour of this dream should          
now be obvious enough. *                                                     
-                                                                            
  * While Dr. Ernest Jones was delivering a lecture before an American       
scientific society, and was speaking of egoism in dreams, a learned          
lady took exception to this unscientific generalization. She thought         
the lecturer was entitled to pronounce such a verdict only on the            
dreams of Austrians, but had no right to include the dreams of               
Americans. As for herself, she was sure that all her dreams were             
strictly altruistic.                                                         
  In justice to this lady with her national pride it may, however,           
be remarked that the dogma: "the dream is wholly egoistic" must not be       
misunderstood. For inasmuch as everything that occurs in                     
preconscious inking may appear in dreams (in the content as well as          
the latent dream-thoughts) the altruistic feelings may possibly occur.       
Similarly, affectionate or amorous feelings for another person, if           
they exist in the unconscious, may occur in dreams. The truth of the         
assertion is therefore restricted to the fact that among the                 
unconscious stimuli of dreams one very often finds egoistical                
tendencies which seem to have been overcome in the waking state.             
-                                                                            
  But where is the wish-fulfilment to be found in this? Not in the           
vengeance wreaked on my friend Otto (who seems to be fated to be badly       
treated in my dreams), but in the following circumstance: Inasmuch           
as in my dream I represented Otto as Baron L, I likewise identified          
myself with another person, namely, with Professor R; for I have asked       
something of Otto, just as R asked something of Baron L at the time of       
the incident I have described. And this is the point. For Professor          
R has gone his way independently, outside academic circles, just as          
I myself have done, and has only in his later years received the title       
which he had earned before. Once more, then, I want to be a professor!       
The very phrase in his later years is a wish-fulfilment, for it              
means that I shall live long enough to steer my boys through the age         
of puberty myself.                                                           
-                                                                            
  Of other typical dreams, in which one flies with a feeling of ease         
or falls in terror, I know nothing from my own experience, and               
whatever I have to say about them I owe to my psychoanalyses. From the       
information thus obtained one must conclude that these dreams also           
reproduce impressions made in childhood- that is, that they refer to         
the games involving rapid motion which have such an extraordinary            
attraction for children. Where is the uncle who has never made a child       
fly by running with it across the room with outstretched arms, or            
has never played at falling with it by rocking it on his knee and then       
suddenly straightening his leg, or by lifting it above his head and          
suddenly pretending to withdraw his supporting hand? At such moments         
children shout with joy, and insatiably demand a repetition of the           
performance, especially if a little fright and dizziness are                 
involved in the game; in after years they repeat their sensations in         
dreams. but in dreams they omit the hands that held them, so that            
now they are free to float or fall. We know that all small children          
have a fondness for such games as rocking and see-sawing; and if             
they see gymnastic performances at the circus their recollection of          
such games is refreshed. * In some boys a hysterical attack will             
consist simply in the reproduction of such performances, which they          
accomplish with great dexterity. Not infrequently sexual sensations          
are excited by these games of movement, which are quite neutral in           
themselves. *(2) To express the matter in a few words: the exciting          
games of childhood are repeated in dreams of flying, falling,                
reeling and the like, but the voluptuous feelings are now                    
transformed into anxiety. But, as every mother knows, the excited play       
of children often enough culminates in quarrelling and tears.                
-                                                                            
  * Psycho-analytic investigation has enabled us to conclude that in         
the predilection shown by children for gymnastic performances, and           
in the repetition of these in hysterical attacks, there is, besides          
the pleasure felt in the organ, yet another factor at work (often            
unconscious): namely, a memory-picture of sexual intercourse                 
observed in human beings or animals.                                         
  *(2) A young colleague, who is entirely free from nervousness, tells       
me, in this connection: "I know from my own experience that while            
swinging, and at the moment at which the downward movement was at            
its maximum, I used to have a curious feeling in my genitals, which,         
although it was not really pleasing to me, I must describe as a              
voluptuous feeling." I have often heard from patients that the first         
erections with voluptuous sensations which they can remember to have         
had in boyhood occurred while they were climbing. It is established          
with complete certainty by psycho-analysis that the first sexual             
sensations often have their origin in the scufflings and wrestlings of       
childhood.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  I have therefore good reason for rejecting the explanation that it         
is the state of our dermal sensations during sleep, the sensation of         
the movements of the lungs, etc., that evokes dreams of flying and           
falling. I see that these very sensations have been reproduced from          
the memory to which the dream refers- and that they are, therefore,          
dream-content and not dream-sources.                                         
  I do not for a moment deny, however, that I am unable to furnish a         
full explanation of this series of typical dreams. Precisely here my         
material leaves me in the lurch. I must adhere to the general                
opinion that all the dermal and kinetic sensations of these typical          
dreams are awakened as soon as any psychic motive of whatever kind has       
need of them, and that they are neglected when there is no such need         
of them. The relation to infantile experiences seems to be confirmed         
by the indications which I have obtained from the analyses of                
psychoneurotics. But I am unable to say what other meanings might,           
in the course of the dreamer's life, have become attached to the             
memory of these sensations- different, perhaps, in each individual,          
despite the typical appearance of these dreams- and I should very much       
like to be in a position to fill this gap with careful analyses of           
good examples. To those who wonder why I complain of a lack of               
material, despite the frequency of these dreams of flying, falling,          
tooth-drawing, etc., I must explain that I myself have never                 
experienced any such dreams since I have turned my attention to the          
subject of dream-interpretation. The dreams of neurotics which are           
at my disposal, however, are not all capable of interpretation, and          
very often it is impossible to penetrate to the farthest point of            
their hidden intention; a certain psychic force which participated           
in the building up of the neurosis, and which again becomes active           
during its dissolution, opposes interpretation of the final problem.         
-                                                                            
                      (c) The Examination-Dream                              
-                                                                            
  Everyone who has received his certificate of matriculation after           
passing his final examination at school complains of the persistence         
with which he is plagued by anxiety-dreams in which he has failed,           
or must go through his course again, etc. For the holder of a                
university degree this typical dream is replaced by another, which           
represents that he has not taken his doctor's degree, to which he            
vainly objects, while still asleep, that he has already been                 
practising for years, or is already a university lecturer or the             
senior partner of a firm of lawyers, and so on. These are the                
ineradicable memories of the punishments we suffered as children for         
misdeeds which we had committed- memories which were revived in us           
on the dies irae, dies illa * of the gruelling examination at the            
two critical junctures in our careers as students. The                       
examination-anxiety of neurotics is likewise intensified by this             
childish fear. When our student days are over, it is no longer our           
parents or teachers who see to our punishment; the inexorable chain of       
cause and effect of later life has taken over our further education.         
Now we dream of our matriculation, or the examination for the doctor's       
degree- and who has not been faint-hearted on such occasions?-               
whenever we fear that we may be punished by some unpleasant result           
because we have done something carelessly or wrongly, because we             
have not been as thorough as we might have been- in short, whenever we       
feel the burden of responsibility.                                           
-                                                                            
  * Day of wrath.                                                            
-                                                                            
  For a further explanation of examination-dreams I have to thank a          
remark made by a colleague who had studied this subject, who once            
stated, in the course of a scientific discussion, that in his                
experience the examination-dream occurred only to persons who had            
passed the examination, never to those who had flunked. We have had          
increasing confirmation of the fact that the anxiety-dream of                
examination occurs when the dreamer is anticipating a responsible task       
on the following day, with the possibility of disgrace; recourse             
will then be had to an occasion in the past on which a great anxiety         
proved to have been without real justification, having, indeed, been         
refuted by the outcome. Such a dream would be a very striking                
example of the way in which the dream-content is misunderstood by            
the waking instance. The exclamation which is regarded as a protest          
against the dream: "But I am already a doctor," etc., would in reality       
be the consolation offered by the dream, and should, therefore, be           
worded as follows: "Do not be afraid of the morrow; think of the             
anxiety which you felt before your matriculation; yet nothing happened       
to justify it, for now you are a doctor," etc. But the anxiety which         
we attribute to the dream really has its origin in the residues of the       
dream-day.                                                                   
  The tests of this interpretation which I have been able to make in         
my own case, and in that of others, although by no means exhaustive,         
were entirely in its favour. * For example, I failed in my examination       
for the doctor's degree in medical jurisprudence; never once has the         
matter worried me in my dreams, while I have often enough been               
examined in botany, zoology, and chemistry, and I sat for the                
examinations in these subjects with well-justified anxiety, but              
escaped disaster, through the clemency of fate, or of the examiner. In       
my dreams of school examinations, I am always examined in history, a         
subject in which I passed brilliantly at the time, but only, I must          
admit, because my good-natured professor- my one-eyed benefactor in          
another dream- did not overlook the fact that on the examination-paper       
which I returned to him I had crossed out with my fingernail the             
second of three questions, as a hint that he should not insist on            
it. One of my patients, who withdrew before the matriculation                
examination. only to pass it later, but failed in the officer's              
examination, so that he did not become an officer, tells me that he          
often dreams of the former examination, but never of the latter.             
-                                                                            
  * See also chapter VI., A.                                                 
-                                                                            
  W. Stekel, who was the first to interpret the matriculation dream,         
maintains that this dream invariably refers to sexual experiences            
and sexual maturity. This has frequently been confirmed in my                
experience.                                                                  
                                                                             
VI                                                                           
                          VI. THE DREAM-WORK                                 
-                                                                            
  ALL other previous attempts to solve the problems of dreams have           
concerned themselves directly with the manifest dream-content as it is       
retained in the memory. They have sought to obtain an interpretation         
of the dream from this content, or, if they dispensed with an                
interpretation, to base their conclusions concerning the dream on            
the evidence provided by this content. We, however, are confronted           
by a different set of data; for us a new psychic material interposes         
itself between the dream-content and the results of our                      
investigations: the latent dream-content, or dream-thoughts, which are       
obtained only by our method. We develop the solution of the dream from       
this latent content, and not from the manifest dream-content. We are         
thus confronted with a new problem, an entirely novel task- that of          
examining and tracing the relations between the latent                       
dream-thoughts and the manifest dream-content, and the processes by          
which the latter has grown out of the former.                                
  The dream-thoughts and the dream-content present themselves as two         
descriptions of the same content in two different languages; or, to          
put it more clearly, the dream-content appears to us as a                    
translation of the dream-thoughts into another mode of expression,           
whose symbols and laws of composition we must learn by comparing the         
origin with the translation. The dream-thoughts we can understand            
without further trouble the moment we have ascertained them. The             
dream-content is, as it were, presented in hieroglyphics, whose              
symbols must be translated, one by one, into the language of the             
dream-thoughts. It would of course, be incorrect to attempt to read          
these symbols in accordance with their values as pictures, instead           
of in accordance with their meaning as symbols. For instance, I have         
before me a picture-puzzle (rebus)- a house, upon whose roof there           
is a boat; then a single letter; then a running figure, whose head has       
been omitted, and so on. As a critic I might be tempted to judge             
this composition and its elements to be nonsensical. A boat is out           
of place on the roof of a house, and a headless man cannot run; the          
man, too, is larger than the house, and if the whole thing is meant to       
represent a landscape the single letters have no right in it, since          
they do not occur in nature. A correct judgment of the                       
picture-puzzle is possible only if I make no such objections to the          
whole and its parts, and if, on the contrary, I take the trouble to          
replace each image by a syllable or word which it may represent by           
virtue of some allusion or relation. The words thus put together are         
no longer meaningless, but might constitute the most beautiful and           
pregnant aphorism. Now a dream is such a picture-puzzle, and our             
predecessors in the art of dream-interpretation have made the                
mistake of judging the rebus as an artistic composition. As such, of         
course, it appears nonsensical and worthless.                                
                                                                             
VI|A                                                                         
                           A. Condensation                                   
-                                                                            
  The first thing that becomes clear to the investigator when he             
compares the dream-content with the dream-thoughts is that a                 
tremendous work of condensation has been accomplished. The dream is          
meagre, paltry and laconic in comparison with the range and                  
copiousness of the dream-thoughts. The dream, when written down              
fills half a page; the analysis, which contains the dream-thoughts,          
requires six, eight, twelve times as much space. The ratio varies with       
different dreams; but in my experience it is always of the same order.       
As a rule, the extent of the compression which has been accomplished         
is under-estimated, owing to the fact that the dream-thoughts which          
have been brought to light are believed to be the whole of the               
material, whereas a continuation of the work of interpretation would         
reveal still further thoughts hidden in the dream. We have already           
found it necessary to remark that one can never be really sure that          
one has interpreted a dream completely; even if the solution seems           
satisfying and flawless, it is always possible that yet another              
meaning has been manifested by the same dream. Thus the degree of            
condensation is- strictly speaking- indeterminable. Exception may be         
taken- and at first sight the objection seems perfectly plausible-           
to the assertion that the disproportion between dream-content and            
dream-thoughts justifies the conclusion that a considerable                  
condensation of psychic material occurs in the formation of dreams.          
For we often have the feeling that we have been dreaming a great             
deal all night, and have then forgotten most of what we have                 
dreamed. The dream which we remember on waking would thus appear to be       
merely a remnant of the dream-work, which would surely equal the             
dream-thoughts in range if only we could remember it completely. To          
a certain extent this is undoubtedly true; there is no getting away          
from the fact that a dream is most accurately reproduced if we try           
to remember it immediately after waking, and that the recollection           
of it becomes more and more defective as the day goes on. On the other       
hand, it has to be recognized that the impression that we have dreamed       
a good deal more than we are able to reproduce is very often based           
on an illusion, the origin of which we shall explain later on.               
Moreover, the assumption of a condensation in the dream-work is not          
affected by the possibility of forgetting a part of dreams, for it may       
be demonstrated by the multitude of ideas pertaining to those                
individual parts of the dream which do remain in the memory. If a            
large part of the dream has really escaped the memory, we are probably       
deprived of access to a new series of dream-thoughts. We have no             
justification for expecting that those portions of the dream which           
have been lost should likewise have referred only to those thoughts          
which we know from the analysis of the portions which have been              
preserved. *                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * References to the condensation in dreams are to be found in the          
works of many writers on the subject. Du Prel states in his                  
Philosophie der Mystik that he is absolutely certain that a                  
condensation-process of the succession of ideas had occurred.                
-                                                                            
  In view of the very great number of ideas which analysis elicits for       
each individual element of the dream-content, the principal doubt in         
the minds of many readers will be whether it is permissible to count         
everything that subsequently occurs to the mind during analysis as           
forming part of the dream-thoughts- in other words, to assume that all       
these thoughts have been active in the sleeping state, and have              
taken part in the formation of the dream. Is it not more probable that       
new combinations of thoughts are developed in the course of                  
analysis, which did not participate in the formation of the dream?           
To this objection I can give only a conditional reply. It is true,           
of course, that separate combinations of thoughts make their first           
appearance during the analysis; but one can convince oneself every           
time this happens that such new combinations have been established           
only between thoughts which have already been connected in other             
ways in the dream-thoughts; the new combinations are, so to speak,           
corollaries, short-circuits, which are made possible by the                  
existence of other, more fundamental modes of connection. In respect         
of the great majority of the groups of thoughts revealed by                  
analysis, we are obliged to admit that they have already been active         
in the formation of the dream, for if we work through a succession           
of such thoughts, which at first sight seem to have played no part           
in the formation of the dream, we suddenly come upon a thought which         
occurs in the dream-content, and is indispensable to its                     
interpretation, but which is nevertheless inaccessible except                
through this chain of thoughts. The reader may here turn to the              
dream of the botanical monograph, which is obviously the result of           
an astonishing degree of condensation, even though I have not given          
the complete analysis.                                                       
  But how, then, are we to imagine the psychic condition of the              
sleeper which precedes dreaming? Do all the dream-thoughts exist             
side by side, or do they pursue one another, or are there several            
simultaneous trains of thought, proceeding from different centres,           
which subsequently meet? I do not think it is necessary at this              
point to form a plastic conception of the psychic condition at the           
time of dream-formation. But let us not forget that we are concerned         
with unconscious thinking, and that the process may easily be                
different from that which we observe in ourselves in deliberate              
contemplation accompanied by consciousness.                                  
  The fact, however, is irrefutable that dream-formation is based on a       
process of condensation. How, then, is this condensation effected?           
  Now, if we consider that of the dream-thoughts ascertained only            
the most restricted number are represented in the dream by means of          
one of their conceptual elements, we might conclude that the                 
condensation is accomplished by means of omission, inasmuch as the           
dream is not a faithful translation or projection, point by point,           
of the dream-thoughts, but a very incomplete and defective                   
reproduction of them. This view, as we shall soon perceive, is a             
very inadequate one. But for the present let us take it as a point           
of departure, and ask ourselves: If only a few of the elements of            
the dream-thoughts make their way into the dream-content, what are the       
conditions that determine their selection?                                   
  In order to solve this problem, let us turn our attention to those         
elements of the dream-content which must have fulfilled the conditions       
for which we are looking. The most suitable material for this                
investigation will be a dream to whose formation a particularly              
intense condensation has contributed. I select the dream, cited in           
chapter V., of the botanical monograph.                                      
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  Dream-content: I have written a monograph upon a certain                   
(indeterminate) species of plant. The book lies before me. I am just         
turning over a folded coloured plate. A dried specimen of the plant is       
bound up in this copy, as in a herbarium.                                    
  The most prominent element of this dream is the botanical monograph.       
This is derived from the impressions of the dream-day; I had                 
actually seen a monograph on the genus Cyclamen in a bookseller's            
window. The mention of this genus is lacking in the dream-content;           
only the monograph and its relation to botany have remained. The             
botanical monograph immediately reveals its relation to the work on          
cocaine which I once wrote; from cocaine the train of thought proceeds       
on the one hand to a Festschrift, and on the other to my friend, the         
oculist, Dr. Koenigstein, who was partly responsible for the                 
introduction of cocaine as a local anaesthetic. Moreover, Dr.                
Koenigstein is connected with the recollection of an interrupted             
conversation I had had with him on the previous evening, and with            
all sorts of ideas relating to the remuneration of medical and               
surgical services among colleagues. This conversation, then, is the          
actual dream-stimulus; the monograph on cyclamen is also a real              
incident, but one of an indifferent nature; as I now see, the                
botanical monograph of the dream proves to be a common mean between          
the two experiences of the day, taken over unchanged from an                 
indifferent impression, and bound with the psychically significant           
experience by means of the most copious associations.                        
  Not only the combined idea of the botanical monograph, however,            
but also each of its separate elements, botanical and monograph,             
penetrates farther and farther, by manifold associations, into the           
confused tangle of the dream-thoughts. To botanical belong the               
recollections of the person of Professor Gartner (German: Gartner =          
gardener), of his blooming wife, of my patient, whose name is Flora,         
and of a lady concerning whom I told the story of the forgotten              
flowers. Gartner, again, leads me to the laboratory and the                  
conversation with Koenigstein; and the allusion to the two female            
patients belongs to the same conversation. From the lady with the            
flowers a train of thoughts branches off to the favourite flowers of         
my wife, whose other branch leads to the title of the hastily seen           
monograph. Further, botanical recalls an episode at the Gymnasium, and       
a university examination; and a fresh subject- that of my hobbies-           
which was broached in the above-mentioned conversation, is linked            
up, by means of what is humorously called my favourite flower, the           
artichoke, with the train of thoughts proceeding from the forgotten          
flowers; behind artichoke there lies, on the one hand, a                     
recollection of Italy, and on the other a reminiscence of a scene of         
my childhood, in which I first formed an acquaintance- which has since       
then grown so intimate- with books. Botanical, then, is a veritable          
nucleus, and, for the dream, the meeting-point of many trains of             
thought; which, I can testify, had all really been brought into              
connection by the conversation referred to. Here we find ourselves           
in a thought-factory, in which, as in The Weaver's Masterpiece:              
-                                                                            
              The little shuttles to and fro                                 
              Fly, and the threads unnoted flow;                             
              One throw links up a thousand threads.                         
-                                                                            
  Monograph in the dream, again, touches two themes: the one-sided           
nature of my studies, and the costliness of my hobbies.                      
  The impression derived from this first investigation is that the           
elements botanical and monograph were taken up into the                      
dream-content because they were able to offer the most numerous points       
of contact with the greatest number of dream-thoughts, and thus              
represented nodal points at which a great number of the dream-thoughts       
met together, and because they were of manifold significance in              
respect of the meaning of the dream. The fact upon which this                
explanation is based may be expressed in another form: Every element         
of the dream-content proves to be over-determined- that is, it appears       
several times over in the dream-thoughts.                                    
  We shall learn more if we examine the other components of the              
dream in respect of their occurrence in the dream-thoughts. The              
coloured plate refers (cf. the analysis in chapter V.) to a new              
subject, the criticism passed upon my work by colleagues, and also           
to a subject already represented in the dream- my hobbies- and,              
further, to a memory of my childhood, in which I pull to pieces a book       
with coloured plates; the dried specimen of the plant relates to my          
experience with the herbarium at the Gymnasium, and gives this               
memory particular emphasis. Thus I perceive the nature of the relation       
between the dream-content and dream-thoughts: Not only are the               
elements of the dream determined several times over by the                   
dream-thoughts, but the individual dream-thoughts are represented in         
the dream by several elements. Starting from an element of the               
dream, the path of the association leads to a number of                      
dream-thoughts; and from a single dream-thought to several elements of       
the dream. In the process of dream-formation, therefore, it is not the       
case that a single dream-thought, or a group of dream-thoughts,              
supplies the dream-content with an abbreviation of itself as its             
representative, and that the next dream-thought supplies another             
abbreviation as its representative (much as representatives are              
elected from among the population); but rather that the whole mass           
of the dream-thoughts is subjected to a certain elaboration, in the          
course of which those elements that receive the strongest and                
completest support stand out in relief; so that the process might            
perhaps be likened to election by the scrutin du liste. Whatever dream       
I may subject to such a dissection, I always find the same fundamental       
principle confirmed- that the dream-elements have been formed out of         
the whole mass of the dream-thoughts, and that every one of them             
appears, in relation to the dream-thoughts, to have a multiple               
determination.                                                               
  It is certainly not superfluous to demonstrate this relation of            
the dream-content to the dream-thoughts by means of a further example,       
which is distinguished by a particularly artful intertwining of              
reciprocal relations. The dream is that of a patient whom I am               
treating for claustrophobia (fear of enclosed spaces). It will soon          
become evident why I feel myself called upon to entitle this                 
exceptionally clever piece of dream-activity:                                
-                                                                            
                       II. "A Beautiful Dream"                               
-                                                                            
  The dreamer is driving with a great number of companions in                
X-street, where there is a modest hostelry (which is not the case).          
A theatrical performance is being given in one of the rooms of the           
inn. He is first spectator, then actor. Finally the company is told to       
change their clothes, in order to return to the city. Some of the            
company are shown into rooms on the ground floor, others to rooms on         
the first floor. Then a dispute arises. The people upstairs are              
annoyed because those downstairs have not yet finished changing, so          
that they cannot come down. His brother is upstairs; he is downstairs;       
and he is angry with his brother because they are so hurried. (This          
part obscure.) Besides, it was already decided, upon their arrival,          
who was to go upstairs and who down. Then he goes alone up the hill          
towards the city, and he walks so heavily, and with such difficulty,         
that he cannot move from the spot. An elderly gentleman joins him            
and talks angrily of the King of Italy. Finally, towards the top of          
the hill, he is able to walk much more easily.                               
  The difficulty experienced in climbing the hill was so distinct that       
for some time after waking he was in doubt whether the experience            
was a dream or the reality.                                                  
  Judged by the manifest content, this dream can hardly be                   
eulogized. Contrary to the rules, I shall begin the interpretation           
with that portion to which the dreamer referred as being the most            
distinct.                                                                    
  The difficulty dreamed of, and probably experienced during the             
dream- difficulty in climbing, accompanied by dyspnoea- was one of the       
symptoms which the patient had actually exhibited some years before,         
and which, in conjunction with other symptoms, was at the time               
attributed to tuberculosis (probably hysterically simulated). From our       
study of exhibition-dreams we are already acquainted with this               
sensation of being inhibited in motion, peculiar to dreams, and here         
again we find it utilized as material always available for the               
purposes of any other kind of representation. The part of the                
dream-content which represents climbing as difficult at first, and           
easier at the top of the hill, made me think, while it was being             
related, of the well-known masterly introduction to Daudet's Sappho.         
Here a young man carries the woman he loves upstairs; she is at              
first as light as a feather, but the higher he climbs the more she           
weighs; and this scene is symbolic of the process of their relation,         
in describing which Daudet seeks to admonish young men not to lavish         
an earnest affection upon girls of humble origin and dubious                 
antecedents. * Although I knew that my patient had recently had a            
love-affair with an actress, and had broken it off, I hardly                 
expected to find that the interpretation which had occurred to me            
was correct. The situation in Sappho is actually the reverse of that         
in the dream; for in the dream climbing was difficult at the first and       
easy later on; in the novel the symbolism is pertinent only if what          
was at first easily carried finally proves to be a heavy burden. To my       
astonishment, the patient remarked that the interpretation fitted in         
very well with the plot of a play which he had seen the previous             
evening. The play was called Rund um Wien (Round about Vienna), and          
treated of the career of a girl who was at first respectable, but            
who subsequently lapsed into the demimonde, and formed relations             
with highly-placed lovers, thereby climbing, but finally she went            
downhill faster and faster. This play reminded him of another,               
entitled Von Stufe zu Stufe (From Step to Step), the poster                  
advertising which had depicted a flight of stairs.                           
-                                                                            
  * In estimating the significance of this passage we may recall the         
meaning of dreams of climbing stairs, as explained in the chapter on         
Symbolism.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  To continue the interpretation: The actress with whom he had had his       
most recent and complicated affair had lived in X-street. There is           
no inn in this street. However, while he was spending part of the            
summer in Vienna for the sake of this lady, he had lodged (German:           
abgestiegen = stopped, literally stepped off) at a small hotel in            
the neighbourhood. When he was leaving the hotel, he said to the             
cab-driver: "I am glad at all events that I didn't get any vermin            
here!" (Incidentally, the dread of vermin is one of his phobias.)            
Whereupon the cab-driver answered: "How could anybody stop there! That       
isn't a hotel at all, it's really nothing but a pub!"                        
  The pub immediately reminded him of a quotation:                           
-                                                                            
              Of a wonderful host                                            
              I was lately a guest.                                          
-                                                                            
  But the host in the poem by Uhland is an apple-tree. Now a second          
quotation continues the train of thought:                                    
-                                                                            
             FAUST (dancing with the young witch).                           
              A lovely dream once came to me;                                
              I then beheld an apple-tree,                                   
              And there two fairest apples shone:                            
              They lured me so, I climbed thereon.                           
-                                                                            
                          THE FAIR ONE                                       
              Apples have been desired by you,                               
              Since first in Paradise they grew;                             
              And I am moved with joy to know                                
              That such within my garden grow. *                             
-                                                                            
  * Faust I.                                                                 
-                                                                            
  There is not the slightest doubt what is meant by the apple-tree           
and the apples. A beautiful bosom stood high among the charms by             
which the actress had bewitched our dreamer.                                 
  Judging from the context of the analysis, we had every reason to           
assume that the dream referred to an impression of the dreamer's             
childhood. If this is correct, it must have referred to the                  
wet-nurse of the dreamer, who is now a man of nearly thirty years of         
age. The bosom of the nurse is in reality an inn for the child. The          
nurse, as well as Daudet's Sappho, appears as an allusion to his             
recently abandoned mistress.                                                 
  The (elder) brother of the patient also appears in the                     
dream-content; he is upstairs, while the dreamer himself is                  
downstairs. This again is an inversion, for the brother, as I happen         
to know, has lost his social position, while my patient has retained         
his. In relating the dream-content, the dreamer avoided saying that          
his brother was upstairs and that he himself was downstairs. This            
would have been to obvious an expression, for in Austria we say that a       
man is on the ground floor when he has lost his fortune and social           
position, just as we say that he has come down. Now the fact that at         
this point in the dream something is represented as inverted must have       
a meaning; and the inversion must apply to some other relation between       
the dream-thoughts and the dream-content. There is an indication which       
suggests how this inversion is to be understood. It obviously                
applies to the end of the dream, where the circumstances of climbing         
are the reverse of those described in Sappho. Now it is evident what         
inversion is meant: In Sappho the man carries the woman who stands           
in a sexual relation to him; in the dream-thoughts, conversely,              
there is a reference to a woman carrying a man: and, as this could           
occur only in childhood, the reference is once more to the nurse who         
carries the heavy child. Thus the final portion of the dream                 
succeeds in representing Sappho and the nurse in the same allusion.          
  Just as the name Sappho has not been selected by the poet without          
reference to a Lesbian practise, so the portions of the dream in which       
people are busy upstairs and downstairs, above and beneath, point to         
fancies of a sexual content with which the dreamer is occupied, and          
which, as suppressed cravings, are not unconnected with his                  
neurosis. Dream-interpretation itself does not show that these are           
fancies and not memories of actual happenings; it only furnishes us          
with a set of thoughts and leaves it to us to determine their actual         
value. In this case real and imagined happenings appear at first as of       
equal value- and not only here, but also in the creation of more             
important psychic structures than dreams. A large company, as we             
already know, signifies a secret. The brother is none other than a           
representative, drawn into the scenes of childhood by fancying               
backwards, of all of the subsequent for women's favours. Through the         
medium of an experience indifferent in itself, the episode of the            
gentleman who talks angrily of the King of Italy refers to the               
intrusion of people of low rank into aristocratic society. It is as          
though the warning which Daudet gives to young men were to be                
supplemented by a similar warning applicable to a suckling child. *          
-                                                                            
  * The fantastic nature of the situation relating to the dreamer's          
wet-nurse is shown by the circumstance, objectively ascertained,             
that the nurse in this case was his mother. Further, I may call              
attention to the regret of the young man in the anecdote related to p.       
222 above (that he had not taken better advantage of his opportunities       
with his wet-nurse) as the probable source of his dream.                     
-                                                                            
  In the two dreams here cited I have shown by italics where one of          
the elements of the dream recurs in the dream-thoughts, in order to          
make the multiple relations of the former more obvious. Since,               
however, the analysis of these dreams has not been carried to                
completion, it will probably be worth while to consider a dream with a       
full analysis, in order to demonstrate the manifold determination of         
the dream-content. For this purpose I shall select the dream of Irma's       
injection (see chapter II). From this example we shall readily see           
that the condensation-work in the dream-formation has made use of more       
means than one.                                                              
  The chief person in the dream-content is my patient Irma, who is           
seen with the features which belong to her waking life, and who              
therefore, in the first instance, represents herself. But her                
attitude, as I examine her at the window, is taken from a recollection       
of another person, of the lady for whom I should like to exchange my         
patient, as is shown by the dream-thoughts. Inasmuch as Irma has a           
diphtheritic membrane, which recalls my anxiety about my eldest              
daughter, she comes to represent this child of mine, behind whom,            
connected with her by the identity of their names, is concealed the          
person of the patient who died from the effects of poison. In the            
further course of the dream the Significance of Irma's personality           
changes (without the alteration of her image as it is seen in the            
dream): she becomes one of the children whom we examine in the               
public dispensaries for children's diseases, where my friends                
display the differences in their mental capacities. The transition was       
obviously effected by the idea of my little daughter. Owing to her           
unwillingness to open her mouth, the same Irma constitutes an allusion       
to another lady who was examined by me, and, also in the same                
connection, to my wife. Further, in the morbid changes which I               
discover in her throat I have summarized allusions to quite a number         
of other persons.                                                            
  All these people whom I encounter as I follow up the associations          
suggested by Irma do not appear personally in the dream; they are            
concealed behind the dream-person Irma, who is thus developed into a         
collective image, which, as might be expected, has contradictory             
features. Irma comes to represent these other persons, who are               
discarded in the work of condensation, inasmuch as I allow anything to       
happen to her which reminds me of these persons, trait by trait.             
  For the purposes of dream-condensation I may construct a composite         
person in yet another fashion, by combining the actual features of two       
or more persons in a single dream-image. It is in this fashion that          
the Dr. M of my dream was constructed; he bears the name of Dr. M, and       
he speaks and acts as Dr. M does, but his bodily characteristics and         
his malady belong to another person, my eldest brother; a single             
feature, paleness, is doubly determined, owing to the fact that it           
is common to both persons. Dr. R, in my dream about my uncle, is a           
similar composite person. But here the dream-image is constructed in         
yet another fashion. I have not united features peculiar to the one          
person with the features of the other, thereby abridging by certain          
features the memory-picture of each; but I have adopted the method           
employed by Galton in producing family portraits; namely, I have             
superimposed the two images, so that the common features stand out           
in stronger relief, while those which do not coincide neutralize one         
another and become indistinct. In the dream of my uncle the fair beard       
stands out in relief, as an emphasized feature, from a physiognomy           
which belongs to two persons, and which is consequently blurred;             
further, in its reference to growing grey the beard contains an              
allusion to my father and to myself.                                         
  The construction of collective and composite persons is one of the         
principal methods of dream-condensation. We shall presently have             
occasion to deal with this in another connection.                            
  The notion of dysentry in the dream of Irma's injection has likewise       
a multiple determination; on the one hand, because of its paraphasic         
assonance with diphtheria. and on the other because of its reference         
to the patient whom I sent to the East, and whose hysteria had been          
wrongly diagnosed.                                                           
  The mention of propyls in the dream proves again to be an                  
interesting case of condensation. Not propyls but amyls were                 
included in the dream-thoughts. One might think that here a simple           
displacement had occured in the course of dream-formation. This is           
in fact the case, but the displacement serves the purposes of the            
condensation, as is shown from the following supplementary analysis:         
If I dwell for a moment upon the word propylen (German) its                  
assonance with the word propylaeum suggests itself to me. But a              
propylaeum is to be found not only in Athens, but also in Munich. In         
the latter city, a year before my dream, I had visited a friend who          
was seriously ill, and the reference to him in trimethylamin, which          
follows closely upon propyls, is unmistakable.                               
  I pass over the striking circumstance that here, as elsewhere in the       
analysis of dreams, associations of the most widely differing values         
are employed for making thought-connections as though they were              
equivalent, and I yield to the temptation to regard the procedure by         
which amyls in the dream-thoughts are replaced in the dream-content by       
propyls as a sort of plastic process.                                        
  On the one hand, here is the group of ideas relating to my friend          
Otto, who does not understand me, thinks I am in the wrong, and              
gives me the liqueur that smells of amyls; on the other hand, there is       
the group of ideas- connected with the first by contrast- relating           
to my Berlin friend who does understand me, who would always think           
that I was right, and to whom I am indebted for so much valuable             
information concerning the chemistry of sexual processes.                    
  What elements in the Otto group are to attract my particular               
attention are determined by the recent circumstances which are               
responsible for the dream; amyls belong to the element so                    
distinguished, which are predestined to find their way into the              
dream-content. The large group of ideas centering upon William is            
actually stimulated by the contrast between William and Otto, and            
those elements in it are emphasized which are in tune with those             
already stirred up in the Otto group. In the whole of this dream I           
am continually recoiling from somebody who excites my displeasure            
towards another person with whom I can at will confront the first;           
trait by trait I appeal to the friend as against the enemy. Thus amyls       
in the Otto group awakes recollections in the other group, also              
belonging to the region of chemistry; trimethylamin, which receives          
support from several quarters, finds its way into the dream-content.         
Amyls, too, might have got into the dream-content unchanged, but it          
yields to the influence of the William group, inasmuch as out of the         
whole range of recollections covered by this name an element is sought       
out which is able to furnish a double determination for amyls. Propyls       
is closely associated with amyls; from the William group comes               
Munich with its propylaeum. Both groups are united in propyls-               
propylaeum. As though by a compromise, this intermediate element             
then makes its way into the dream-content. Here a common mean which          
permits of a multiple determination has been created. It thus                
becomes palpable that a multiple determination must facilitate               
penetration into the dream-content. For the purpose of this                  
mean-formation a displacement of the attention has been unhesitatingly       
effected from what is really intended to something adjacent to it in         
the associations.                                                            
  The study of the dream of Irma's injection has now enabled us to           
obtain some insight into the process of condensation which occurs in         
the formation of dreams. We perceive, as peculiarities of the                
condensing process, a selection of those elements which occur                
several times over in the dream-content, the formation of new                
unities (composite persons, mixed images), and the production of             
common means. The purpose which is served by condensation, and the           
means by which it is brought about, will be investigated when we             
come to study in all their bearings the psychic processes at work in         
the formation of dreams. Let us for the present be content with              
establishing the fact of dream-condensation as a relation between            
the dream-thoughts and the dream-content which deserves attention.           
  The condensation-work of dreams becomes most palpable when it              
takes words and means as its objects. Generally speaking, words are          
often treated in dreams as things, and therefore undergo the same            
combinations as the ideas of things. The results of such dreams are          
comical and bizarre word-formations.                                         
  1. A colleague sent an essay of his, in which he had, in my opinion,       
overestimated the value of a recent physiological discovery, and had         
expressed himself, moreover, in extravagant terms. On the following          
night I dreamed a sentence which obviously referred to this essay:           
"That is a truly norekdal style." The solution of this                       
word-formation at first gave me some difficulty; it was unquestionably       
formed as a parody of the superlatives colossal, pyramidal; but it was       
not easy to say where it came from. At last the monster fell apart           
into the two names Nora and Ekdal, from two well-known plays by Ibsen.       
I had previously read a newspaper article on Ibsen by the writer whose       
latest work I was now criticizing in my dream.                               
  2. One of my female patients dreams that a man with a fair beard and       
a peculiar glittering eye is pointing to a sign-board attached to a          
tree which reads: uclamparia- wet. *                                         
-                                                                            
  * Given by translator, as the author's example could not be                
translated.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  Analysis.- The man was rather authoritative-looking, and his               
peculiar glittering eye at once recalled the church of San Paolo, near       
Rome, where she had seen the mosaic portraits of the Popes. One of the       
early Popes had a golden eye (this is really an optical illusion, to         
which the guides usually call attention). Further associations               
showed that the general physiognomy of the man corresponded with her         
own clergyman (pope), and the shape of the fair beard recalled her           
doctor (myself), while the stature of the man in the dream recalled          
her father. All these persons stand in the same relation to her;             
they are all guiding and directing the course of her life. On                
further questioning, the golden eye recalled gold- money- the rather         
expensive psycho-analytic treatment, which gives her a great deal of         
concern. Gold, moreover, recalls the gold cure for alcoholism- Herr D,       
whom she would have married, if it had not been for his clinging to          
the disgusting alcohol habit- she does not object to anyone's taking         
an occasional drink; she herself sometimes drinks beer and liqueurs.         
This again brings her back to her visit to San Paolo (fuori la mura)         
and its surroundings. She remembers that in the neighbouring monastery       
of the Tre Fontane she drank a liqueur made of eucalyptus by the             
Trappist monks of the monastery. She then relates how the monks              
transformed this malarial and swampy region into a dry and wholesome         
neighbourhood by planting numbers of eucalyptus trees. The word              
uclamparia then resolves itself into eucalyptus and malaria, and the         
word wet refers to the former swampy nature of the locality. Wet             
also suggests dry. Dry is actually the name of the man whom she              
would have married but for his over-indulgence in alcohol. The               
peculiar name of Dry is of Germanic origin (drei = three) and hence,         
alludes to the monastery of the Three (drei) Fountains. In talking           
of Mr. Dry's habit she used the strong expression: "He could drink a         
fountain." Mr. Dry jocosely refers to his habit by saying: "You know I       
must drink because I am always dry" (referring to his name). The             
eucalyptus refers also to her neurosis, which was at first diagnosed         
as malaria. She went to Italy because her attacks of anxiety, which          
were accompanied by marked rigors and shivering, were thought to be of       
malarial origin. She bought some eucalyptus oil from the monks, and          
she maintains that it has done her much good.                                
  The condensation uclamparia- wet is, therefore, the point of               
junction for the dream as well as for the neurosis.                          
  3. In a rather long and confused dream of my own, the apparent             
nucleus of which is a sea-voyage, it occurs to me that the next port         
is Hearsing, and next after that Fliess. The latter is the name of           
my friend in B, to which city I have often journeyed. But Hearsing           
is put together from the names of the places in the neighbourhood of         
Vienna, which so frequently end in "ing": Hietzing, Liesing,                 
Moedling (the old Medelitz, meae deliciae, my joy; that is, my own           
name, the German for joy being Freude), and the English hearsay, which       
points to calumny, and establishes the relation to the indifferent           
dream-stimulus of the day- a poem in Fliegende Blatter about a               
slanderous dwarf, Sagter Hatergesagt (Saidhe Hashesaid). By the              
combination of the final syllable ing with the name Fliess, Vlissingen       
is obtained, which is a real port through which my brother passes when       
he comes to visit us from England. But the English for Vlissingen is         
Flushing, which signifies blushing, and recalls patients suffering           
from erythrophobia (fear of blushing), whom I sometimes treat, and           
also a recent publication of Bechterew's, relating to this neurosis,         
the reading of which angered me. *                                           
-                                                                            
  * The same analysis and synthesis of syllables- a veritable                
chemistry of syllables- serves us for many a jest in waking life.            
"What is the cheapest method of obtaining silver? You go to a field          
where silverberries are growing and pick them; then the berries are          
eliminated and the silver remains in a free state." [Translator's            
example]. The first person who read and criticized this book made            
the objection- with which other readers will probably agree- that "the       
dreamer often appears too witty." That is true, so long as it                
applies to the dreamer; it involves a condemnation only when its             
application is extended to the interpreter of the dream. In waking           
reality I can make very little claim to the predicate witty; if my           
dreams appear witty, this is not the fault of my individuality, but of       
the peculiar psychological conditions under which the dream is               
fabricated, and is intimately connected with the theory of wit and the       
comical. The dream becomes witty because the shortest and most               
direct way to the expression of its thoughts is barred for it: the           
dream is under constraint. My readers may convince themselves that the       
dreams of my patients give the impression of being quite as witty            
(at least, in intention), as my own, and even more so. Nevertheless,         
this reproach impelled me to compare the technique of wit with the           
dream-work.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  4. Upon another occasion I had a dream which consisted of two              
separate parts. The first was the vividly remembered word                    
Autodidasker: the second was a faithful reproduction in the                  
dream-content of a short and harmless fancy which had been developed a       
few days earlier, and which was to the effect that I must tell               
Professor N, when I next saw him: "The patient about whose condition I       
last consulted you is really suffering from a neurosis, just as you          
suspected." So not only must the newly-coined Autodidasker satisfy the       
requirement that it should contain or represent a compressed                 
meaning, but this meaning must have a valid connection with my               
resolve- repeated from waking life- to give Professor N due credit for       
his diagnosis.                                                               
  Now Autodidasker is easily separated into author (German, Autor),          
autodidact, and Lasker, with whom is associated the name Lasalle.            
The first of these words leads to the occasion of the dream- which           
this time is significant. I had brought home to my wife several              
volumes by a well-known author who is a friend of my brother's, and          
who, as I have learned, comes from the same neighbourhood as myself          
(J. J. David). One evening she told me how profoundly impressed she          
had been by the pathetic sadness of a story in one of David's novels         
(a story of wasted talents), and our conversation turned upon the            
signs of talent which we perceive in our own children. Under the             
influence of what she had just read, my wife expressed some concern          
about our children, and I comforted her with the remark that precisely       
such dangers as she feared can be averted by training. During the            
night my thoughts proceeded farther, took up my wife's concern for the       
children, and interwove with it all sorts of other things. Something         
which the novelist had said to my brother on the subject of marriage         
showed my thoughts a by-path which might lead to representation in the       
dream. This path led to Breslau; a lady who was a very good friend           
of ours had married and gone to live there. I found in Breslau               
Lasker and Lasalle, two examples to justify the fear lest our boys           
should be ruined by women, examples which enabled me to represent            
simultaneously two ways of influencing a man to his undoing. * The           
Cherchez la femme, by which these thoughts may be summarized, leads          
me, if taken in another sense, to my brother, who is still married and       
whose name is Alexander. Now I see that Alex, as we abbreviate the           
name, sounds almost like an inversion of Lasker, and that this fact          
must have contributed to send my thoughts on a detour by way of              
Breslau.                                                                     
-                                                                            
  * Lasker died of progressive paralysis; that is, of the consequences       
of an infection caught from a woman (syphilis); Lasalle, also a              
syphilitic, was killed in a duel which he fought on account of the           
lady whom he had been courting.                                              
-                                                                            
  But the playing with names and syllables in which I am here                
engaged has yet another meaning. It represents the wish that my              
brother may enjoy a happy family life, and this in the following             
manner: In the novel of artistic life, L'OEuvre, which, by virtue of         
its content, must have been in association with my dream-thoughts, the       
author, as is well-known, has incidentally given a description of            
his own person and his own domestic happiness, and appears under the         
name of Sandoz. In the metamorphosis of his name he probably went to         
work as follows: Zola, when inverted (as children are fond of                
inverting names) gives Aloz. But this was still too undisguised; he          
therefore replaced the syllable Al, which stands at the beginning of         
the name Alexander, by the third syllable of the same name, sand,            
and thus arrived at Sandoz. My autodidasker originated in a similar          
fashion.                                                                     
  My phantasy- that I am telling Professor N that the patient whom           
we have both seen is suffering from a neurosis- found its way into the       
dream in the following manner: Shortly before the close of my                
working year, I had a patient in whose case my powers of diagnosis           
failed me. A serious organic trouble- possibly some alterative               
degeneration of the spinal cord- was to be assumed, but could not be         
conclusively demonstrated. It would have been tempting to diagnose the       
trouble as a neurosis, and this would have put an end to all my              
difficulties, but for the fact that the sexual anamnesis, failing            
which I am unwilling to admit a neurosis, was so energetically               
denied by the patient. In my embarrassment I called to my assistance         
the physician whom I respect most of all men (as others do also),            
and to whose authority I surrender most completely. He listened to           
my doubts, told me he thought them justified, and then said: "Keep           
on observing the man, it is probably a neurosis." Since I know that he       
does not share my opinions concerning the aetiology of the neuroses, I       
refrained from contradicting him, but I did not conceal my scepticism.       
A few days later I informed the patient that I did not know what to do       
with him, and advised him to go to someone else. Thereupon, to my            
great astonishment, he began to beg my pardon for having lied to me:         
he had felt so ashamed; and now he revealed to me just that piece of         
sexual aetiology which I had expected, and which I found necessary for       
assuming the existence of a neurosis. This was a relief to me, but           
at the same time a humiliation; for I had to admit that my consultant,       
who was not disconcerted by the absence of anamnesis, had judged the         
case more correctly. I made up my mind to tell him, when next I saw          
him, that he had been right and I had been wrong.                            
  This is just what I do in the dream. But what sort of a wish is            
fulfilled if I acknowledge that I am mistaken? This is precisely my          
wish; I wish to be mistaken as regards my fears- that is to say, I           
wish that my wife, whose fears I have appropriated in my                     
dream-thoughts, may prove to be mistaken. The subject to which the           
fact of being right or wrong is related in the dream is not far              
removed from that which is really of interest to the dream-thoughts.         
We have the same pair of alternatives, of either organic or functional       
impairment caused by a woman, or actually by the sexual life- either         
tabetic paralysis or a neurosis- with which latter the nature of             
Lasalle's undoing is indirectly connected.                                   
  In this well-constructed (and on careful analysis quite transparent)       
dream, Professor N appears not merely on account of this analogy,            
and my wish to be proved mistaken, or the associated references to           
Breslau and to the family of our married friend who lives there, but         
also on account of the following little dialogue which followed our          
consultation: After he had acquitted himself of his professional             
duties by making the above-mentioned suggestion, Dr. N proceeded to          
discuss personal matters. "How many children have you now?"- "Six."- A       
thoughtful and respectful gesture.- "Girls, boys?"- "Three of each.          
They are my pride and my riches."- "Well, you must be careful; there         
is no difficulty about the girls, but the boys are a difficulty              
later on as regards their upbringing." I replied that until now they         
had been very tractable; obviously this prognosis of my boys' future         
pleased me as little as his diagnosis of my patient, whom he                 
believed to be suffering only from a neurosis. These two                     
impressions, then, are connected by their continuity, by their being         
successively received; and when I incorporate the story of the               
neurosis into the dream, I substitute it for the conversation on the         
subject of upbringing, which is even more closely connected with the         
dream-thoughts, since it touches so closely upon the anxiety                 
subsequently expressed by my wife. Thus, even my fear that N may prove       
to be right in his remarks on the difficulties to be met with in             
bringing up boys is admitted into the dream-content, inasmuch as it is       
concealed behind the representation of my wish that I may be wrong           
to harbour such apprehensions. The same phantasy serves without              
alteration to represent both the conflicting alternatives.                   
  Examination-dreams present the same difficulties to interpretation         
that I have already described as characteristic of most typical              
dreams. The associative material which the dreamer supplies only             
rarely suffices for interpretation. A deeper understanding of such           
dreams has to be accumulated from a considerable number of examples.         
Not long ago I arrived at a conviction that reassurances like "But you       
already are a doctor," and so on, not only convey a consolation but          
imply a reproach as well. This would have run: "You are already so           
old, so far advanced in life, and yet you still commit such follies,         
are guilty of such childish behaviour." This mixture of self-criticism       
and consolation would correspond with the examination-dreams. After          
this it is no longer surprising that the reproaches in the last              
analysed examples concerning follies and childish behaviour should           
relate to repetitions of reprehensible sexual acts.                          
  The verbal transformations in dreams are very similar to those which       
are known to occur in paranoia, and which are observed also in               
hysteria and obsessions. The linguistic tricks of children, who at a         
certain age actually treat words as objects, and even invent new             
languages and artificial syntaxes, are a common source of such               
occurrences both in dreams and in the psychoneuroses.                        
  The analysis of nonsensical word-formations in dreams is                   
particularly well suited to demonstrate the degree of condensation           
effected in the dream-work. From the small number of the selected            
examples here considered it must not be concluded that such material         
is seldom observed or is at all exceptional. It is, on the contrary,         
very frequent, but, owing to the dependence of dream interpretation on       
psychoanalytic treatment, very few examples are noted down and               
reported, and most of the analyses which are reported are                    
comprehensible only to the specialist in neuropathology.                     
  When a spoken utterance, expressly distinguished as such from a            
thought, occurs in a dream, it is an invariable rule that the                
dream-speech has originated from a remembered speech in the                  
dream-material. The wording of the speech has either been preserved in       
its entirety or has been slightly altered in expression. frequently          
the dream-speech is pieced together from different recollections of          
spoken remarks; the wording has remained the same, but the sense has         
perhaps become ambiguous, or differs from the wording. Not                   
infrequently the dream-speech serves merely as an allusion to an             
incident in connection with which the remembered speech was made. *          
-                                                                            
  * In the case of a young man who was suffering from obsessions,            
but whose intellectual functions were intact and highly developed, I         
recently found the only exception to this rule. The speeches which           
occurred in his dreams did not originate in speeches which he had            
heard had made himself, but corresponded to the undistorted verbal           
expression of his obsessive thoughts, which came to his waking               
consciousness only in an altered form.                                       
                                                                             
VI|B                                                                         
                     B. The Work of Displacement                             
-                                                                            
  Another and probably no less significant relation must have                
already forced itself upon our attention while we were collecting            
examples of dream-condensation. We may have noticed that these               
elements which obtrude themselves in the dream-content as its                
essential components do not by any means play this same part in the          
dream-thoughts. As a corollary to this, the converse of this statement       
is also true. That which is obviously the essential content of the           
dream-thoughts need not be represented at all in the dream. The              
dream is, as it were, centred elsewhere; its content is arranged about       
elements which do not constitute the central point of the                    
dream-thoughts. Thus, for example, in the dream of the botanical             
monograph the central point of the dream-content is evidently the            
element botanical; in the dream-thoughts, we are concerned with the          
complications and conflicts resulting from services rendered between         
colleagues which place them under mutual obligations; later on with          
the reproach that I am in the habit of sacrificing too much time to my       
hobbies; and the element botanical finds no place in this nucleus of         
the dream-thoughts, unless it is loosely connected with it by                
antithesis, for botany was never among my favourite subjects. In the         
Sappho-dream of my patient, ascending and descending, being upstairs         
and down, is made the central point; the dream, however, is                  
concerned with the danger of sexual relations with persons of low            
degree; so that only one of the elements of the dream-thoughts seems         
to have found its way into the dream-content, and this is unduly             
expanded. Again, in the dream of my uncle, the fair beard, which seems       
to be its central point, appears to have no rational connection with         
the desire for greatness which we have recognized as the nucleus of          
the dream-thoughts. Such dreams very naturally give us an impression         
of a displacement. In complete contrast to these examples, the dream         
of Irma's injection shows that individual elements may claim the             
same place in dream-formation as that which they occupy in the               
dream-thoughts. The recognition of this new and utterly inconstant           
relation between the dream-thoughts and the dream-content will               
probably astonish us at first. If we find, in a psychic process of           
normal life, that one idea has been selected from among a number of          
others, and has acquired a particular emphasis in our consciousness,         
we are wont to regard this as proof that a peculiar psychic value (a         
certain degree of interest) attaches to the victorious idea. We now          
discover that this value of the individual element in the                    
dream-thoughts is not retained in dream-formation, or is not taken           
into account. For there is no doubt which of the elements of the             
dream-thoughts are of the highest value; our judgment informs us             
immediately. In dream-formation the essential elements, those that are       
emphasized by intensive interest, may be treated as though they were         
subordinate, while they are replaced in the dream by other elements,         
which were certainly subordinate in the dream-thoughts. It seems at          
first as though the psychic intensity * of individual ideas were of no       
account in their selection for dream-formation, but only their greater       
or lesser multiplicity of determination. One might be inclined to            
think that what gets into the dream is not what is important in the          
dream-thoughts, but what is contained in them several times over;            
but our understanding of dream-formation is not much advanced by             
this assumption; to begin with, we cannot believe that the two motives       
of multiple determination and intrinsic value can influence the              
selection of the dream otherwise than in the same direction. Those           
ideas in the dream-thoughts which are most important are probably also       
those which recur most frequently, since the individual dream-thoughts       
radiate from them as centres. And yet the dream may reject these             
intensely emphasized and extensively reinforced elements, and may take       
up into its content other elements which are only extensively                
reinforced.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * The psychic intensity or value of an idea- the emphasis due to           
interest- is of course to be distinguished from perceptual or                
conceptual intensity.                                                        
-                                                                            
  This difficulty may be solved if we follow up yet another impression       
received during the investigation of the over-determination of the           
dream-content. Many readers of this investigation may already have           
decided, in their own minds, that the discovery of the multiple              
determination of the dream-elements is of no great importance, because       
it is inevitable. Since in analysis we proceed from the                      
dream-elements, and register all the ideas which associate                   
themselves with these elements, is it any wonder that these elements         
should recur with peculiar frequency in the thought-material                 
obtained in this manner? While I cannot admit the validity of this           
objection, I am now going to say something that sounds rather like it:       
Among the thoughts which analysis brings to light are many which are         
far removed from the nucleus of the dream, and which stand out like          
artificial interpolations made for a definite purpose. Their purpose         
may readily be detected; they establish a connection, often a forced         
and far-fetched connection, between the dream-content and the                
dream-thoughts, and in many cases, if these elements were weeded out         
of the analysis, the components of the dream-content would not only          
not be over-determined, but they would not be sufficiently determined.       
We are thus led to the conclusion that multiple determination,               
decisive as regards the selection made by the dream, is perhaps not          
always a primary factor in dream-formation, but is often a secondary         
product of a psychic force which is as yet unknown to us.                    
Nevertheless, it must be of importance for the entrance of the               
individual elements into the dream, for we may observe that, in              
cases where multiple determination does not proceed easily from the          
dream-material, it is brought about with a certain effort.                   
  It now becomes very probable that a psychic force expresses itself         
in the dream-work which, on the one hand, strips the elements of the         
high psychic value of their intensity and, on the other hand, by means       
of over-determination, creates new significant values from elements of       
slight value, which new values then make their way into the                  
dream-content. Now if this is the method of procedure, there has             
occurred in the process of dream-formation a transference and                
displacement of the psychic intensities of the individual elements,          
from which results the textual difference between the dream-content          
and the thought-content. The process which we here assume to be              
operative is actually the most essential part of the dream-work; it          
may fitly be called dream-displacement. Dream-displacement and               
dream-condensation are the two craftsmen to whom we may chiefly              
ascribe the structure of the dream.                                          
  I think it will be easy to recognize the psychic force which               
expresses itself in dream-displacement. The result of this                   
displacement is that the dream-content no longer has any likeness to         
the nucleus of the dream-thoughts, and the dream reproduces only a           
distorted form of the dream-wish in the unconscious. But we are              
already acquainted with dream-distortion; we have traced it back to          
the censorship which one psychic instance in the psychic life                
exercises over another. Dream-displacement is one of the chief means         
of achieving this distortion. Is fecit, cui profuit. * We must               
assume that dream-displacement is brought about by the influence of          
this censorship, the endopsychic defence. *(2)                               
-                                                                            
  * "The doer gained."                                                       
  *(2) Since I regard the attribution of dream-distortion to the             
censorship as the central point of my conception of the dream, I             
will here quote the closing passage of a story, Traumen wie Wachen,          
from Phantasien eines Realisten, by Lynkeus (Vienna, second edition          
[1900]), in which I find this chief feature of my doctrine reproduced:       
  "Concerning a man who possesses the remarkable faculty of never            
dreaming nonsense...."                                                       
  "Your marvellous faculty of dreaming as if you were awake is based         
upon your virtues, upon your goodness, your justice, and your love           
of truth; it is the moral clarity of your nature which makes                 
everything about you intelligible to me."                                    
  "But if I really give thought to the matter," was the reply, "I            
almost believe that all men are made as I am, and that no one ever           
dreams nonsense! A dream which one remembers so distinctly that one          
can relate it afterwards, and which, therefore, is no dream of               
delirium, always has a meaning; why, it cannot be otherwise! For             
that which is in contradiction to itself can never be combined into          
a whole. The fact that time and space are often thoroughly shaken            
up, detracts not at all from the real content of the dream, because          
both are without any significance whatever for its essential                 
content. We often do the same thing in waking life; think of                 
fairy-tales, of so many bold and pregnant creations of fantasy, of           
which only a foolish person would say: 'That is nonsense! For it isn't       
possible.'"                                                                  
  "If only it were always possible to interpret dreams correctly, as         
you have just done with mine!" said the friend.                              
  "That is certainly not an easy task, but with a little attention           
it must always be possible to the dreamer. You ask why it is generally       
impossible? In your case there seems to be something veiled in your          
dreams, something unchaste in a special and exalted fashion, a certain       
secrecy in your nature, which it is difficult to fathom; and that is         
why your dreams so often seem to be without meaning, or even                 
nonsensical. But in the profoundest sense, this is by no means the           
case; indeed it cannot be, for a man is always the same person,              
whether he wakes or dreams."                                                 
-                                                                            
  The manner in which the factors of displacement, condensation and          
over-determination interact with one another in dream-formation- which       
is the ruling factor and which the subordinate one- all this will be         
reserved as a subject for later investigation. In the meantime, we may       
state, is a second condition which the elements that find their way          
into the dream must satisfy, that they must be withdrawn from the            
resistance of the censorship. But henceforth, in the interpretation of       
dreams, we shall reckon with dream-displacement as an unquestionable         
fact.                                                                        
                                                                             
VI|C                                                                         
               C. The Means of Representation in Dreams                      
-                                                                            
  Besides the two factors of condensation and displacement in                
dreams, which we have found to be at work in the transformation of the       
latent dream-material into the manifest dream-content, we shall, in          
the course of this investigation, come upon two further conditions           
which exercise an unquestionable influence over the selection of the         
material that eventually appears in the dream. But first, even at            
the risk of seeming to interrupt our progress, I shall take a                
preliminary glance at the processes by which the interpretation of           
dreams is accomplished. I do not deny that the best way of                   
explaining them, and of convincing the critic of their reliability,          
would be to take a single dream as an example, to detail its                 
interpretation, as I did (in Chapter II) in the case of the dream of         
Irma's injection, but then to assemble the dream-thoughts which I            
had discovered, and from them to reconstruct the formation of the            
dream- that is to say, to supplement dream-analysis by                       
dream-synthesis. I have done this with several specimens for my own          
instruction; but I cannot undertake to do it here, as I am prevented         
by a number of considerations (relating to the psychic material              
necessary for such a demonstration) such as any right-thinking               
person would approve. In the analysis of dreams these considerations         
present less difficulty, for an analysis may be incomplete and still         
retain its value, even if it leads only a little way into the                
structure of the dream. I do not see how a synthesis, to be                  
convincing, could be anything short of complete. I could give a              
complete synthesis only of the dreams of such persons as are unknown         
to the reading public. Since, however, neurotic patients are the             
only persons who furnish me with the means of making such a synthesis,       
this part of the description of dreams must be postponed until I can         
carry the psychological explanation of the neuroses far enough to            
demonstrate their relation to our subject. * This will be done               
elsewhere.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  * I have since given the complete analysis and synthesis of two            
dreams in the Bruchstuck einer Hysterieanalyse, (1905) (Ges.                 
Schriften, Vol. VIII). "Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of                 
Hysteria," translated by Strachey, Collected Papers, Vol III, (Hogarth       
Press, London). O. Rank's analysis, Ein Traum der sich selbst                
deutet, deserves mention as the most complete interpretation of a            
comparatively long dream.                                                    
-                                                                            
  From my attempts to construct dreams synthetically from their              
dream-thoughts, I know that the material which is yielded by                 
interpretation varies in value. Part of it consists of the essential         
dream-thoughts, which would completely replace the dream and would           
in themselves be a sufficient substitute for it, were there no               
dream-censorship. To the other part, one is wont to ascribe slight           
importance, nor does one set any value on the assertion that all these       
thoughts have participated in the formation of the dream; on the             
contrary, they may include notions which are associated with                 
experiences that have occurred subsequently to the dream, between            
the dream and the interpretation. This part comprises not only all the       
connecting-paths which have led from the manifest to the latent              
dream-content, but also the intermediate and approximating                   
associations by means of which one has arrived at a knowledge of these       
connecting-paths during the work of interpretation.                          
  At this point we are interested exclusively in the essential               
dream-thoughts. These commonly reveal themselves as a complex of             
thoughts and memories of the most intricate possible construction,           
with all the characteristics of the thought-processes known to us in         
waking life. Not infrequently they are trains of thought which proceed       
from more than one centre, but which are not without points of               
contact; and almost invariably we find, along with a train of thought,       
its contradictory counterpart, connected with it by the association of       
contrast.                                                                    
  The individual parts of this complicated structure naturally stand         
in the most manifold logical relations to one another. They constitute       
foreground and background, digressions, illustrations, conditions,           
lines of argument and objections. When the whole mass of these               
dream-thoughts is subjected to the pressure of the dream-work,               
during which the fragments are turned about, broken up and                   
compacted, somewhat like drifting ice, the question arises: What             
becomes of the logical ties which had hitherto provided the                  
framework of the structure? What representation do if, because, as           
though, although, either- or and all the other conjunctions, without         
which we cannot understand a phrase or a sentence, receive in our            
dreams?                                                                      
  To begin with, we must answer that the dream has at its disposal           
no means of representing these logical relations between the                 
dream-thoughts. In most cases it disregards all these conjunctions,          
and undertakes the elaboration only of the material content of the           
dream-thoughts. It is left to the interpretation of the dream to             
restore the coherence which the dream-work has destroyed.                    
  If dreams lack the ability to express these relations, the psychic         
material of which they are wrought must be responsible for this              
defect. As a matter of fact, the representative arts- painting and           
sculpture- are similarly restricted, as compared with poetry, which is       
able to employ speech; and here again the reason for this limitation         
lies in the material by the elaboration of which the two plastic             
arts endeavour to express something. Before the art of painting              
arrived at an understanding of the laws of expression by which it is         
bound, it attempted to make up for this deficiency. In old paintings         
little labels hung out of the mouths of the persons represented,             
giving in writing the speech which the artist despaired of                   
expressing in the picture.                                                   
  Here, perhaps an objection will be raised, challenging the assertion       
that our dreams dispense with the representation of logical relations.       
There are dreams in which the most complicated intellectual operations       
take place; arguments for and against are adduced, jokes and                 
comparisons are made, just as in our waking thoughts. But here again         
appearances are deceptive; if the interpretation of such dreams is           
continued it will be found that all these things are dream-material,         
not the representation of intellectual activity in the dream. The            
content of the dream-thoughts is reproduced by the apparent thinking         
in our dreams, but not the relations of the dream-thoughts to one            
another, in the determination of which relations thinking consists.          
I shall give some examples of this. But the fact which is most               
easily established is that all speeches which occur in dreams, and           
which are expressly designated as such, are unchanged or only slightly       
modified replicas of speeches which occur likewise among the                 
memories in the dream-material. Often the speech is only an allusion         
to an event contained in the dream-thoughts; the meaning of the              
dream is quite different.                                                    
  However, I shall not dispute the fact that even critical                   
thought-activity, which does not simply repeat material from the             
dream-thoughts, plays a part in dream-formation. I shall have to             
explain the influence of this factor at the close of this                    
discussion. It will then become clear that this thought activity is          
evoked not by the dream-thoughts, but by the dream itself, after it          
is, in a certain sense, already completed.                                   
  Provisionally, then, it is agreed that the logical relations between       
the dream-thoughts do not obtain any particular representation in            
the dream. For instance, where there is a contradiction in the               
dream, this is either a contradiction directed against the dream             
itself or a contradiction contained in one of the dream-thoughts; a          
contradiction in the dream corresponds with a contradiction between          
the dream-thoughts only in the most indirect and intermediate fashion.       
  But just as the art of painting finally succeeded in depicting, in         
the persons represented, at least the intentions behind their words-         
tenderness, menace, admonition, and the like- by other means than by         
floating labels, so also the dream has found it possible to render           
an account of certain of the logical relations between its                   
dream-thoughts by an appropriate modification of the peculiar method         
of dream-representation. It will be found by experience that different       
dreams go to different lengths in this respect; while one dream will         
entirely disregard the logical structure of its material, another            
attempts to indicate it as completely as possible. In so doing, the          
dream departs more or less widely from the text which it has to              
elaborate; and its attitude is equally variable in respect to the            
temporal articulation of the dream-thoughts, if such has been                
established in the unconscious (as, for example, in the dream of             
Irma's injection).                                                           
  But what are the means by which the dream-work is enabled to               
indicate those relations in the dream-material which are difficult           
to represent? I shall attempt to enumerate these, one by one.                
  In the first place, the dream renders an account of the connection         
which is undeniably present between all the portions of the                  
dream-thoughts by combining this material into a unity as a                  
situation or a proceeding. It reproduces logical connections in the          
form of simultaneity; in this case it behaves rather like the                
painter who groups together all the philosophers or poets in a picture       
of the School of Athens, or Parnassus. They never were assembled in          
any hall or on any mountain-top, although to the reflective mind             
they do constitute a community.                                              
  The dream carries out in detail this mode of representation.               
Whenever it shows two elements close together, it vouches for a              
particularly intimate connection between their corresponding                 
representatives in the dream-thoughts. It is as in our method of             
writing: to signifies that the two letters are to be pronounced as one       
syllable; while t with o following a blank space indicates that t is         
the last letter of one word and o the first letter of another.               
Consequently, dream-combinations are not made up of arbitrary,               
completely incongruous elements of the dream-material, but of elements       
that are pretty intimately related in the dream-thoughts also.               
  For representing causal relations our dreams employ two methods,           
which are essentially reducible to one. The method of representation         
more frequently employed- in cases, for example, where the                   
dream-thoughts are to the effect: "Because this was thus and thus,           
this and that must happen"- consists in making the subordinate               
clause a prefatory dream and joining the principal clause on to it           
in the form of the main dream. If my interpretation is correct, the          
sequence may likewise be reversed. The principal clause always               
corresponds to that part of the dream which is elaborated in the             
greatest detail.                                                             
  An excellent example of such a representation of causality was             
once provided by a female patient, whose dream I shall subsequently          
give in full. The dream consisted of a short prologue, and of a very         
circumstantial and very definitely centred dream-composition. I              
might entitle it "Flowery language." The preliminary dream is as             
follows: She goes to the two maids in the kitchen and scolds them            
for taking so long to prepare "a little bite of food." She also sees a       
very large number of heavy kitchen utensils in the kitchen turned            
upside down in order to drain, even heaped up in stacks. The two maids       
go to fetch water, and have, as it were, to climb into a river,              
which reaches up to the house or into the courtyard.                         
  Then follows the main dream, which begins as follows: She is               
climbing down from a height over a curiously shaped trellis, and she         
is glad that her dress doesn't get caught anywhere, etc. Now the             
preliminary dream refers to the house of the lady's parents. The words       
which are spoken in the kitchen are words which she has probably often       
heard spoken by her mother. The piles of clumsy pots and pans are            
taken from an unpretentious hardware shop located in the same house.         
The second part of this dream contains an allusion to the dreamer's          
father, who was always pestering the maids, and who during a flood-          
for the house stood close to the bank of the river- contracted a fatal       
illness. The thought which is concealed behind the preliminary dream         
is something like this: "Because I was born in this house, in such           
sordid and unpleasant surroundings..." The main dream takes up the           
same thought, and presents it in a form that has been altered by a           
wish-fulfilment: "I am of exalted origin." Properly then: "Because I         
am of such humble origin, the course of my life has been so and so."         
  As far as I can see, the division of a dream into two unequal              
portions does not always signify a causal relation between the               
thoughts of the two portions. It often seems as though in the two            
dreams the same material were presented from different points of view;       
this is certainly the case when a series of dreams, dreamed the same         
night, end in a seminal emission, the somatic need enforcing a more          
and more definite expression. Or the two dreams have proceeded from          
two separate centres in the dream-material, and they overlap one             
another in the content, so that the subject which in one dream               
constitutes the centre cooperates in the other as an allusion, and           
vice versa. But in a certain number of dreams the division into              
short preliminary dreams and long subsequent dreams actually signifies       
a causal relation between the two portions. The other method of              
representing the causal relation is employed with less comprehensive         
material, and consists in the transformation of an image in the              
dream into another image, whether it be of a person or a thing. Only         
where this transformation is actually seen occurring in the dream            
shall we seriously insist on the causal relation; not where we               
simply note that one thing has taken the place of another. I said that       
both methods of representing the causal relation are really                  
reducible to the same method; in both cases causation is represented         
by succession, sometimes by the succession of dreams, sometimes by the       
immediate transformation of one image into another. In the great             
majority of cases, of course, the causal relation is not represented         
at all, but is effaced amidst the succession of elements that is             
unavoidable even in the dream-process.                                       
  Dreams are quite incapable of expressing the alternative either- or;       
it is their custom to take both members of this alternative into the         
same context, as though they had an equal right to be there. A classic       
example of this is contained in the dream of Irma's injection. Its           
latent thoughts obviously mean: I am not responsible for the                 
persistence of Irma's pains; the responsibility rests either with            
her resistance to accepting the solution or with the fact that she           
is living under unfavourable sexual conditions, which I am unable to         
change, or her pains are not hysterical at all, but organic. The             
dream, however, carries out all these possibilities, which are               
almost mutually exclusive, and is quite ready to add a fourth solution       
derived from the dream-wish. After interpreting the dream, I then            
inserted the either- or in its context in the dream-thoughts.                
  But when in narrating a dream the narrator is inclined to employ the       
alternative either- or: "It was either a garden or a living-room,"           
etc., there is not really an alternative in the dream-thoughts, but an       
and- a simple addition. When we use either- or we are as a rule              
describing a quality of vagueness in some element of the dream, but          
a vagueness which may still be cleared up. The rule to be applied in         
this case is as follows: The individual members of the alternative are       
to be treated as equal and connected by an and. For instance, after          
waiting long and vainly for the address of a friend who is                   
travelling in Italy, I dream that I receive a telegram which gives           
me the address. On the telegraph form I see printed in blue letters:         
the first word is blurred- perhaps via or villa; the second is               
distinctly Sezerno, or even (Casa). The second word, which reminds           
me of Italian names, and of our discussions on etymology, also               
expresses my annoyance in respect of the fact that my friend has             
kept his address a secret from me; but each of the possible first            
three words may be recognized on analysis as an independent and              
equally justifiable starting-point in the concatenation of ideas.            
  During the night before the funeral of my father I dreamed of a            
printed placard, a card or poster rather like the notices in the             
waiting-rooms of railway stations which announce that smoking is             
prohibited. The sign reads either:                                           
-                                                                            
            You are requested to shut the eyes                               
              or                                                             
            You are requested to shut one eye                                
-                                                                            
  an alternative which I am in the habit of representing in the              
following form:                                                              
-                                                                            
  -                                   the                                    
            You are requested to shut     eye(s).                            
  -                                   one                                    
-                                                                            
  Each of the two versions has its special meaning, and leads along          
particular paths in the dream-interpretation. I had made the                 
simplest possible funeral arrangements, for I knew what the deceased         
thought about such matters. Other members of the family, however,            
did not approve of such puritanical simplicity; they thought we should       
feel ashamed in the presence of the other mourners. Hence one of the         
wordings of the dream asks for the shutting of one eye, that is to           
say, it asks that people should show consideration. The significance         
of the vagueness, which is here represented by an either- or, is             
plainly to be seen. The dream-work has not succeeded in concocting a         
coherent and yet ambiguous wording for the dream-thoughts. Thus the          
two principal trains of thought are separated from each other, even in       
the dream-content.                                                           
  In some few cases the division of a dream into two equal parts             
expresses the alternative which the dream finds it so difficult to           
present.                                                                     
  The attitude of dreams to the category of antithesis and                   
contradiction is very striking. This category is simply ignored; the         
word No does not seem to exist for a dream. Dreams are particularly          
fond of reducing antitheses to uniformity. or representing them as one       
and the same thing. Dreams likewise take the liberty of representing         
any element whatever by its desired opposite, so that it is at first         
impossible to tell, in respect of any element which is capable of            
having an opposite, whether it is contained in the dream-thoughts in         
the negative or the positive sense. * In one of the recently cited           
dreams, whose introductory portion we have already interpreted               
("because my origin is so and so"), the dreamer climbs down over a           
trellis, and holds a blossoming bough in her hands. Since this picture       
suggests to her the angel in paintings of the Annunciation (her own          
name is Mary) bearing a lily-stem in his hand, and the white-robed           
girls walking in procession on Corpus Christi Day, when the streets          
are decorated with green boughs, the blossoming bough in the dream           
is quite clearly an allusion to sexual innocence. But the bough is           
thickly studded with red blossoms, each of which resembles a camellia.       
At the end of her walk (so the dream continues) the blossoms are             
already beginning to fall; then follow unmistakable allusions to             
menstruation. But this very bough, which is carried like a lily-stem         
and as though by an innocent girl, is also an allusion to Camille,           
who, as we know, usually wore a white camellia, but a red one during         
menstruation. The same blossoming bough ("the flower of maidenhood" in       
Goethe's songs of the miller's daughter) represents at once sexual           
innocence and its opposite. Moreover, the same dream, which                  
expresses the dreamer's joy at having succeeded in passing through           
life unsullied, hints in several places (as in the falling of the            
blossom) at the opposite train of thought, namely, that she had been         
guilty of various sins against sexual purity (that is, in her                
childhood). In the analysis of the dream we may clearly distinguish          
the two trains of thought, of which the comforting one seems to be           
superficial, and the reproachful one more profound. The two are              
diametrically opposed to each other, and their similar yet contrasting       
elements have been represented by identical dream-elements.                  
-                                                                            
  * From a work of K. Abel's, Der Gegensinn der Urworte, (1884), see         
my review of it in the Bleuler-Freud Jahrbuch, ii (1910) (Ges.               
Schriften Vol. X). I learned the surprising fact, which is confirmed         
by other philologists, that the oldest languages behaved just as             
dreams do in this regard. They had originally only one word for both         
extremes in a series of qualities or activities (strong- weak, old-          
young, far- near, bind- separate), and formed separate designations          
for the two opposites only secondarily, by slight modifications of the       
common primitive word. Abel demonstrates a very large number of              
those relationships in ancient Egyptian, and points to distinct              
remnants of the same development in the Semitic and Indo-Germanic            
languages.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  The mechanism of dream-formation is favourable in the highest degree       
to only one of the logical relations. This relation is that of               
similarity, agreement, contiguity, just as; a relation which may be          
represented in our dreams, as no other can be, by the most varied            
expedients. The screening which occurs in the dream-material, or the         
cases of just as are the chief points of support for                         
dream-formation, and a not inconsiderable part of the dream-work             
consists in creating new screenings of this kind in cases where              
those that already exist are prevented by the resistance of the              
censorship from making their way into the dream. The effort towards          
condensation evinced by the dream-work facilitates the                       
representation of a relation of similarity.                                  
  Similarity, agreement, community, are quite generally expressed in         
dreams by contraction into a unity, which is either already found in         
the dream-material or is newly created. The first case may be referred       
to as identification, the second as composition. Identification is           
used where the dream is concerned with persons, composition where            
things constitute the material to be unified; but compositions are           
also made of persons. Localities are often treated as persons.               
  Identification consists in giving representation in the                    
dream-content to only one of two or more persons who are related by          
some common feature, while the second person or other persons appear         
to be suppressed as far as the dream is concerned. In the dream this         
one "screening" person enters into all the relations and situations          
which derive from the persons whom he screens. In cases of                   
composition, however, when persons are combined, there are already           
present in the dream-image features which are characteristic of, but         
not common to, the persons in question, so that a new unity, a               
composite person, appears as the result of the union of these                
features. The combination itself may be effected in various ways.            
Either the dream-person bears the name of one of the persons to whom         
he refers- and in this case we simply know, in a manner that is              
quite analogous to knowledge in waking life, that this or that               
person is intended- while the visual features belong to another              
person; or the dream-image itself is compounded of visual features           
which in reality are derived from the two. Also, in place of the             
visual features, the part played by the second person may be                 
represented by the attitudes and gestures which are usually ascribed         
to him by the words he speaks, or by the situations in which he is           
placed. In this latter method of characterization the sharp                  
distinction between the identification and the combination of                
persons begins to disappear. But it may also happen that the formation       
of such a composite person is unsuccessful. The situations or                
actions of the dream are then attributed to one person, and the other-       
as a rule the more important- is introduced as an inactive                   
spectator. Perhaps the dreamer will say: "My mother was there too"           
(Stekel). Such an element of the dream-content is then comparable to a       
determinative in hieroglyphic script which is not meant to be                
expressed, but is intended only to explain another sign.                     
  The common feature which justifies the union of two persons- that is       
to say, which enables it to be made- may either be represented in            
the dream or it may be absent. As a rule, identification or                  
composition of persons actually serves to avoid the necessity of             
representing this common feature. Instead of repeating: "A is                
ill-disposed towards me, and so is B," I make, in my dream, a                
composite person of A and B; or I conceive A as doing something              
which is alien to his character, but which is characteristic of B. The       
dream-person obtained in this way appears in the dream in some new           
connection, and the fact that he signifies both A and B justifies my         
inserting that which is common to both persons- their hostility              
towards me- at the proper place in the dream-interpretation. In this         
manner I often achieve a quite extraordinary degree of condensation of       
the dream-content; I am able to dispense with the direct                     
representation of the very complicated relations belonging to one            
person, if I can find a second person who has an equal claim to some         
of these relations. It will be readily understood how far this               
representation by means of identification may circumvent the censoring       
resistance which sets up such harsh conditions for the dream-work. The       
thing that offends the censorship may reside in those very ideas which       
are connected in the dream-material with the one person; I now find          
a second person, who likewise stands in some relation to the                 
objectionable material, but only to a part of it. Contact at that            
one point which offends the censorship now justifies my formation of a       
composite person, who is characterized by the indifferent features           
of each. This person, the result of combination or identification,           
being free of the censorship, is now suitable for incorporation in the       
dream-content. Thus, by the application of dream-condensation, I             
have satisfied the demands of the dream-censorship.                          
  When a common feature of two persons is represented in a dream, this       
is usually a hint to look for another concealed common feature, the          
representation of which is made impossible by the censorship. Here a         
displacement of the common feature has occurred, which in some               
degree facilitates representation. From the circumstance that the            
composite person is shown to me in the dream with an indifferent             
common feature, I must infer that another common feature which is by         
no means indifferent exists in the dream-thoughts.                           
  Accordingly, the identification or combination of persons serves           
various purposes in our dreams; in the first place, that of                  
representing a feature common to two persons; secondly, that of              
representing a displaced common feature; and, thirdly, that of               
expressly a community of features which is merely wished for. As the         
wish for a community of features in two persons often coincides with         
the interchanging of these persons, this relation also is expressed in       
dreams by identification. In the dream of Irma's injection I wish to         
exchange one patient for another- that is to say, I wish this other          
person to be my patient, as the former person has been; the dream            
deals with this wish by showing me a person who is called Irma, but          
who is examined in a position such as I have had occasion to see             
only the other person occupy. In the dream about my uncle this               
substitution is made the centre of the dream; I identify myself with         
the minister by judging and treating my colleagues as shabbily as            
lie does.                                                                    
  It has been my experience- and to this I have found no exception-          
that every dream treats of oneself. Dreams are absolutely egoistic. *        
In cases where not my ego but only a strange person occurs in the            
dream-content, I may safely assume that by means of identification           
my ego is concealed behind that person. I am permitted to supplement         
my ego. On other occasions, when my ego appears in the dream, the            
situation in which it is placed tells me that another person is              
concealing himself, by means of identification, behind the ego. In           
this case I must be prepared to find that in the interpretation I            
should transfer something which is connected with this person- the           
hidden common feature- to myself. There are also dreams in which my          
ego appears together with other persons who, when the identification         
is resolved, once more show themselves to be my ego. Through these           
identifications I shall then have to connect with my ego certain ideas       
to which the censorship has objected. I may also give my ego                 
multiple representation in my dream, either directly or by means of          
identification with other people. By means of several such                   
identifications an extraordinary amount of thought material may be           
condensed. *(2) That one's ego should appear in the same dream several       
times or in different forms is fundamentally no more surprising than         
that it should appear, in conscious thinking, many times and in              
different places or in different relations: as, for example, in the          
sentence: "When I think what a healthy child I was."                         
-                                                                            
  * Cf. here the observations made in chapter V.                             
  *(2) If I do not know behind which of the persons appearing in the         
dream I am to look for my ego. I observe the following rule: That            
person in the dream who is subject to an emotion which I am aware of         
while asleep is the one that conceals my ego.                                
-                                                                            
  Still easier than in the case of persons is the resolution of              
identifications in the case of localities designated by their own            
names, as here the disturbing influence of the all-powerful ego is           
lacking. In one of my dreams of Rome (chapter V., B.) the name of            
the place in which I find myself is Rome: I am surprised, however,           
by a large number of German placards at a street corner. This last           
is a wish-fulfilment, which immediately suggests Prague; the wish            
itself probably originated at a period of my youth when I was imbued         
with a German nationalistic spirit which today is quite subdued. At          
the time of my dream I was looking forward to meeting a friend in            
Prague; the identification of Rome with Prague is therefore                  
explained by a desired common feature; I would rather meet my friend         
in Rome than in Prague; for the purpose of this meeting I should             
like to exchange Prague for Rome.                                            
  The possibility of creating composite formations is one of the chief       
causes of the fantastic character so common in dreams. in that it            
introduces into the dream-content elements which could never have been       
objects of perception. The psychic process which occurs in the               
creation of composite formations is obviously the same as that which         
we employ in conceiving or figuring a dragon or a centaur in our             
waking senses. The only difference is that, in the fantastic creations       
of waking life, the impression intended is itself the decisive factor,       
while the composite formation in the dream is determined by a                
factor- the common feature in the dream-thoughts- which is independent       
of its form. Composite formations in dreams may be achieved in a great       
many different ways. In the most artless of these methods, only the          
properties of the one thing are represented, and this representation         
is accompanied by a knowledge that they refer to another object              
also. A more careful technique combines features of the one object           
with those of the other in a new image, while it makes skillful use of       
any really existing resemblances between the two objects. The new            
creation may prove to be wholly absurd, or even successful as a              
phantasy, according as the material and the wit employed in                  
constructing it may permit. If the objects to be condensed into a            
unity are too incongruous, the dream-work is content with creating a         
composite formation with a comparatively distinct nucleus, to which          
are attached more indefinite modifications. The unification into one         
image has here been to some extent unsuccessful; the two                     
representations overlap one another, and give rise to something like a       
contest between the visual images. Similar representations might be          
obtained in a drawing if one were to attempt to give form to a unified       
abstraction of disparate perceptual images.                                  
  Dreams naturally abound in such composite formations; I have given         
several examples of these in the dreams already analysed, and will now       
cite more such examples. In the dream earlier in this chapter which          
describes the career of my patient in flowery language, the                  
dream-ego carries a spray of blossoms in her hand which, as we have          
seen, signifies at once sexual innocence and sexual transgression.           
Moreover, from the manner in which the blossoms are set on, they             
recall cherry-blossom; the blossoms themselves, considered singly, are       
camellias, and finally the whole spray gives the dreamer the                 
impression of an exotic plant. The common feature in the elements of         
this composite formation is revealed by the dream-thoughts. The              
blossoming spray is made up of allusions to presents by which she            
was induced or was to have been induced to behave in a manner                
agreeable to the giver. So it was with cherries in her childhood,            
and with a camellia-tree in her later years; the exotic character is         
an allusion to a much-travelled naturalist, who sought to win her            
favour by means of a drawing of a flower. Another female patient             
contrives a composite mean out of bathing machines at a seaside              
resort, country privies, and the attics of our city dwelling-houses. A       
reference to human nakedness and exposure is common to the first two         
elements; and we may infer from their connection with the third              
element that (in her childhood) the garret was likewise the scene of         
bodily exposure. A dreamer of the male sex makes a composite                 
locality out of two places in which "treatment" is given- my office          
and the assembly rooms in which he first became acquainted with his          
wife. Another, a female patient, after her elder brother has                 
promised to regale her with caviar, dreams that his legs are covered         
all over with black beads of caviar. The two elements, taint in a            
moral sense and the recollection of a cutaneous eruption in                  
childhood which made her legs look as though studded over with red           
instead of black spots, have here combined with the beads of caviar to       
form a new idea- the idea of what she gets from her brother. In this         
dream parts of the human body are treated as objects, as is usually          
the case in dreams. In one of the dreams recorded by Ferenczi there          
occurs a composite formation made up of the person of a physician            
and a horse, and this composite being wears a night-shirt. The               
common feature in these three components was revealed in the analysis,       
after the nightshirt had been recognized as an allusion to the               
father of the dreamer in a scene of childhood. In each of the three          
cases there was some object of her sexual curiosity. As a child she          
had often been taken by her nurse to the army stud, where she had            
the amplest opportunity to satisfy her curiosity, at that time still         
uninhibited.                                                                 
  I have already stated that the dream has no means of expressing            
the relation of contradiction, contrast, negation. I shall now               
contradict this assertion for the first time. A certain number of            
cases of what may be summed up under the word contrast obtain                
representation, as we have seen, simply by means of identification-          
that is when an exchange, a substitution, can be bound up with the           
contrast. Of this we have cited repeated examples. Certain other of          
the contrasts in the dream-thoughts, which perhaps come under the            
category of inverted, united into the opposite, are represented in           
dreams in the following remarkable manner, which may almost be               
described as witty. The inversion does not itself make its way into          
the dream-content, but manifests its presence in the material by the         
fact that a part of the already formed dream-content which is, for           
other reasons, closely connected in context is- as it were                   
subsequently- inverted. It is easier to illustrate this process than         
to describe it. In the beautiful "Up and Down" dream (this chapter,          
A.), the dream-representation of ascending is an inversion of its            
prototype in the dream-thoughts: that is, of the introductory scene of       
Daudet's Sappho; in the dream, climbing is difficult at first and easy       
later on, whereas, in the novel, it is easy at first, and later              
becomes more and more difficult. Again, above and below, with                
reference to the dreamer's brother, are reversed in the dream. This          
points to a relation of inversion or contrast between two parts of the       
material in the dream-thoughts, which indeed we found in them, for           
in the childish phantasy of the dreamer he is carried by his nurse,          
while in the novel, on the contrary, the hero carries his beloved.           
My dream of Goethe's attack on Herr M (to be cited later) likewise           
contains an inversion of this sort, which must be set right before the       
dream can be interpreted. In this dream, Goethe attacks a young man,         
Herr M; the reality, as contained in the dream-thoughts, is that an          
eminent man, a friend of mine, has been attacked by an unknown young         
author. In the dream I reckon time from the date of Goethe's death; in       
reality the reckoning was made from the year in which the paralytic          
was born. The thought which influences the dream-material reveals            
itself as my opposition to the treatment of Goethe as though he were a       
lunatic. "It is the other way about," says the dream; "if you don't          
understand the book it is you who are feeble-minded, not the                 
author." All these dreams of inversion, moreover, seem to me to              
imply an allusion to the contemptuous phrase, "to turn one's back upon       
a person" (German: einem die Kehrseite zeigen, lit. to show a person         
one's backside): cf. the inversion in respect of the dreamer's brother       
in the Sappho dream. It is further worth noting how frequently               
inversion is employed in precisely those dreams which are inspired           
by repressed homosexual impulses.                                            
  Moreover, inversion, or transformation into the opposite, is one           
of the most favoured and most versatile methods of representation            
which the dream-work has at its disposal. It serves, in the first            
place, to enable the wish-fulfilment to prevail against a definite           
element of the dream-thoughts. "If only it were the other way                
about!" is often the best expression for the reaction of the ego             
against a disagreeable recollection. But inversion becomes                   
extraordinarily useful in the service of the censorship, for it              
effects, in the material to be represented, a degree of distortion           
which at first simply paralyses our understanding of the dream. It           
is therefore always permissible, if a dream stubbornly refuses to            
surrender its meaning, to venture on the experimental inversion of           
definite portions of its manifest content. Then, not infrequently,           
everything becomes clear.                                                    
  Besides the inversion of content, the temporal inversion must not be       
overlooked. A frequent device of dream-distortion consists in                
presenting the final issue of the event or the conclusion of the train       
of thought at the beginning of the dream, and appending at the end           
of the dream the premises of the conclusion, or the causes of the            
event. Anyone who forgets this technical device of dream-distortion          
stands helpless before the problem of dream-interpretation. *                
-                                                                            
  * The hysterical attack often employs the same device of temporal          
inversion in order to conceal its meaning from the observer. The             
attack of a hysterical girl, for example, consists in enacting a             
little romance, which she has imagined in the unconscious in                 
connection with an encounter in a tram. A man, attracted by the beauty       
of her foot, addresses her while she is reading, whereupon she goes          
with him and a passionate love-scene ensues. Her attack begins with          
the representation of this scene by writhing movements of the body           
(accompanied by movements of the lips and folding of the arms to             
signify kisses and embraces), whereupon she hurries into the next            
room, sits down on a chair, lifts her skirt in order to show her foot,       
acts as though she were about to read a book, and speaks to me               
(answers me). Cf. the observation of Artemidorus: "In interpreting           
dream-stories, one must consider them the first time from the                
beginning to the end, and the second time from the end to the                
beginning."                                                                  
-                                                                            
  In many cases, indeed, we discover the meaning of the dream only           
when we have subjected the dream-content to a multiple inversion, in         
accordance with the different relations. For example, in the dream           
of a young patient who is suffering from obsessional neurosis, the           
memory of the childish death-wish directed against a dreaded father          
concealed itself behind the following words: His father scolds him           
because he comes home so late, but the context of the                        
psycho-analytic treatment and the impressions of the dreamer show that       
the sentence must be read as follows: He is angry with his father, and       
further, that his father always came home too early (i.e., too               
soon). He would have preferred that his father should not come home at       
all, which is identical with the wish (see chapter V., D.) that his          
father would die. As a little boy, during the prolonged absence of his       
father, the dreamer was guilty of a sexual aggression against                
another child, and was punished by the threat: "Just you wait until          
your father comes home!"                                                     
 
  If we should seek to trace the relations between the dream-content         
and the dream-thoughts a little farther, we shall do this best by            
making the dream itself our point of departure, and asking                   
ourselves: What do certain formal characteristics of the                     
dream-presentation signify in relation to the dream-thoughts? First          
and foremost among the formal characteristics which are bound to             
impress us in dreams are the differences in the sensory intensity of         
the single dream-images, and in the distinctness of various parts of         
the dream, or of whole dreams as compared with one another. The              
differences in the intensity of individual dream-images cover the            
whole gamut, from a sharpness of definition which one is inclined-           
although without warrant- to rate more highly than that of reality, to       
a provoking indistinctness which we declare to be characteristic of          
dreams, because it really is not wholly comparable to any of the             
degrees of indistinctness which we occasionally perceive in real             
objects. Moreover, we usually describe the impression which we receive       
of an indistinct object in a dream as fleeting, while we think of            
the more distinct dream-images as having been perceptible also for a         
longer period of time. We must now ask ourselves by what conditions in       
the dream-material these differences in the distinctness of the              
individual portions of the dream-content are brought about.                  
  Before proceeding farther, it is necessary to deal with certain            
expectations which seem to be almost inevitable. Since actual                
sensations experienced during sleep may constitute part of the               
dream-material, it will probably be assumed that these sensations,           
or the dream-elements resulting from them, are emphasized by a special       
intensity, or conversely, that anything which is particularly vivid in       
the dream can probably be traced to such real sensations during sleep.       
My experience, however, has never confirmed this. It is not true             
that those elements of a dream which are derivatives of real                 
impressions perceived in sleep (nerve stimuli) are distinguished by          
their special vividness from others which are based on memories. The         
factor of reality is inoperative in determining the intensity of             
dream-images.                                                                
  Further, it might be expected that the sensory intensity (vividness)       
of single dream-images is in proportion to the psychic intensity of          
the elements corresponding to them in the dream-thoughts. In the             
latter, intensity is identical with psychic value; the most intense          
elements are in fact the most significant, and these constitute the          
central point of the dream-thoughts. We know, however, that it is            
precisely these elements which are usually not admitted to the               
dream-content, owing to the vigilance of the censorship. Still, it           
might be possible for their most immediate derivatives, which                
represent them in the dream, to reach a higher degree of intensity           
without, however, for that reason constituting the central point of          
the dream-representation. This assumption also vanishes as soon as           
we compare the dream and the dream-material. The intensity of the            
elements in the one has nothing to do with the intensity of the              
elements in the other; as a matter of fact, a complete                       
transvaluation of all psychic values takes place between the                 
dream-material and the dream. The very element of the dream which is         
transient and hazy, and screened by more vigorous images, is often           
discovered to be the one and only direct derivative of the topic             
that completely dominates the dream-thoughts.                                
  The intensity of the dream-elements proves to be determined in a           
different manner: that is, by two factors which are mutually                 
independent. It will readily be understood that, those elements by           
means of which the wish-fulfilment expresses itself are those which          
are intensely represented. But analysis tells us that from the most          
vivid elements of the dream the greatest number of trains of thought         
proceed, and that those which are most vivid are at the same time            
those which are best determined. No change of meaning is involved if         
we express this latter empirical proposition in the following formula:       
The greatest intensity is shown by those elements of the dream for           
whose formation the most extensive condensation-work was required.           
We may, therefore, expect that it will be possible to express this           
condition, as well as the other condition of the wish-fulfilment, in a       
single formula.                                                              
  I must utter a warning that the problem which I have just been             
considering- the causes of the greater or lesser intensity or                
distinctness of single elements in dreams- is not to be confounded           
with the other problem- that of variations in the distinctness of            
whole dreams or sections of dreams. In the former case the opposite of       
distinctness is haziness; in the latter, confusion. It is, of                
course, undeniable that in both scales the two kinds of intensities          
rise and fall in unison. A portion of the dream which seems clear to         
us usually contains vivid elements; an obscure dream, on the contrary,       
is composed of less vivid elements. But the problem offered by the           
scale of definition, which ranges from the apparently clear to the           
indistinct or confused, is far more complicated than the problem of          
fluctuations in vividness of the dream-elements. For reasons which           
will be given later, the former cannot at this stage be further              
discussed. In isolated cases one observes, not without surprise,             
that the impression of distinctness or indistinctness produced by a          
dream has nothing to do with the dream-structure, but proceeds from          
the dream-material, as one of its ingredients. Thus, for example, I          
remember a dream which on waking seemed so particularly                      
well-constructed, flawless and clear that I made up my mind, while I         
was still in a somnolent state, to admit a new category of dreams-           
those which had not been subject to the mechanism of condensation            
and distortion, and which might thus be described as phantasies during       
sleep. A closer examination, however, proved that this unusual dream         
suffered from the same structural flaws and breaches as exist in all         
other dreams; so I abandoned the idea of a category of                       
dream-phantasies. * The content of the dream, reduced to its lowest          
terms, was that I was expounding to a friend a difficult and                 
long-sought theory of bisexuality, and the wish-fulfilling power of          
the dream was responsible for the fact that this theory (which, by the       
way, was not communicated in the dream) appeared to be so lucid and          
flawless. Thus, what I believed to be a judgment as regards the              
finished dream was a part, and indeed the most essential part, of            
the dream-content. Here the dream-work reached out, as it were, into         
my first waking thoughts, and presented to me, in the form of a              
judgment of the dream, that part of the dream-material which it had          
failed to represent with precision in the dream. I was once confronted       
with the exact counterpart of this case by a female patient who at           
first absolutely declined to relate a dream which was necessary for          
the analysis "because it was so hazy and confused," and who finally          
declared, after repeatedly protesting the inaccuracy of her                  
description, that it seemed to her that several persons- herself,            
her husband, and her father- had occurred in the dream, and that she         
had not known whether her husband was her father, or who really was          
her father, or something of that sort. Comparison of this dream with         
the ideas which occurred to the dreamer in the course of the sitting         
showed beyond a doubt that it dealt with the rather commonplace              
story of a maidservant who has to confess that she is expecting a            
child, and hears doubts expressed as to "who the father really               
is." *(2) The obscurity manifested by this dream, therefore, was once        
more a portion of the dream-exciting material. A fragment of this            
material was represented in the form of the dream. The form of the           
dream or of dreaming is employed with astonishing frequency to               
represent the concealed content.                                             
-                                                                            
  * I do not know today whether I was justified in doing so.                 
  *(2) Accompanying hysterical symptoms; amenorrhoea and profound            
depression were the chief troubles of this patient.                          
-                                                                            
  Glosses on the dream, and seemingly harmless comments on it, often         
serve in the most subtle manner to conceal- although, of course,             
they really betray- a part of what is dreamed. As, for example, when         
the dreamer says: Here the dream was wiped out, and the analysis gives       
an infantile reminiscence of listening to someone cleaning himself           
after defecation. Or another example, which deserves to be recorded in       
detail: A young man has a very distinct dream, reminding him of              
phantasies of his boyhood which have remained conscious. He found            
himself in a hotel at a seasonal resort; it was night; he mistook            
the number of his room, and entered a room in which an elderly lady          
and her two daughters were undressing to go to bed. He continues:            
"Then there are some gaps in the dream; something is missing; and at         
the end there was a man in the room, who wanted to throw me out, and         
with whom I had to struggle." He tries in vain to recall the content         
and intention of the boyish phantasy to which the dream obviously            
alluded. But we finally become aware that the required content had           
already been given in his remarks concerning the indistinct part of          
the dream. The gaps are the genital apertures of the women who are           
going to bed: Here something is missing describes the principal              
characteristic of the female genitals. In his young days he burned           
with curiosity to see the female genitals, and was still inclined to         
adhere to the infantile sexual theory which attributes a male organ to       
women.                                                                       
  A very similar form was assumed in an analogous reminiscence of            
another dreamer. He dreamed: I go with Fraulein K into the                   
restaurant of the Volksgarten... then comes a dark place, an                 
interruption... then I find myself in the salon of a brothel, where          
I see two or three women, one in a chemise and drawers.                      
  Analysis. Fraulein K is the daughter of his former employer; as he         
himself admits, she was a sister-substitute. He rarely had the               
opportunity of talking to her, but they once had a conversation in           
which "one recognized one's sexuality, so to speak, as though one were       
to say: I am a man and you are a woman." He had been only once to            
the above-mentioned restaurant, when he was accompanied by the               
sister of his brother-in-law, a girl to whom he was quite indifferent.       
On another occasion he accompanied three ladies to the door of the           
restaurant. The ladies were his sister, his sister-in-law, and the           
girl already mentioned. He was perfectly indifferent to all three of         
them, but they all belonged to the sister category. He had visited a         
brothel but rarely, perhaps two or three times in his life.                  
  The interpretation is based on the dark place, the interruption in         
the dream, and informs us that on occasion, but in fact only rarely,         
obsessed by his boyish curiosity, he had inspected the genitals of his       
sister, a few years his junior. A few days later the misdemeanor             
indicated in the dream recurred to his conscious memory.                     
  All dreams of the same night belong, in respect of their content, to       
the same whole; their division into several parts, their grouping            
and number, are all full of meaning and may be regarded as pieces of         
information about the latent dream-thoughts. In the interpretation           
of dreams consisting of several main sections, or of dreams                  
belonging to the same night, we must not overlook the possibility that       
these different and successive dreams mean the same thing,                   
expressing the same impulses in different material. That one of              
these homologous dreams which comes first in time is usually the             
most distorted and most bashful, while the next dream is bolder and          
more distinct.                                                               
  Even Pharaoh's dream of the ears and the kine, which Joseph                
interpreted, was of this kind. It is given by Josephus in greater            
detail than in the Bible. After relating the first dream, the King           
said: "After I had seen this vision I awaked out of my sleep, and,           
being in disorder, and considering with myself what this appearance          
should be, I fell asleep again, and saw another dream much more              
wonderful than the foregoing, which still did more affright and              
disturb me." After listening to the relation of the dream, Joseph            
said: "This dream, O King, although seen under two forms, signifies          
one and the same event of things." *                                         
-                                                                            
  * Josephus; Antiquities of the Jews, book II, chap. V, trans. by Wm.       
Whitson (David McKay, Philadelphia).                                         
-                                                                            
  Jung, in his Beitrag zur Psychologie des Geruchtes, relates how a          
veiled erotic dream of a schoolgirl was understood by her friends            
without interpretation, and continued by them with variations, and           
he remarks, with reference to one of these narrated dreams, that             
"the concluding idea of a long series of dream-images had precisely          
the same content as the first image of the series had endeavoured to         
represent. The censorship thrust the complex out of the way as long as       
possible by a constant renewal of symbolic screenings,                       
displacements, transformations into something harmless, etc." Scherner       
was well acquainted with this peculiarity of dream-representation, and       
describes it in his Leben des Traumes (p. 166) in terms of a special         
law in the Appendix to his doctrine of organic stimulation: "But             
finally, in all symbolic dream-formations emanating from definite            
nerve stimuli, the phantasy observes the general law that at the             
beginning of the dream it depicts the stimulating object only by the         
remotest and freest allusions, but towards the end, when the graphic         
impulse becomes exhausted, the stimulus itself is nakedly                    
represented by its appropriate organ or its function; whereupon the          
dream, itself describing its organic motive, achieves its end...."           
  A pretty confirmation of this law of Scherner's has been furnished         
by Otto Rank in his essay: Ein Traum, der sich selbst deutet. This           
dream, related to him by a girl, consisted of two dreams of the same         
night, separated by an interval of time, the second of which ended           
with an orgasm. It was possible to interpret this orgastic dream in          
detail in spite of the few ideas contributed by the dreamer, and the         
wealth of relations between the two dream-contents made it possible to       
recognize that the first dream expressed in modest language the same         
thing as the second, so that the latter- the orgastic dream-                 
facilitated a full explanation of the former. From this example,             
Rank very justifiably argues the significance of orgastic dreams for         
the theory of dreams in general.                                             
  But, in my experience, it is only in rare cases that one is in a           
position to translate the lucidity or confusion of a dream,                  
respectively, into a certainty or doubt in the dream-material. Later         
on I shall have to disclose a hitherto unmentioned factor in                 
dream-formation, upon whose operation this qualitative scale in dreams       
is essentially dependent.                                                    
  In many dreams in which a certain situation and environment are            
preserved for some time, there occur interruptions which may be              
described in the following words: "But then it seemed as though it           
were, at the same time, another place, and there such and such a thing       
happened." In these cases, what interrupts the main action of the            
dream, which after a while may be continued again, reveals itself in         
the dream-material as a subordinate clause, an interpolated thought.         
Conditionality in the dream-thoughts is represented by simultaneity in       
the dream-content (wenn or wann = if or when, while).                        
  We may now ask: What is the meaning of the sensation of inhibited          
movement which so often occurs in dreams, and is so closely allied           
to anxiety? One wants to move, and is unable to stir from the spot; or       
wants to accomplish something, and encounters obstacle after obstacle.       
The train is about to start. and one cannot reach it; one's hand is          
raised to avenge an insult, and its strength fails, etc. We have             
already met with this sensation in exhibition-dreams, but have as            
yet made no serious attempt to interpret it. It is convenient, but           
inadequate, to answer that there is motor paralysis in sleep, which          
manifests itself by means of the sensation alluded to. We may ask: Why       
is it, then, that we do not dream continually of such inhibited              
movements? And we may permissibly suspect that this sensation, which         
may at any time occur during sleep, serves some sort of purpose for          
representation, and is evoked only when the need of this                     
representation is present in the dream-material.                             
  Inability to do a thing does not always appear in the dream as a           
sensation; it may appear simply as part of the dream-content. I              
think one case of this kind is especially fitted to enlighten us as to       
the meaning of this peculiarity. I shall give an abridged version of a       
dream in which I seem to be accused of dishonesty. The scene is a            
mixture made up of a private sanatorium and several other places. A          
manservant appears, to summon me to an inquiry. I know in the dream          
that something has been missed, and that the inquiry is taking place         
because I am suspected of having appropriated the lost article.              
Analysis shows that inquiry is to be taken in two senses; it                 
includes the meaning of medical examination. Being conscious of my           
innocence, and my position as consultant in this sanatorium, I               
calmly follow the manservant. We are received at the door by another         
manservant, who says, pointing at me, "Have you brought him? Why, he         
is a respectable man." Thereupon, and unattended, I enter a great hall       
where there are many machines, which reminds me of an inferno with its       
hellish instruments of punishment. I see a colleague strapped to an          
appliance; he has every reason to be interested in my appearance,            
but he takes no notice of me. I understand that I may now go. Then I         
cannot find my hat, and cannot go after all.                                 
  The wish that the dream fulfils is obviously the wish that my              
honesty shall be acknowledged, and that I may be permitted to go;            
there must therefore be all sorts of material in the dream-thoughts          
which comprise a contradiction of this wish. The fact that I may go is       
the sign of my absolution; if, then, the dream provides at its close         
an event which prevents me from going, we may readily conclude that          
the suppressed material of the contradiction is asserting itself in          
this feature. The fact that I cannot find my hat therefore means: "You       
are not after all an honest man." The inability to do something in the       
dream is the expression of a contradiction, a No; so that our                
earlier assertion, to the effect that the dream is not capable of            
expressing a negation, must be revised accordingly. *                        
-                                                                            
  * A reference to an experience of childhood emerges, in the complete       
analysis, through the following connecting-links: "The Moor has done         
his duty, the Moor can go." And then follows the waggish question:           
"How old is the Moor when he has done his duty?"- "A year, then he can       
go (walk)." (It is said that I came into the world with so much              
black curly hair that my young mother declared that I was a little           
Moor.) The fact that I cannot find my hat is an experience of the            
day which has been exploited in various senses. Our servant, who is          
a genius at stowing things away, had hidden the hat. A rejection of          
melancholy thoughts of death is concealed behind the conclusion of the       
dream: "I have not nearly done my duty yet; I cannot go yet." Birth          
and death together- as in the dream of Goethe and the paralytic, which       
was a little earlier in date.                                                
-                                                                            
  In other dreams in which the inability to do something occurs, not         
merely as a situation, but also as a sensation, the same contradiction       
is more emphatically expressed by the sensation of inhibited movement,       
or a will to which a counter-will is opposed. Thus the sensation of          
inhibited movement represents a conflict of will. We shall see later         
on that this very motor paralysis during sleep is one of the                 
fundamental conditions of the psychic process which functions during         
dreaming. Now an impulse which is conveyed to the motor system is none       
other than the will, and the fact that we are certain that the impulse       
will be inhibited in sleep makes the whole process extraordinarily           
well-adapted to the representation of a will towards something and           
of a No which opposes itself thereto. From my explanation of                 
anxiety, it is easy to understand why the sensation of the inhibited         
will is so closely allied to anxiety, and why it is so often connected       
with it in dreams. Anxiety is a libidinal impulse which emanates             
from the unconscious and is inhibited by the preconscious. *                 
Therefore, when a sensation of inhibition in the dream is                    
accompanied by anxiety, the dream must be concerned with a volition          
which was at one time capable of arousing libido; there must be a            
sexual impulse.                                                              
-                                                                            
  * This theory is not in accordance with more recent views.                 
-                                                                            
  As for the judgment which is often expressed during a dream: "Of           
course, it is only a dream," and the psychic force to which it may           
be ascribed, I shall discuss these questions later on. For the present       
I will merely say that they are intended to depreciate the                   
importance of what is being dreamed. The interesting problem allied to       
this, as to what is meant if a certain content in the dream is               
characterized in the dream itself as having been dreamed- the riddle         
of a dream within a dream- has been solved in a similar sense by W.          
Stekel, by the analysis of some convincing examples. Here again the          
part of the dream dreamed is to be depreciated in value and robbed           
of its reality; that which the dreamer continues to dream after waking       
from the dream within a dream is what the dream-wish desires to put in       
place of the obliterated reality. It may therefore be assumed that the       
part dreamed contains the representation of the reality, the real            
memory, while, on the other hand, the continued dream contains the           
representation of what the dreamer merely wishes. The inclusion of a         
certain content in a dream within a dream is, therefore, equivalent to       
the wish that what has been characterized as a dream had never               
occurred. In other words: when a particular incident is represented by       
the dream-work in a dream, it signifies the strongest confirmation           
of the reality of this incident, the most emphatic affirmation of            
it. The dream-work utilizes the dream itself as a form of repudiation,       
and thereby confirms the theory that a dream is a wish-fulfilment.           
                                                                             
VI|D                                                                         
                    D. Regard for Representability                           
-                                                                            
  We have hitherto been concerned with investigating the manner in           
which our dreams represent the relations between the dream-thoughts,         
but we have often extended our inquiry to the further question as to         
what alterations the dream-material itself undergoes for the                 
purposes of dream-formation. We now know that the dream-material,            
after being stripped of a great many of its relations, is subjected to       
compression, while at the same time displacements of the intensity           
of its elements enforce a psychic transvaluation of this material. The       
displacements which we have considered were shown to be                      
substitutions of one particular idea for another, in some way                
related to the original by its associations, and the displacements           
were made to facilitate the condensation, inasmuch as in this                
manner, instead of two elements, a common mean between them found            
its way into the dream. So far, no mention has been made of any              
other kind of displacement. But we learn from the analyses that              
displacement of another kind does occur, and that it manifests               
itself in an exchange of the verbal expression for the thought in            
question. In both cases we are dealing with a displacement along a           
chain of associations, but the same process takes place in different         
psychic spheres, and the result of this displacement in the one case         
is that one element is replaced by another, while in the other case an       
element exchanges its verbal shape for another.                              
  This second kind of displacement occurring in dream-formation is not       
only of great theoretical interest, but also peculiarly well-fitted to       
explain the appearance of phantastic absurdity in which dreams               
disguise themselves. Displacement usually occurs in such a way that          
a colourless and abstract expression of the dream-thought is exchanged       
for one that is pictorial and concrete. The advantage, and along             
with it the purpose, of this substitution is obvious. Whatever is            
pictorial is capable of representation in dreams and can be fitted           
into a situation in which abstract expression would confront the             
dream-representation with difficulties not unlike those which would          
arise if a political leading article had to be represented in an             
illustrated journal. Not only the possibility of representation, but         
also the interests of condensation and of the censorship, may be             
furthered by this exchange. Once the abstractly expressed and                
unserviceable dream-thought is translated into pictorial language,           
those contacts and identities between this new expression and the rest       
of the dream-material which are required by the dream-work, and              
which it contrives whenever they are not available, are more readily         
provided, since in every language concrete terms, owing to their             
evolution, are richer in associations than are abstract terms. It            
may be imagined that a good part of the intermediate work in                 
dream-formation, which seeks to reduce the separate dream-thoughts           
to the tersest and most unified expression in the dream, is effected         
in this manner, by fitting paraphrases of the various thoughts. The          
one thought whose mode of expression has perhaps been determined by          
other factors will therewith exert a distributive and selective              
influence on the expressions available for the others, and it may even       
do this from the very start, just as it would in the creative activity       
of a poet. When a poem is to be written in rhymed couplets, the second       
rhyming line is bound by two conditions: it must express the meaning         
allotted to it, and its expression must permit of a rhyme with the           
first line. The best poems are, of course, those in which one does not       
detect the effort to find a rhyme, and in which both thoughts have           
as a matter of course, by mutual induction, selected the verbal              
expression which, with a little subsequent adjustment, will permit           
of the rhyme.                                                                
  In some cases the change of expression serves the purposes of              
dream-condensation more directly, in that it provides an arrangement         
of words which, being ambiguous, permits of the expression of more           
than one of the dream-thoughts. The whole range of verbal wit is             
thus made to serve the purpose of the dream-work. The part played by         
words in dream-formation ought not to surprise us. A word, as the            
point of junction of a number of ideas, possesses, as it were, a             
predestined ambiguity, and the neuroses (obsessions, phobias) take           
advantage of the opportunities for condensation and disguise                 
afforded by words quite as eagerly as do dreams. * That                      
dream-distortion also profits by this displacement of expression may         
be readily demonstrated. It is indeed confusing if one ambiguous             
word is substituted for two with single meanings, and the                    
replacement of sober, everyday language by a plastic mode of                 
expression baffles our understanding, especially since a dream never         
tells us whether the elements presented by it are to be interpreted          
literally or metaphorically, whether they refer to the                       
dream-material directly, or only by means of interpolated expressions.       
Generally speaking, in the interpretation of any element of a dream it       
is doubtful whether it                                                       
-                                                                            
    (a) is to be accepted in the negative or the positive sense              
(contrast relation);                                                         
    (b) is to be interpreted historically (as a memory);                     
    (c) is symbolic; or whether                                              
    (d) its valuation is to be based upon its wording.                       
-                                                                            
In spite of this versatility, we may say that the representation             
effected by the dream-work, which was never even intended to be              
understood, does not impose upon the translator any greater                  
difficulties than those that the ancient writers of hieroglyphics            
imposed upon their readers.                                                  
-                                                                            
  * Compare Wit and its Relation to the Unconscious.                         
-                                                                            
  I have already given several examples of dream-representations which       
are held together only by ambiguity of expression (her mouth opens           
without difficulty, in the dream of Irma's injection; I cannot go            
yet after all, in the last dream related, etc.) I shall now cite a           
dream in the analysis of which plastic representation of the                 
abstract thoughts plays a greater part. The difference between such          
dream-interpretation and the interpretation by means of symbols may          
nevertheless be clearly defined; in the symbolic interpretation of           
dreams, the key to the symbolism is selected arbitrarily by the              
interpreter, while in our own cases of verbal disguise these keys            
are universally known and are taken from established modes of                
speech. Provided one hits on the right idea on the right occasion, one       
may solve dreams of this kind, either completely or in part,                 
independently of any statements made by the dreamer.                         
  A lady friend of mine, dreams: She is at the opera. It is a                
Wagnerian performance, which has lasted until 7.45 in the morning.           
In the stalls and pit there are tables, at which people are eating and       
drinking. Her cousin and his young wife, who have just returned from         
their honeymoon, are sitting at one of these tables; beside them is          
a member of the aristocracy. The young wife is said to have brought          
him back with her from the honeymoon quite openly, just as she might         
have brought back a hat. In the middle of the stalls there is a high         
tower, on the top of which there is a platform surrounded by an iron         
railing. There, high overhead, stands the conductor, with the features       
of Hans Richter, continually running round behind the railing,               
perspiring terribly; and from this position he is conducting the             
orchestra, which is arranged round the base of the tower. She                
herself is sitting in a box with a friend of her own sex (known to           
me). Her younger sister tries to hand her up, from the stalls, a large       
lump of coal, alleging that she had not known that it would be so            
long, and that she must by this time be miserably cold. (As though the       
boxes ought to have been heated during the long performance.)                
  Although in other respects the dream gives a good picture of the           
situation, it is, of course, nonsensical enough: the tower in the            
middle of the stalls, from which the conductor leads the orchestra,          
and above all the coal which her sister hands up to her. I purposely         
asked for no analysis of this dream. With some knowledge of the              
personal relations of the dreamer, I was able to interpret parts of it       
independently of her. I knew that she had felt intense sympathy for          
a musician whose career had been prematurely brought to an end by            
insanity. I therefore decided to take the tower in the stalls                
verbally. It then emerged that the man whom she wished to see in the         
place of Hans Richter towered above all the other members of the             
orchestra. This tower must be described as a composite formation by          
means of apposition; by its substructure it represents the greatness         
of the man, but by the railing at the top, behind which he runs              
round like a prisoner or an animal in a cage (an allusion to the             
name of the unfortunate man), * it represents his later fate.                
Lunatic-tower is perhaps the expression in which the two thoughts            
might have met.                                                              
-                                                                            
  * Hugo Wolf.                                                               
-                                                                            
  Now that we have discovered the dream's method of representation, we       
may try, with the same key, to unlock the meaning of the second              
apparent absurdity, that of the coal which her sister hands up to            
the dreamer. Coal should mean secret love.                                   
-                                                                            
              No fire, no coal so hotly glows                                
              As the secret love of which no one knows.                      
-                                                                            
  She and her friend remain seated * while her younger sister, who           
still has a prospect of marrying, hands her up the coal because she          
did not know that it would be so long. What would be so long is not          
told in the dream. If it were an anecdote, we should say the                 
performance; but in the dream we may consider the sentence as it is,         
declare it to be ambiguous, and add before she married. The                  
interpretation secret love is then confirmed by the mention of the           
cousin who is sitting with his wife in the stalls, and by the open           
love-affair attributed to the latter. The contrasts between secret and       
open love, between the dreamer's fire and the coldness of the young          
wife, dominate the dream. Moreover, here once again there is a               
person in a high position as a middle term between the aristocrat            
and the musician who is justified in raising high hopes.                     
-                                                                            
  * The German sitzen geblieben is often applied to women who have not       
succeeded in getting married.- TR.                                           
-                                                                            
  In the above analysis we have at last brought to light a third             
factor, whose part in the transformation of the dream-thoughts into          
the dream-content is by no means trivial: namely, consideration of the       
suitability of the dream-thoughts for representation in the particular       
psychic material of which the dream makes use- that is, for the most         
part in visual images. Among the various subordinate ideas                   
associated with the essential dream-thoughts, those will be                  
preferred which permit of visual representation, and the dream-work          
does not hesitate to recast the intractable thoughts into an: other          
verbal form, even though this is a more unusual form provided it makes       
representation possible, and thus puts an end to the psychological           
distress caused by strangulated thinking. This pouring of the                
thought-content into another mould may at the same time serve the work       
of condensation, and may establish relations with another thought            
which otherwise would not have been established. It is even possible         
that this second thought may itself have previously changed its              
original expression for the purpose of meeting the first one halfway.        
  Herbert Silberer * has described a good method of directly observing       
the transformation of thoughts into images which occurs in                   
dream-formation, and has thus made it possible to study in isolation         
this one factor of the dream-work. If, while in a state of fatigue and       
somnolence, he imposed upon himself a mental effort, it frequently           
happened that the thought escaped him and in its place there                 
appeared a picture in which he could recognize the substitute for            
the thought. Not quite appropriately, Silberer described this                
substitution as auto-symbolic. I shall cite here a few examples from         
Silberer's work, and on account of certain peculiarities of the              
phenomena observed I shall refer to the subject later on.                    
-                                                                            
  * Bleuler-Freud Jahrbuch, i (1909).                                        
-                                                                            
  "Example 1. I remember that I have to correct a halting passage in         
an essay.                                                                    
  "Symbol. I see myself planing a piece of wood.                             
  "Example 5. I endeavour to call to mind the aim of certain                 
metaphysical studies which I am proposing to undertake.                      
  "This aim, I reflect, consists in working one's way through, while         
seeking for the basis of existence, to ever higher forms of                  
consciousness or levels of being.                                            
  "Symbol. I run a long knife under a cake as though to take a slice         
out of it.                                                                   
  "Interpretation. My movement with the knife signifies working              
one's way through... The explanation of the basis of the symbolism           
is as follows: At table it devolves upon me now and again to cut and         
distribute a cake, a business which I perform with a long, flexible          
knife, and which necessitates a certain amount of care. In particular,       
the neat extraction of the cut slices of cake presents a certain             
amount of difficulty; the knife must be carefully pushed under the           
slices in question (the slow working one's way through in order to get       
to the bottom). But there is yet more symbolism in the picture. The          
cake of the symbol was really a dobos-cake- that is, a cake in which         
the knife has to cut through several layers (the levels of                   
consciousness and thought).                                                  
  "Example 9. I lost the thread in a train of thought. I make an             
effort to find it again, but I have to recognize that the point of           
departure has completely escaped me.                                         
  "Symbol. Part of a form of type, the last lines of which have fallen       
out."                                                                        
-                                                                            
  In view of the part played by witticisms, puns, quotations, songs,         
and proverbs in the intellectual life of educated persons, it would be       
entirely in accordance with our expectations to find disguises of this       
sort used with extreme frequency in the representation of the                
dream-thoughts. Only in the case of a few types of material has a            
generally valid dream-symbolism established itself on the basis of           
generally known allusions and verbal equivalents. A good part of             
this symbolism, however, is common to the psychoneuroses, legends, and       
popular usages as well as to dreams.                                         
  In fact, if we look more closely into the matter, we must                  
recognize that in employing this kind of substitution the dream-work         
is doing nothing at all original. For the achievement of its                 
purpose, which in this case is representation without interference           
from the censorship, it simply follows the paths which it finds              
already marked out in unconscious thinking, and gives the preference         
to those transformations of the repressed material which are permitted       
to become conscious also in the form of witticisms and allusions,            
and with which all the phantasies of neurotics are replete. Here we          
suddenly begin to understand the dream-interpretations of Scherner,          
whose essential correctness I have vindicated elsewhere. The                 
preoccupation of the imagination with one's own body is by no means          
peculiar to or characteristic of the dream alone. My analyses have           
shown me that it is constantly found in the unconscious thinking of          
neurotics, and may be traced back to sexual curiosity, whose object,         
in the adolescent youth or maiden, is the genitals of the opposite           
sex, or even of the same sex. But, as Scherner and Volkelt very              
truly insist, the house does not constitute the only group of ideas          
which is employed for the symbolization of the body, either in               
dreams or in the unconscious phantasies of neurosis. To be sure, I           
know patients who have steadily adhered to an architectural                  
symbolism for the body and the genitals (sexual interest, of course,         
extends far beyond the region of the external genital organs)-               
patients for whom posts and pillars signify legs (as in the Song of          
Songs), to whom every door suggests a bodily aperture (hole), and            
every water-pipe the urinary system, and so on. But the groups of            
ideas appertaining to plant-life. or to the kitchen, are just as often       
chosen to conceal sexual images; * in respect of the former everyday         
language, the sediment of imaginative comparisons dating from the            
remotest times, has abundantly paved the way (the vineyard of the            
Lord, the seed of Abraham, the garden of the maiden in the Song of           
Songs). The ugliest as well as the most intimate details of sexual           
life may be thought or dreamed of in apparently innocent allusions           
to culinary operations, and the symptoms of hysteria will become             
absolutely unintelligible if we forget that sexual symbolism may             
conceal itself behind the most commonplace and inconspicuous matters         
as its safest hiding-place. That some neurotic children cannot look at       
blood and raw meat, that they vomit at the sight of eggs and macaroni,       
and that the dread of snakes, which is natural to mankind, is                
monstrously exaggerated in neurotics- all this has a definite sexual         
meaning. Wherever the neurosis employs a disguise of this sort, it           
treads the paths once trodden by the whole of humanity in the early          
stages of civilization- paths to whose thinly veiled existence our           
idiomatic expressions, proverbs, superstitions, and customs testify to       
this day.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  * A mass of corroborative material may be found in the three               
supplementary volumes of Edward Fuchs's Illustrierte Sittengeschichte;       
privately printed by A. Lange, Munich.                                       
-                                                                            
  I here insert the promised flower-dream of a female patient, in            
which I shall print in Roman type everything which is to be sexually         
interpreted. This beautiful dream lost all its charm for the dreamer         
once it had been interpreted.                                                
  (a) Preliminary dream: She goes to the two maids in the kitchen            
and scolds them for taking so long to prepare a little bite of food.         
She also sees a very large number of heavy kitchen utensils in the           
kitchen, heaped into piles and turned upside down in order to drain.         
Later addition: The two maids go to fetch water, and have, as it were,       
to climb into a river which reaches up to the house or into the              
courtyard. *                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * For the interpretation of this preliminary dream, which is to be         
regarded as casual, see earlier in this chapter, C.                          
-                                                                            
  (b) Main dream: * She is descending from a height *(2) over                
curiously constructed railings, or a fence which is composed of              
large square trellis-work hurdles with small square apertures. *(3) It       
is really not adapted for climbing; she is constantly afraid that            
she cannot find a place for her foot, and she is glad that her dress         
doesn't get caught anywhere, and that she is able to climb it so             
respectably. *(4) As she climbs she is carrying a big branch in her          
hand, *(5) really like a tree, which is thickly studded with red             
flowers; a spreading branch, with many twigs. *(6) With this is              
connected the idea of cherry-blossoms (Bluten = flowers), but they           
look like fully opened camellias, which of course do not grow on             
trees. As she is descending, she first has one, then suddenly two, and       
then again only one. *(7) When she has reached the ground the lower          
flowers have already begun to fall. Now that she has reached the             
bottom she sees an "odd man" who is combing- as she would like to            
put it- just such a tree, that is, with a piece of wood he is scraping       
thick bunches of hair from it, which hang from it like moss. Other men       
have chopped off such branches in a garden, and have flung them into         
the road, where they are lying about, so that a number of people             
take some of them. But she asks whether this is right, whether she may       
take one, too. *(8) In the garden there stands a young man (he is a          
foreigner, and known to her) toward whom she goes in order to ask            
him how it is possible to transplant such branches in her own                
garden. *(9) He embraces her, whereupon she struggles and asks him           
what he is thinking of, whether it is permissible to embrace her in          
such a manner. He says there is nothing wrong in it, that it is              
permitted. *(10) He then declares himself willing to go with her             
into the other garden, in order to show her how to put them in, and he       
says something to her which she does not quite understand: "Besides          
this I need three metres (later she says: square metres) or three            
fathoms of ground." It seems as though he were asking her for                
something in return for his willingness, as though he had the                
intention of indemnifying (reimbursing) himself in her garden, as            
though he wanted to evade some law or other, to derive some                  
advantage from it without causing her an injury. She does not know           
whether or not he really shows her anything.                                 
-                                                                            
  * Her career.                                                              
  *(2) Exalted origin, the wish-contrast to the preliminary dream.           
  *(3) A composite formation, which unites two localities, the               
so-called garret (German: Boden = "floor," "garret") of her father's         
house, in which she used to play with her brother, the object of her         
later phantasies, and the farm of a malicious uncle, who used to tease       
her.                                                                         
  *(4) Wish-contrast to an actual memory of her uncle's farm, to the         
effect that she used to expose herself while she was asleep.                 
  *(5) Just as the angel bears a lily-stem in the Annunciation.              
  *(6) For the explanation of this composite formation, see earlier in       
this chapter, C.; innocence, menstruation, La Dame aux Camelias.             
  *(7) Referring to the plurality of the persons who serve her               
phantasies.                                                                  
  *(8) Whether it is permissible to masturbate. [Sich einem                  
herunterreissen means "to pull off" and colloquially "to masturbate."-       
TR.]                                                                         
  *(9) The branch (Ast) has long been used to represent the male             
organ, and, moreover, contains a very distinct allusion to the               
family name of the dreamer.                                                  
  *(10) Refers to the matrimonial precautions, as does that which            
immediately follows.                                                         
-                                                                            
  The above dream, which has been given prominence on account of its         
symbolic elements, may be described as a biographical dream. Such            
dreams occur frequently in psychoanalysis, but perhaps only rarely           
outside it. *                                                                
-                                                                            
  * An analogous biographical dream is recorded later in this chapter,       
among the examples of dream symbolism.                                       
-                                                                            
  I have, of course, an abundance of such material, but to reproduce         
it here would lead us too far into the consideration of neurotic             
conditions. Everything points to the same conclusion, namely, that           
we need not assume that any special symbolizing activity of the psyche       
is operative in dream-formation; that, on the contrary, the dream            
makes use of such symbolizations as are to be found ready-made in            
unconscious thinking, since these, by reason of their case of                
representation, and for the most part by reason of their being               
exempt from the censorship, satisfy more effectively the                     
requirements of dream-formation.                                             
                                                                             
VI|E                                                                         
  E. Representation in Dreams by Symbols: Some Further Typical Dreams        
-                                                                            
  The analysis of the last biographical dream shows that I                   
recognized the symbolism in dreams from the very outset. But it was          
only little by little that I arrived at a full appreciation of its           
extent and significance, as the result of increasing experience, and         
under the influence of the works of W. Stekel, concerning which I            
may here fittingly say something.                                            
  This author, who has perhaps injured psychoanalysis as much as he          
has benefited it, produced a large number of novel symbolic                  
translations, to which no credence was given at first, but most of           
which were later confirmed and had to be accepted. Stekel's services         
are in no way belittled by the remark that the sceptical reserve             
with which these symbols were received was not unjustified. For the          
examples upon which he based his interpretations were often                  
unconvincing, and, moreover, he employed a method which must be              
rejected as scientifically unreliable. Stekel found his symbolic             
meanings by way of intuition, by virtue of his individual faculty of         
immediately understanding the symbols. But such an art cannot be             
generally assumed; its efficiency is immune from criticism, and its          
results have therefore no claim to credibility. It is as though one          
were to base one's diagnosis of infectious diseases on the olfactory         
impressions received beside the sick-bed, although of course there           
have been clinicians to whom the sense of smell- atrophied in most           
people- has been of greater service than to others, and who really           
have been able to diagnose a case of abdominal typhus by their sense         
of smell.                                                                    
  The progressive experience of psycho-analysis has enabled us to            
discover patients who have displayed in a surprising degree this             
immediate understanding of dream-symbolism. Many of these patients           
suffered from dementia praecox, so that for a time there was an              
inclination to suspect that all dreamers with such an understanding of       
symbols were suffering from that disorder. But this did not prove to         
be the case; it is simply a question of a personal gift or                   
idiosyncrasy without perceptible pathological significance.                  
  When one has familiarized oneself with the extensive employment of         
symbolism for the representation of sexual material in dreams, one           
naturally asks oneself whether many of these symbols have not a              
permanently established meaning, like the signs in shorthand; and            
one even thinks of attempting to compile a new dream-book on the lines       
of the cipher method. In this connection it should be noted that             
symbolism does not appertain especially to dreams, but rather to the         
unconscious imagination, and particularly to that of the people, and         
it is to be found in a more developed condition in folklore, myths,          
legends, idiomatic phrases, proverbs, and the current witticisms of          
a people than in dreams. We should have, therefore, to go far beyond         
the province of dream-interpretation in order fully to investigate the       
meaning of symbolism, and to discuss the numerous problems- for the          
most part still unsolved- which are associated with the concept of the       
symbol. * We shall here confine ourselves to saying that                     
representation by a symbol comes under the heading of the indirect           
representations, but that we are warned by all sorts of signs                
against indiscriminately classing symbolic representation with the           
other modes of indirect representation before we have clearly                
conceived its distinguishing characteristics. In a number of cases,          
the common quality shared by the symbol and the thing which it               
represents is obvious; in others, it is concealed; in these latter           
cases the choice of the symbol appears to be enigmatic. And these            
are the very cases that must be able to elucidate the ultimate meaning       
of the symbolic relation; they point to the fact that it is of a             
genetic nature. What is today symbolically connected was probably            
united, in primitive times, by conceptual and linguistic identity.           
*(2) The symbolic relationship seems to be a residue and reminder of a       
former identity. It may also be noted that in many cases the                 
symbolic identity extends beyond the linguistic identity, as had             
already been asserted by Schubert (1814). *(3)                               
-                                                                            
  * Cf. the works of Bleuler and his Zurich disciples, Maeder.               
Abraham, and others, and of the non-medical authors (Kleinpaul and           
others) to whom they refer. But the most pertinent things that have          
been said on the subject will be found in the work of O. Rank and H.         
Sachs, Die Bedeutung der Psychoanalyse fur die Geisteswissenschaft,          
(1913), chap. i.                                                             
  *(2) This conception would seem to find an extraordinary                   
confirmation in a theory advanced by Hans Sperber ("Uber den                 
Einfluss sexueller momente auf Entstehung und Entwicklung der                
Sprache," in Imago, i. [1912]). Sperber believes that primitive              
words denoted sexual things exclusively, and subsequently lost their         
sexual significance and were applied to other things and activities,         
which were compared with the sexual.                                         
  *(3) For example, a ship sailing on the sea may appear in the              
urinary dreams of Hungarian dreamers, despite the fact that the term         
of to ship, for to urinate, is foreign to this language (Ferenczi). In       
the dreams of the French and the other romance peoples room serves           
as a symbolic representation for woman, although these peoples have          
nothing analogous to the German Frauenzimmer. Many symbols are as            
old as language itself, while others are continually being coined            
(e.g., the aeroplane, the Zeppelin).                                         
-                                                                            
  Dreams employ this symbolism to give a disguised representation to         
their latent thoughts. Among the symbols thus employed there are, of         
course, many which constantly, or all but constantly, mean the same          
thing. But we must bear in mind the curious plasticity of psychic            
material. Often enough a symbol in the dream-content may have to be          
interpreted not symbolically but in accordance with its proper               
meaning; at other times the dreamer, having to deal with special             
memory-material, may take the law into his own hands and employ              
anything whatever as a sexual symbol, though it is not generally so          
employed. Wherever he has the choice of several symbols for the              
representation of a dream-content, he will decide in favour of that          
symbol which is in addition objectively related to his other                 
thought-material; that is to say, he will employ an individual               
motivation besides the typically valid one.                                  
  Although since Scherner's time the more recent investigations of           
dream-problems have definitely established the existence of                  
dream-symbolism- even Havelock Ellis acknowledges that our dreams            
are indubitably full of symbols- it must yet be admitted that the            
existence of symbols in dreams has not only facilitated                      
dream-interpretation, but has also made it more difficult. The               
technique of interpretation in accordance with the dreamer's free            
associations more often than otherwise leaves us in the lurch as far         
as the symbolic elements of the dream-content are concerned. A               
return to the arbitrariness of dream-interpretation as it was                
practised in antiquity, and is seemingly revived by Stekel's wild            
interpretations, is contrary to scientific method. Consequently, those       
elements in the dream-content which are to be symbolically regarded          
compel us to employ a combined technique, which on the one hand is           
based on the dreamer's associations, while on the other hand the             
missing portions have to be supplied by the interpreter's                    
understanding of the symbols. Critical circumspection in the                 
solution of the symbols must coincide with careful study of the              
symbols in especially transparent examples of dreams in order to             
silence the reproach of arbitrariness in dream-interpretation. The           
uncertainties which still adhere to our function as dream-interpreters       
are due partly to our imperfect knowledge (which, however, can be            
progressively increased) and partly to certain peculiarities of the          
dream-symbols themselves. These often possess many and varied                
meanings, so that, as in Chinese script, only the context can                
furnish the correct meaning. This multiple significance of the               
symbol is allied to the dream's faculty of admitting                         
over-interpretations, of representing, in the same content, various          
wish-impulses and thought-formations, often of a widely divergent            
character.                                                                   
  After these limitations and reservations, I will proceed. The              
Emperor and the Empress (King and Queen) * in most cases really              
represent the dreamer's parents; the dreamer himself or herself is the       
prince or princess. But the high authority conceded to the Emperor           
is also conceded to great men, so that in some dreams, for example,          
Goethe appears as a father symbol (Hitschmann).- All elongated               
objects, sticks, tree-trunks, umbrellas (on account of the opening,          
which might be likened to an erection), all sharp and elongated              
weapons, knives, daggers, and pikes, represent the male member. A            
frequent, but not very intelligible symbol for the same is a nail-file       
(a reference to rubbing and scraping?).- Small boxes, chests,                
cupboards, and ovens correspond to the female organ; also cavities,          
ships, and all kinds of vessels.- A room in a dream generally                
represents a woman; the description of its various entrances and exits       
is scarcely calculated to make us doubt this interpretation. *(2)            
The interest as to whether the room is open or locked will be                
readily understood in this connection. (Cf. Dora's dream in Fragment         
of an Analysis of Hysteria.) There is no need to be explicit as to the       
sort of key that will unlock the room; the symbolism of lock and key         
has been gracefully if broadly employed by Uhland in his song of the         
Graf Eberstein.- The dream of walking through a suite of rooms               
signifies a brothel or a harem. But, as H. Sachs has shown by an             
admirable example, it is also employed to represent marriage                 
(contrast). An interesting relation to the sexual investigations of          
childhood emerges when the dreamer dreams of two rooms which were            
previously one, or finds that a familiar room in a house of which he         
dreams has been divided into two, or the reverse. In childhood the           
female genitals and anus (the "behind") *(3) are conceived of as a           
single opening according to the infantile cloaca theory, and only            
later is it discovered that this region of the body contains two             
separate cavities and openings. Steep inclines, ladders and stairs,          
and going up or down them, are symbolic representations of the               
sexual act. *(4) Smooth walls over which one climbs, facades of              
houses, across which one lets oneself down- often with a sense of            
great anxiety- correspond to erect human bodies, and probably repeat         
in our dreams childish memories of climbing up parents or nurses.            
Smooth walls are men; in anxiety dreams one often holds firmly to            
projections on houses. Tables, whether bare or covered, and boards,          
are women, perhaps by virtue of contrast, since they have no                 
protruding contours. Wood generally speaking, seems, in accordance           
with its linguistic relations, to represent feminine matter (Materie).       
The name of the island Madeira means wood in Portuguese. Since bed and       
board (mensa et thorus) constitute marriage, in dreams the latter is         
often substituted for the former, and as far as practicable the sexual       
representation-complex is transposed to the eating-complex.- Of              
articles of dress, a woman's hat may very often be interpreted with          
certainty as the male genitals. In the dreams of men, one often              
finds the necktie as a symbol for the penis; this is not only                
because neckties hang down in front of the body, and are                     
characteristic of men, but also because one can select them at               
pleasure, a freedom which nature prohibits as regards the original           
of the symbol. Persons who make use of this symbol in dreams are             
very extravagant in the matter of ties, and possess whole                    
collections of them. *(5) All complicated machines and appliances            
are very probably the genitals- as a rule the male genitals- in the          
description of which the symbolism of dreams is as indefatigable as          
human wit. It is quite unmistakable that all weapons and tools are           
used as symbols for the male organ: e.g., ploughshare, hammer, gun,          
revolver, dagger, sword, etc. Again, many of the landscapes seen in          
dreams, especially those that contain bridges or wooded mountains, may       
be readily recognized as descriptions of the genitals. Marcinowski           
collected a series of examples in which the dreamer explained his            
dream by means of drawings, in order to represent the landscapes and         
places appearing in it. These drawings clearly showed the                    
distinction between the manifest and the latent meaning of the               
dream. Whereas, naively regarded, they seemed to represent plans,            
maps, and so forth, closer investigation showed that they were               
representations of the human body, of the genitals, etc., and only           
after conceiving them thus could the dream be understood. *(6)               
Finally, where one finds incomprehensible neologisms one may suspect         
combinations of components having a sexual significance.- Children,          
too, often signify the genitals, since men and women are in the              
habit of fondly referring to their genital organs as little man,             
little woman, little thing. The little brother was correctly                 
recognized by Stekel as the penis. To play with or to beat a little          
child is often the dream's representation of masturbation. The               
dream-work represents castration by baldness, hair-cutting, the loss         
of teeth, and beheading. As an insurance against castration, the dream       
uses one of the common symbols of the penis in double or multiple form       
and the appearance in a dream of a lizard- an animal whose tail, if          
pulled off, is regenerated by a new growth- has the same meaning. Most       
of those animals which are utilized as genital symbols in mythology          
and folklore play this part also in dreams: the fish, the snail, the         
cat, the mouse (on account of the hairiness of the genitals), but            
above all the snake, which is the most important symbol of the male          
member. Small animals and vermin are substitutes for little                  
children, e.g., undesired sisters or brothers. To be infected with           
vermin is often the equivalent for pregnancy.- As a very recent symbol       
of the male organ I may mention the airship, whose employment is             
justified by its relation to flying, and also, occasionally, by its          
form.- Stekel has given a number of other symbols, not yet                   
sufficiently verified, which he has illustrated by examples. The works       
of this author, and especially his book: Die Sprache des Traumes,            
contain the richest collection of interpretations of symbols, some           
of which were ingeniously guessed and were proved to be correct upon         
investigation, as, for example, in the section on the symbolism of           
death. The author's lack of critical reflection, and his tendency to         
generalize at all costs, make his interpretations doubtful or                
inapplicable, so that in making use of his works caution is urgently         
advised. I shall therefore restrict myself to mentioning a few               
examples.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  * In the U.S.A. the father is represented in dreams as the                 
President, and even more often as the Governor- a title which is             
frequently applied to the parent in everyday life.- TR.                      
  *(2) "A patient living in a boarding-house dreams that he meets            
one of the servants, and asks her what her number is; to his                 
surprise she answers: 14. He has, in fact, entered into relations with       
the girl in question, and has often had her in his bedroom. She              
feared, as may be imagined, that the landlady suspected her, and had         
proposed, on the day before the dream, that they should meet in one of       
the unoccupied rooms. In reality this room had the number 14, while in       
the dream the woman bore this number. A clearer proof of the                 
identification of woman and room could hardly be imagined," (Ernest          
Jones, Intern. Zeitschr. f. Psychoanalyse, ii, [1914]). (Cf.                 
Artemidorus, The Symbolism of Dreams [German version by F. S.                
Krauss, Vienna, 1881, p. 110]: "Thus, for example, the bedroom               
signifies the wife, supposing one to be in the house.")                      
  *(3) Cf. "the cloaca theory" in Three Contributions to the Theory of       
Sex.                                                                         
  *(4) See p. 123-124 above.                                                 
  *(5) Cf. in the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, ii, 675, the drawing       
of a nineteen-year-old manic patient: a man with a snake as a                
neck-tie, which is turning towards a girl. Also the story Der                
Schamhaftige (Anthropophyteia, vi, 334): A woman entered a bathroom,         
and there came face to face with a man who hardly had time to put on         
his shirt. He was greatly embarrassed, but at once covered his               
throat with the front of his shirt, and said: "Please excuse me, I           
have no necktie."                                                            
  *(6) Cf. Pfister's works on cryptography and picture-puzzles.              
-                                                                            
  Right and left, according to Stekel, are to be understood in               
dreams in an ethical sense. "The right-hand path always signifies            
the way to righteousness, the left-hand path the path to crime. Thus         
the left may signify homosexuality, incest, and perversion, while            
the right signifies marriage, relations with a prostitute, etc. The          
meaning is always determined by the individual moral standpoint of the       
dreamer" (loc. cit., p. 466). Relatives in dreams generally stand            
for the genitals (p. 473). Here I can confirm this meaning only for          
the son, the daughter, and the younger sister- that is, wherever             
little thing could be employed. On the other hand, verified examples         
allow us to recognize sisters as symbols of the breasts, and                 
brothers as symbols of the larger hemispheres. To be unable to               
overtake a carriage is interpreted by Stekel as regret at being unable       
to catch up with a difference in age (p. 479). The luggage of a              
traveller is the burden of sin by which one is oppressed (ibid.) But a       
traveller's luggage often proves to be an unmistakable symbol of one's       
own genitals. To numbers, which frequently occur in dreams, Stekel has       
assigned a fixed symbolic meaning, but these interpretations seem            
neither sufficiently verified nor of universal validity, although in         
individual cases they can usually be recognized as plausible. We have,       
at all events, abundant confirmation that the figure three is a symbol       
of the male genitals. One of Stekel's generalizations refers to the          
double meaning of the genital symbols. "Where is there a symbol," he         
asks, "which (if in any way permitted by the imagination) may not be         
used simultaneously in the masculine and the feminine sense?" To be          
sure, the clause in parenthesis retracts much of the absolute                
character of this assertion, for this double meaning is not always           
permitted by the imagination. Still, I think it is not superfluous           
to state that in my experience this general statement of Stekel's            
requires elaboration. Besides those symbols which are just as                
frequently employed for the male as for the female genitals, there are       
others which preponderantly, or almost exclusively, designate one of         
the sexes, and there are yet others which, so far as we know, have           
only the male or only the female signification. To use long, stiff           
objects and weapons as symbols of the female genitals, or hollow             
objects (chests, boxes, etc.) as symbols of the male genitals, is            
certainly not permitted by the imagination.                                  
  It is true that the tendency of dreams, and of the unconscious             
phantasy, to employ the sexual symbols bisexually, reveals an                
archaic trait, for in childhood the difference in the genitals is            
unknown, and the same genitals are attributed to both sexes. One may         
also be misled as regards the significance of a bisexual symbol if one       
forgets the fact that in some dreams a general reversal of sexes takes       
place, so that the male organ is represented by the female, and vice         
versa. Such dreams express, for example, the wish of a woman to be a         
man.                                                                         
  The genitals may even be represented in dreams by other parts of the       
body: the male member by the hand or the foot, the female genital            
orifice by the mouth, the ear, or even the eye. The secretions of            
the human body- mucus, tears, urine, semen, etc.- may be used in             
dreams interchangeably. This statement of Stekel's, correct in the           
main, has suffered a justifiable critical restriction as the result of       
certain comments of R. Reitler's (Internat. Zeitschr. fur Psych., i,         
1913). The gist of the matter is the replacement of an important             
secretion, such as the semen, by an indifferent one.                         
  These very incomplete indications may suffice to stimulate others to       
make a more painstaking collection. * I have attempted a much more           
detailed account of dream-symbolism in my General Introduction to            
Psycho-Analysis.                                                             
-                                                                            
  * In spite of all the differences between Scherner's conception of         
dream-symbolism and the one developed here, I must still insist that         
Scherner should be recognized as the true discoverer of symbolism in         
dreams, and that the experience of psycho analysis has brought his           
book (published in 1861) into posthumous repute.                             
-                                                                            
  I shall now append a few instances of the use of such symbols, which       
will show how impossible it is to arrive at the interpretation of a          
dream if one excludes dream-symbolism, but also how in many cases it         
is imperatively forced upon one. At the same time, I must expressly          
warn the investigator against overestimating the importance of symbols       
in the interpretation of dreams, restricting the work of                     
dream-translation to the translation of symbols, and neglecting the          
technique of utilizing the associations of the dreamer. The two              
techniques of dream-interpretation must supplement one another;              
practically, however, as well as theoretically, precedence is retained       
by the latter process, which assigns the final significance to the           
utterances of the dreamer, while the symbol-translation which we             
undertake play an auxiliary part.                                            
  1. The hat as the symbol of a man (of the male genitals): * (A             
fragment from the dream of a young woman who suffered from agoraphobia       
as the result of her fear of temptation.)                                    
-                                                                            
  * From "Nachtrage sur Traumdeutung" in Zentralblatt fur                    
Psychoanalyse, i, Nos. 5 and 6, (1911).                                      
-                                                                            
  I am walking in the street in summer; I am wearing a straw hat of          
peculiar shape, the middle piece of which is bent upwards, while the         
side pieces hang downwards (here the description hesitates), and in          
such a fashion that one hangs lower than the other. I am cheerful            
and in a confident mood, and as I pass a number of young officers I          
think to myself: You can't do anything to me.                                
  As she could produce no associations to the hat, I said to her: "The       
hat is really a male genital organ, with its raised middle piece and         
the two downward-hanging side pieces." It is perhaps peculiar that her       
hat should be supposed to be a man, but after all one says: Unter            
die Haube kommen (to get under the cap) when we mean: to get                 
married. I intentionally refrained from interpreting the details             
concerning the unequal dependence of the two side pieces, although the       
determination of just such details must point the way to the                 
interpretation. I went on to say that if, therefore, she had a husband       
with such splendid genitals she would not have to fear the officers;         
that is, she would have nothing to wish from them, for it was                
essentially her temptation-phantasies which prevented her from going         
about unprotected and unaccompanied. This last explanation of her            
anxiety I had already been able to give her repeatedly on the basis of       
other material.                                                              
  It is quite remarkable how the dreamer behaved after this                  
interpretation. She withdrew her description of the hat and would            
not admit that she had said that the two side pieces were hanging            
down. I was, however, too sure of what I had heard to allow myself           
to be misled, and so I insisted that she did say it. She was quiet for       
a while, and then found the courage to ask why it was that one of            
her husband's testicles was lower than the other, and whether it was         
the same with all men. With this the peculiar detail of the hat was          
explained, and the whole interpretation was accepted by her.                 
  The hat symbol was familiar to me long before the patient related          
this dream. From other but less transparent cases I believed that I          
might assume the hat could also stand for the female genitals. *             
-                                                                            
  * Cf. Kirchgraber for a similar example (Zentralblatt fur                  
Psychoanalyse, iii, [1912], p. 95). Stekel reported a dream in which         
the hat with an obliquely-standing feather in the middle symbolized          
the (impotent) man.                                                          
-                                                                            
  2. The little one as the genital organ. Being run over as a symbol         
of sexual intercourse.                                                       
  (Another dream of the same agoraphobic patient.)                           
  Her mother sends away her little daughter so that she has to go            
alone. She then drives with her mother to the railway station, and           
sees her little one walking right along the track, so that she is            
bound to be run over. She hears the bones crack. (At this she                
experiences a feeling of discomfort but no real horror.) She then            
looks through the carriage window, to see whether the parts cannot           
be seen behind. Then she reproaches her mother for allowing the little       
one to go out alone.                                                         
  Analysis.- It is not an easy matter to give here a complete                
interpretation of the dream. It forms part of a cycle of dreams, and         
can be fully understood only in connection with the rest. For it is          
not easy to obtain the material necessary to demonstrate the symbolism       
in a sufficiently isolated condition. The patient at first finds             
that the railway journey is to be interpreted historically as an             
allusion to a departure from a sanatorium for nervous diseases, with         
whose director she was, of course, in love. Her mother fetched her           
away, and before her departure the physician came to the railway             
station and gave her a bunch of flowers; she felt uncomfortable              
because her mother witnessed this attention. Here the mother,                
therefore, appears as the disturber of her tender feelings, a role           
actually played by this strict woman during her daughter's                   
girlhood.- The next association referred to the sentence: She then           
looks to see whether the parts cannot be seen behind. In the                 
dream-facade one would naturally be compelled to think of the pieces         
of the little daughter who had been run over and crushed. The                
association, however, turns in quite a different direction. She              
recalls that she once saw her father in the bath-room, naked, from           
behind; she then begins to talk about sex differences, and remarks           
that in the man the genitals can be seen from behind, but in the woman       
they cannot. In this connection she now herself offers the                   
interpretation that the little one is the genital organ, and her             
little one (she has a four-year-old daughter) her own organ. She             
reproaches her mother for wanting her to live as though she had no           
genitals, and recognizes this reproach in the introductory sentence of       
the dream: the mother sends her little one away, so that she has to go       
alone. In her phantasy, going alone through the streets means having         
no man, no sexual relations (coire = to go together), and this she           
does not like. According to all her statements, she really suffered as       
a girl through her mother's jealousy, because her father showed a            
preference for her.                                                          
  The deeper interpretation of this dream depends upon another dream         
of the same night, in which the dreamer identifies herself with her          
brother. She was a tomboy, and was always being told that she should         
have been born a boy. This identification with the brother shows             
with especial clearness that the little one signifies the genital            
organ. The mother threatened him (her) with castration, which could          
only be understood as a punishment for playing with the genital parts,       
and the identification, therefore, shows that she herself had                
masturbated as a child, though she had retained only a memory of her         
brother's having done so. An early knowledge of the male genitals,           
which she lost later, must, according to the assertions of this second       
dream, have been acquired at this time. Moreover, the second dream           
points to the infantile sexual theory that girls originate from boys         
as a result of castration. After I had told her of this childish             
belief, she at once confirmed it by an anecdote in which the boy             
asks the girl: "Was it cut off?" to which the girl replies: "No,             
it's always been like that."                                                 
  Consequently the sending away of the little one, of the genital            
organ, in the first dream refers also to the threatened castration.          
Finally, she blames her mother for not having borne her as a boy.            
  That being run over symbolizes sexual intercourse would not be             
evident from this dream if we had not learned it from many other             
sources.                                                                     
  3. Representation of the genitals by buildings, stairs, and shafts.        
  (Dream of a young man inhibited by a father complex.)                      
  He is taking a walk with his father in a place which is certainly          
the Prater, for one can see the Rotunda, in front of which there is          
a small vestibule to which there is attached a captive balloon; the          
balloon, however, seems rather limp. His father asks him what this           
is all for; he is surprised at it, but he explains it to his father.         
They come into a courtyard in which lies a large sheet of tin. His           
father wants to pull off a big piece of this, but first looks round to       
see if anyone is watching. He tells his father that all he needs to do       
is to speak to the overseer, and then he can take as much as he              
wants to without any more ado. From this courtyard a flight of               
stairs leads down into a shaft, the walls of which are softly                
upholstered, rather like a leather arm-chair. At the end of this shaft       
there is a long platform, and then a new shaft begins...                     
  Analysis. This dreamer belonged to a type of patient which is not at       
all promising from a therapeutic point of view; up to a certain              
point in the analysis such patients offer no resistance whatever,            
but from that point onwards they prove to be almost inaccessible. This       
dream he analysed almost independently. "The Rotunda," he said, "is my       
genitals, the captive balloon in front is my penis, about whose              
flaccidity I have been worried." We must, however, interpret it in           
greater detail: the Rotunda is the buttocks, constantly associated           
by the child with the genitals; the smaller structure in front is            
the scrotum. In the dream his father asks him what this is all for-          
that is, he asks him about the purpose and arrangement of the                
genitals. It is quite evident that this state of affairs should be           
reversed, and that he ought to be the questioner. As such questioning,       
on the part of the father never occurred in reality, we must                 
conceive the dream-thought as a wish, or perhaps take it                     
conditionally, as follows. "If I had asked my father for sexual              
enlightenment..." The continuation of this thought we shall                  
presently find in another place.                                             
  The courtyard in which the sheet of tin is spread out is not to be         
conceived symbolically in the first instance, but originates from            
his father's place of business. For reasons of discretion I have             
inserted the tin for another material in which the father deals              
without, however, changing anything in the verbal expression of the          
dream. The dreamer had entered his father's business, and had taken          
a terrible dislike to the somewhat questionable practices upon which         
its profit mainly depended. Hence the continuation of the above              
dream-thought ("if I had asked him") would be: "He would have deceived       
me just as he does his customers." For the pulling off, which serves         
to represent commercial dishonesty, the dreamer himself gives a second       
explanation, namely, masturbation. This is not only quite familiar           
to us (see above), but agrees very well with the fact that the secrecy       
of masturbation is expressed by its opposite (one can do it quite            
openly). Thus, it agrees entirely with our expectations that the             
autoerotic activity should be attributed to the father, just as was          
the questioning in the first scene of the dream. The shaft he at             
once interprets as the vagina, by referring to the soft upholstering         
of the walls. That the action of coition in the vagina is described as       
a going down instead of in the usual way as a going up agrees with           
what I have found in other instances. *                                      
-                                                                            
  * Cf. comment in the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, i; and see            
above, note (8) in earlier paragraph.                                        
-                                                                            
  The details- that at the end of the first shaft there is a long            
platform, and then a new shaft- he himself explains biographically. He       
had for some time had sexual intercourse with women, but had given           
it up on account of inhibitions, and now hopes to be able to begin           
it again with the aid of treatment. The dream, however, becomes              
indistinct towards the end, and to the experienced interpreter it            
becomes evident that in the second scene of the dream the influence of       
another subject has already begun to assert itself; which is indicated       
by his father's business, his dishonest practices, and the vagina            
represented by the first shaft, so that one may assume a reference           
to his mother.                                                               
  4. The male organ symbolized by persons and the female by a                
landscape.                                                                   
  (Dream of a woman of the lower class, whose husband is a                   
policeman, reported by B. Dattner.)                                          
  ...Then someone broke into the house and she anxiously called for          
a policeman. But he went peacefully with two tramps into a church, *         
to which a great many steps led up, *(2) behind the church there was a       
mountain *(3) on top of which there was a dense forest. *(4) The             
policeman was provided with a helmet, a gorget, and a cloak. *(5)            
The two vagrants, who went along with the policeman quite peaceably,         
had sack-like aprons tied round their loins. *(6) A road led from            
the church to the mountain. This road was overgrown on each side             
with grass and brushwood, which became thicker and thicker as it             
reached the top of the mountain, where it spread out into quite a            
forest.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  * Or Chapel = vagina.                                                      
  *(2) Symbol of coitus.                                                     
  *(3) Mons veneris.                                                         
  *(4) Crines pubis.                                                         
  *(5) Demons in cloaks and hoods are, according to the explanation of       
a specialist, of a phallic character.                                        
  *(6) The two halves of the scrotum.                                        
-                                                                            
  5. Castration dreams of children.                                          
  (a) A boy aged three years and five months, for whom his father's          
return from military service is clearly inconvenient, wakes one              
morning in a disturbed and excited state, and constantly repeats the         
question: Why did Daddy carry his head on a plate? Last night Daddy          
carried his head on a plate.                                                 
  (b) A student who is now suffering from a severe obsessional               
neurosis remembers that in his sixth year he repeatedly had the              
following dream: He goes to the barber to have his hair cut. Then a          
large woman with severe features comes up to him and cuts off his            
head. He recognizes the woman as his mother.                                 
  6. A modified staircase dream.                                             
  To one of my patients, a sexual abstainer, who was very ill, whose         
phantasy was fixated upon his mother, and who repeatedly dreamed of          
climbing stairs while accompanied by his mother, I once remarked             
that moderate masturbation would probably have been less harmful to          
him than his enforced abstinence. The influence of this remark               
provoked the following dream:                                                
  His piano teacher reproaches him for neglecting his piano-playing,         
and for not practicing the Etudes of Moscheles and Clementi's Gradus         
ad Parnassum. With reference to this he remarked that the Gradus, too,       
is a stairway, and that the piano itself is a stairway, as it has a          
scale.                                                                       
  It may be said that there is no class of ideas which cannot be             
enlisted in the representation of sexual facts and wishes.                   
  7. The sensation of reality and the representation of repetition.          
  A man, now thirty-five, relates a clearly remembered dream which           
he claims to have had when he was four years of age: The notary with         
whom his father's will was deposited- he had lost his father at the          
age of three- brought two large Emperor-pears, of which he was given         
one to eat. The other lay on the window sill of the living-room. He          
woke with the conviction of the reality of what he had dreamt, and           
obstinately asked his mother to give him the second pear; it was, he         
said, still lying on the window-sill. His mother laughed at this.            
  Analysis. The notary was a jovial old gentleman who, as he seems           
to remember, really sometimes brought pears with him. The                    
window-sill was as he saw it in the dream. Nothing else occurs to            
him in this connection, except, perhaps, that his mother has                 
recently told him a dream. She has two birds sitting on her head;            
she wonders when they will fly away, but they do not fly away, and one       
of them flies to her mouth and sucks at it.                                  
  The dreamer's inability to furnish associations justifies the              
attempt to interpret it by the substitution of symbols. The two pears-       
pommes on poires- are the breasts of the mother who nursed him; the          
window-sill is the projection of the bosom, analogous to the balconies       
in the dream of houses. His sensation of reality after waking is             
justified, for his mother had actually suckled him for much longer           
than the customary term, and her breast was still available. The dream       
is to be translated: "Mother, give (show) me the breast again at which       
I once used to drink." The once is represented by the eating of the          
one pear, the again by the desire for the other. The temporal                
repetition of an act is habitually represented in dreams by the              
numerical multiplication of an object                                        
  It is naturally a very striking phenomenon that symbolism should           
already play a part in the dream of a child of four, but this is the         
rule rather than the exception. One may say that the dreamer has             
command of symbolism from the very first.                                    
  The early age at which people make use of symbolic representation,         
even apart from the dream-life, may be shown by the following                
uninfluenced memory of a lady who is now twenty-seven: She is in her         
fourth year. The nursemaid is driving her, with her brother, eleven          
months younger, and a cousin, who is between the two in age, to the          
lavatory, so that they can do their little business there before going       
for their walk. As the oldest, she sits on the seat and the other            
two on chambers. She asks her (female) cousin: Have you a purse,             
too? Walter has a little sausage, I have a purse. The cousin                 
answers: Yes, I have a purse, too. The nursemaid listens, laughing,          
and relates the conversation to the mother, whose reaction is a              
sharp reprimand.                                                             
  Here a dream may be inserted whose excellent symbolism permitted           
of interpretation with little assistance from the dreamer:                   
  8. The question of symbolism in the dreams of normal persons. *            
-                                                                            
  * Alfred Robitsek in the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, ii                
(1911), p. 340.                                                              
-                                                                            
  An objection frequently raised by the opponents of                         
psycho-analysis- and recently also by Havelock Ellis- * is that,             
although dream-symbolism may perhaps be a product of the neurotic            
psyche, it has no validity whatever in the case of normal persons. But       
while psychoanalysis recognizes no essential distinctions, but only          
quantitative differences, between the psychic life of the normal             
person and that of the neurotic, the analysis of those dreams in             
which, in sound and sick persons alike, the repressed complexes              
display the same activity, reveals the absolute identity of the              
mechanisms as well as of the symbolism. Indeed, the natural dreams           
of healthy persons often contain a much simpler, more transparent, and       
more characteristic symbolism than those of neurotics, which, owing to       
the greater strictness of the censorship and the more extensive              
dream-distortion resulting therefrom, are frequently troubled and            
obscured, and are therefore more difficult to translate. The following       
dream serves to illustrate this fact. This dream comes from a                
non-neurotic girl of a rather prudish and reserved type. In the course       
of conversation I found that she was engaged to be married, but that         
there were hindrances in the way of the marriage which threatened to         
postpone it. She related spontaneously the following dream:                  
-                                                                            
  * The World of Dreams, London (1911), p. 168.                              
-                                                                            
  I arrange the centre of a table with flowers for a birthday. On            
being questioned she states that in the dream she seemed to be at home       
(she has no home at the time) and experienced a feeling of happiness.        
  The popular symbolism enables me to translate the dream for                
myself. It is the expression of her wish to be married: the table,           
with the flowers in the centre, is symbolic of herself and her               
genitals. She represents her future fulfilled, inasmuch as she is            
already occupied with the thoughts of the birth of a child; so the           
wedding has taken place long ago.                                            
  I call her attention to the fact that the centre of a table is an          
unusual expression, which she admits; but here, of course, I cannot          
question her more directly. I carefully refrain from suggesting to her       
the meaning of the symbols, and ask her only for the thoughts which          
occur to her mind in connection with the individual parts of the             
dream. In the course of the analysis her reserve gave way to a               
distinct interest in the interpretation, and a frankness which was           
made possible by the serious tone of the conversation. To my                 
question as to what kind of flowers they had been, her first answer          
is: expensive flowers; one has to pay for them; then she adds that           
they were lilies-of-the-valley, violets, and pinks or carnations. I          
took the word lily in this dream in its popular sense, as a symbol           
of chastity; she confirmed this, as purity occurred to her in                
association with lily. Valley is a common feminine dream-symbol. The         
chance juxtaposition of the two symbols in the name of the flower is         
made into a piece of dream-symbolism, and serves to emphasize the            
preciousness of her virginity- expensive flowers; one has to pay for         
them- and expresses the expectation that her husband will know how           
to appreciate its value. The comment, expensive flowers, etc. has,           
as will be shown, a different meaning in every one of the three              
different flower-symbols.                                                    
  I thought of what seemed to me a venturesome explanation of the            
hidden meaning of the apparently quite asexual word violets by an            
unconscious relation to the French viol. But to my surprise the              
dreamer's association was the English word violate. The accidental           
phonetic similarity of the two words violet and violate is utilized by       
the dream to express in the language of flowers the idea of the              
violence of defloration (another word which makes use of                     
flower-symbolism), and perhaps also to give expression to a                  
masochistic tendency on the part of the girl. An excellent example           
of the word bridges across which run the paths to the unconscious. One       
has to pay for them here means life, with which she has to pay for           
becoming a wife and a mother.                                                
  In association with pinks, which she then calls carnations, I              
think of carnal. But her association is colour, to which she adds that       
carnations are the flowers which her fiance gives her frequently and         
in large quantities. At the end of the conversation she suddenly             
admits, spontaneously, that she has not told me the truth; the word          
that occurred to her was not colour, but incarnation, the very word          
I expected. Moreover, even the word colour is not a remote                   
association; it was determined by the meaning of carnation (i.e.,            
flesh-colour)- that is, by the complex. This lack of honesty shows           
that the resistance here is at its greatest because the symbolism is         
here most transparent, and the struggle between libido and                   
repression is most intense in connection with this phallic theme.            
The remark that these flowers were often given her by her fiance is,         
together with the double meaning of carnation, a still further               
indication of their phallic significance in the dream. The occasion of       
the present of flowers during the day is employed to express the             
thought of a sexual present and a return present. She gives her              
virginity and expects in return for it a rich love-life. But the             
words: expensive flowers; one has to pay for them may have a real,           
financial meaning. The flower-symbolism in the dream thus comprises          
the virginal female, the male symbol, and the reference to violent           
defloration. It is to be noted that sexual flower-symbolism, which, of       
course, is very widespread, symbolizes the human sexual organs by            
flowers, the sexual organs of plants; indeed, presents of flowers            
between lovers may have this unconscious significance.                       
  The birthday for which she is making preparations in the dream             
probably signifies the birth of a child. She identifies herself with         
the bridegroom, and represents him preparing her for a birth (having         
coitus with her). It is as though the latent thought were to say:            
"If I were he, I would not wait, but I would deflower the bride              
without asking her; I would use violence." Indeed, the word violate          
points to this. Thus even the sadistic libidinal components find             
expression.                                                                  
  In a deeper stratum of the dream the sentence I arrange, etc.,             
probably has an auto-erotic, that is, an infantile significance.             
  She also has a knowledge- possibly only in the dream- of her               
physical need; she sees herself flat like a table, so that she               
emphasizes all the more her virginity, the costliness of the centre          
(another time she calls it a centre-piece of flowers). Even the              
horizontal element of the table may contribute something to the              
symbol. The concentration of the dream is worthy of remark: nothing is       
superfluous, every word is a symbol.                                         
  Later on she brings me a supplement to this dream: I decorate the          
flowers with green crinkled paper. She adds that it was fancy paper of       
the sort which is used to disguise ordinary flower-pots. She says            
also: "To hide untidy things, whatever was to be seen which was not          
pretty to the eye; there is a gap, a little space in the flowers.            
The paper looks like velvet or moss." With decorate she associates           
decorum, as I expected. The green colour is very prominent, and with         
this she associates hope, yet another reference to pregnancy. In             
this part of the dream the identification with the man is not the            
dominant feature, but thoughts of shame and frankness express                
themselves. She makes herself beautiful for him; she admits physical         
defects, of which she is ashamed and which she wishes to correct.            
The associations velvet and moss distinctly point to crines pubis.           
  The dream is an expression of thoughts hardly known to the waking          
state of the girl; thoughts which deal with the love of the senses and       
its organs; she is prepared for a birth-day, i.e., she has coitus; the       
fear of defloration and perhaps the pleasurably toned pain find              
expression; she admits her physical defects and over-compensates             
them by means of an over-estimation of the value of her virginity. Her       
shame excuses the emerging sensuality by the fact that the aim of it         
all is the child. Even material considerations, which are foreign to         
the lover, find expression here. The affect of the simple dream- the         
feeling of bliss- shows that here strong emotional complexes have            
found satisfaction.                                                          
  I close with the                                                           
  9. Dream of a chemist.                                                     
  (A young man who has been trying to give up his habit of                   
masturbation by substituting intercourse with a woman.)                      
  Preliminary statement: On the day before the dream he had been             
instructing a student as to Grignard's reaction, in which magnesium is       
dissolved in absolutely pure ether under the catalytic influence of          
iodine. Two days earlier there had been an explosion in the course           
of the same reaction, in which someone had burned his hand.                  
  Dream I. He is going to make phenylmagnesiumbromide; he sees the           
apparatus with particular distinctness, but he has substituted himself       
for the magnesium. He is now in a curious, wavering attitude. He keeps       
on repeating to himself: "This is the right thing, it is working, my         
feet are beginning to dissolve, and my knees are getting soft." Then         
he reaches down and feels for his feet, and meanwhile (he does not           
know how) he takes his legs out of the carboy, and then again he             
says to himself: "That can't be... Yes, it has been done correctly."         
Then he partially wakes, and repeats the dream to himself, because           
he wants to tell it to me. He is positively afraid of the analysis           
of the dream. He is much excited during this state of semi-sleep,            
and repeats continually: "Phenyl, phenyl."                                   
  II. He is in... with his whole family. He is supposed to be at the         
Schottentor at half-past eleven in order to keep an appointment with         
the lady in question, but he does not wake until half-past eleven.           
He says to himself: "It is too late now; when you get there it will be       
half-past twelve." The next moment he sees the whole family gathered         
about the table- his mother and the parlourmaid with the soup tureen         
with peculiar distinctness. Then he says to himself: "Well, if we            
are sitting down to eat already, I certainly can't get away."                
  Analysis. He feels sure that even the first dream contains a               
reference to the lady whom he is to meet at the place of rendezvous          
(the dream was dreamed during the night before the expected                  
meeting). The student whom he was instructing is a particularly              
unpleasant fellow; the chemist had said to him: "That isn't right,           
because the magnesium was still unaffected," and the student had             
answered, as though he were quite unconcerned: "Nor it is." He himself       
must be this student; he is as indifferent to his analysis as the            
student is to his synthesis; the he in the dream, however, who               
performs the operation, is myself. How unpleasant he must seem to me         
with his indifference to the result!                                         
  Again, he is the material with which the analysis (synthesis) is           
made. For the question is the success of the treatment. The legs in          
the dream recall an impression of the previous evening. He met a             
lady at a dancing class of whom he wished to make a conquest; he             
pressed her to him so closely that she once cried out. As he ceased to       
press her legs he felt her firm, responding pressure against his lower       
thighs as far as just above the knees, the spot mentioned in the             
dream. In this situation, then, the woman is the magnesium in the            
retort, which is at last working. He is feminine towards me, as he           
is virile towards the woman. If he succeeds with the woman, the              
treatment will also succeed. Feeling himself and becoming aware of his       
knees refers to masturbation, and corresponds to his fatigue of the          
previous day... The rendezvous had actually been made for half-past          
eleven. His wish to oversleep himself and to keep to his sexual object       
at home (that is, masturbation) corresponds to his resistance.               
  He says, in respect to the repetition of the name phenyl, that all         
these radicals ending in yl have always been pleasing to him; they are       
very convenient to use: benzyl, acetyl, etc. That, however,                  
explained nothing. But when I proposed the root Schlemihl he laughed         
heartily, and told me that during the summer he had read a book by           
Prevost which contained a chapter: "Les exclus de l'amour," and in           
this there was some mention of Schlemilies; and in reading of these          
outcasts he said to himself: "That is my case." He would have played         
the Schlemihl if he had missed the appointment.                              
  It seems that the sexual symbolism of dreams has already been              
directly confirmed by experiment. In 1912 Dr. K. Schrotter, at the           
instance of H. Swoboda, produced dreams in deeply hypnotized persons         
by suggestions which determined a large part of the dream-content.           
If the suggestion proposed that the subject should dream of normal           
or abnormal sexual relations, the dream carried out these orders by          
replacing sexual material by the symbols with which psycho-analytic          
dream-interpretation has made us familiar. Thus, following the               
suggestion that the dreamer should dream of homosexual relations             
with a lady friend, this friend appeared in the dream carrying a             
shabby travelling-bag, upon which there was a label with the printed         
words: "For ladies only." The dreamer was believed never to have heard       
of dream-symbolization or of dream-interpretation. Unfortunately,            
the value of this important investigation was diminished by the fact         
that Dr. Schrotter shortly afterwards committed suicide. Of his              
dream-experiments be gave us only a preliminary report in the                
Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse.                                              
  Only when we have formed a due estimate of the importance of               
symbolism in dreams can we continue the study of the typical dreams          
which was interrupted in an earlier chapter. I feel justified in             
dividing these dreams roughly into two classes; first, those which           
always really have the same meaning, and second, those which despite         
the same or a similar content must nevertheless be given the most            
varied interpretations. Of the typical dreams belonging to the first         
class I have already dealt fairly fully with the examination-dream.          
  On account of their similar affective character, the dreams of             
missing a train deserve to be ranked with the examination-dreams;            
moreover, their interpretation justifies this approximation. They            
are consolation-dreams, directed against another anxiety perceived           
in dreams- the fear of death. To depart is one of the most frequent          
and one of the most readily established of the death-symbols. The            
dream therefore says consolingly: "Reassure yourself, you are not            
going to die (to depart)," just as the examination-dream calms us by         
saying: "Don't be afraid; this time, too, nothing will happen to you."       
The difficulty is understanding both kinds of dreams is due to the           
fact that the anxiety is attached precisely to the expression of             
consolation.                                                                 
  The meaning of the dreams due to dental stimulus which I have              
often enough had to analyse in my patients escaped me for a long             
time because, much to my astonishment, they habitually offered too           
great a resistance to interpretation. But finally an overwhelming mass       
of evidence convinced me that in the case of men nothing other than          
the masturbatory desires of puberty furnish the motive power of              
these dreams. I shall analyse two such dreams, one of which is also          
a flying dream. The two dreams were dreamed by the same person- a            
young man of pronounced homosexuality which, however, has been               
inhibited in life.                                                           
  He is witnessing a performance of Fidelio from the stalls the of the       
operahouse; sitting next to L, whose personality is congenial to             
him, and whose friendship he would like to have. Suddenly he flies           
diagonally right across the stalls; he then puts his hand in his mouth       
and draws out two of his teeth.                                              
  He himself describes the flight by saying that it was as though he         
were thrown into the air. As the opera performed was Fidelio, he             
recalls the words:                                                           
-                                                                            
              He who a charming wife acquires....                            
-                                                                            
  But the acquisition of even the most charming wife is not among            
the wishes of the dreamer. Two other lines would be more appropriate:        
-                                                                            
              He who succeeds in the lucky (big) throw                       
              The friend of a friend to be....                               
-                                                                            
  The dream thus contains the lucky (big) throw which is not, however,       
a wish-fulfilment only. For it conceals also the painful reflection          
that in his striving after friendship he has often had the                   
misfortune to be thrown out, and the fear lest this fate may be              
repeated in the case of the young man by whose side he has enjoyed the       
performance of Fidelio. This is now followed by a confession, shameful       
to a man of his refinement, to the effect that once, after such a            
rejection on the part of a friend, his profound sexual longing               
caused him to masturbate twice in succession.                                
  The other dream is as follows: Two university professors of his            
acquaintance are treating him in my place. One of them does                  
something to his penis; he is afraid of an operation. The other              
thrusts an iron bar against his mouth, so that he loses one or two           
teeth. He is bound with four silk handkerchiefs.                             
  The sexual significance of this dream can hardly be doubted. The           
silk handkerchiefs allude to an identification with a homosexual of          
his acquaintance. The dreamer, who has never achieved coition (nor has       
he ever actually sought sexual intercourse) with men, conceives the          
sexual act on the lines of masturbation with which he was familiar           
during puberty.                                                              
  I believe that the frequent modifications of the typical dream due         
to dental stimulus- that, for example, in which another person draws         
the tooth from the dreamer's mouth- will be made intelligible by the         
same explanation. * It may, however, be difficult to understand how          
dental stimulus can have come to have this significance. But here I          
may draw attention to the frequent displacement from below to above          
which is at the service of sexual repression, and by means of which          
all kinds of sensations and intentions occurring in hysteria, which          
ought to be localized in the genitals, may at all events be realized         
in other, unobjectionable parts of the body. We have a case of such          
displacement when the genitals are replaced by the face in the               
symbolism of unconscious thought. This is corroborated by the fact           
that verbal usage relates the buttocks to the cheeks, and the labia          
minora to the lips which enclose the orifice of the mouth. The nose is       
compared to the penis in numerous allusions, and in each case the            
presence of hair completes the resemblance. Only one feature- the            
teeth- is beyond all possibility of being compared in this way; but it       
is just this coincidence of agreement and disagreement which makes the       
teeth suitable for purposes of representation under the pressure of          
sexual repression.                                                           
-                                                                            
  * The extraction of a tooth by another is usually to be                    
interpreted as castration (cf. hair-cutting; Stekel). One must               
distinguish between dreams due to dental stimulus and dreams referring       
to the dentist, such as have been recorded, for example, by Coriat           
(Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, iii, 440).                                  
-                                                                            
  I will not assert that the interpretation of dreams due to dental          
stimulus as dreams of masturbation (the correctness of which I               
cannot doubt) has been freed of all obscurity. * I carry the                 
explanation as far as I am able, and must leave the rest unsolved. But       
I must refer to yet another relation indicated by a colloquial               
expression. In Austria there is in use an indelicate designation for         
the act of masturbation, namely: "To pull one out," or "to pull one          
off." *(2) I am unable to say whence these colloquialisms originate,         
or on what symbolisms they are based; but the teeth would very well          
fit in with the first of the two.                                            
-                                                                            
  * According to C. G. Jung, dreams due to dental stimulus in the case       
of women have the significance parturition dreams. E. Jones has              
given valuable confirmation of this. The common element of this              
interpretation with that represented above may be found in the fact          
that in both cases (castration-birth) there is a question of                 
removing a part from the whole body.                                         
  *(2) Cf. the biographical dream earlier in this chapter.                   
-                                                                            
  Dreams of pulling teeth, and of teeth falling out, are interpreted         
in popular belief to mean the death of a connection. Psycho-analysis         
can admit of such a meaning only at the most as a joking allusion to         
the sense already indicated.                                                 
  To the second group of typical dreams belong those in which one is         
flying or hovering, falling, swimming, etc. What do these dreams             
signify? Here we cannot generalize. They mean, as we shall learn,            
something different in each case; only, the sensory material which           
they contain always comes from the same source.                              
  We must conclude from the information obtained in psycho-analysis          
that these dreams also repeat impressions of our childhood- that is,         
that they refer to the games involving movement which have such an           
extraordinary attraction for children. Where is the uncle who has            
never made a child fly by running with it across the room, with              
outstretched arms, or has never played at falling with it by rocking         
it on his knee and then suddenly straightening his leg, or by                
lifting it above his head and suddenly pretending to withdraw his            
supporting hand? At such moments children shout with joy and                 
insatiably demand a repetition of the performance, especially if a           
little fright and dizziness are involved in it. In after years they          
repeat their sensations in dreams, but in dreams they omit the hands         
that held them, so that now they are free to float or fall. We know          
that all small children have a fondness for such games as rocking            
and see-sawing; and when they see gymnastic performances at the circus       
their recollection of such games is refreshed. In some boys the              
hysterical attack consists simply in the reproduction of such                
performances, which they accomplish with great dexterity. Not                
infrequently sexual sensations are excited by these games of movement,       
innocent though they are in themselves. To express the matter in a few       
words: it is these romping games of childhood which are being repeated       
in dreams of flying, falling, vertigo, and the like, but the                 
pleasurable sensations are now transformed into anxiety. But, as every       
mother knows, the romping of children often enough ends in quarrelling       
and tears.                                                                   
  I have therefore good reason for rejecting the explanation that it         
is the condition of our cutaneous sensations during sleep, the               
sensation of the movements of the lungs, etc., that evoke dreams of          
flying and falling. As I see it, these sensations have themselves been       
reproduced from the memory to which the dream refers- that they are          
therefore dream-content, and not dream-sources. *                            
-                                                                            
  * This passage, dealing with dreams of motion, is repeated on              
account of the context. Cf. chapter V., D.                                   
-                                                                            
  This material, consisting of sensations of motion, similar in              
character, and originating from the same sources, is now used for            
the representation of the most manifold dream-thoughts. Dreams of            
flying or hovering, for the most part pleasurably toned, will call for       
the most widely differing interpretations- interpretations of a              
quite special nature in the case of some dreamers, and interpretations       
of a typical nature in that of others. One of my patients was in the         
habit of dreaming very frequently that she was hovering a little way         
above the street without touching the ground. She was very short of          
stature, and she shunned every sort of contamination involved by             
intercourse with human beings. Her dream of suspension- which raised         
her feet above the ground and allowed her head to tower into the             
air- fulfilled both of her wishes. In the case of other dreamers of          
the same sex, the dream of flying had the significance of the longing:       
"If only I were a little bird!" Similarly, others become angels at           
night, because no one has ever called them angels by day. The intimate       
connection between flying and the idea of a bird makes it                    
comprehensible that the dream of flying, in the case of male dreamers,       
should usually have a coarsely sensual significance; * and we should         
not be surprised to hear that this or that dreamer is always very            
proud of his ability to fly.                                                 
-                                                                            
  * A reference to the German slang word vogeln (to copulate) from           
Vogel (a bird).- TR.                                                         
-                                                                            
  Dr. Paul Federn (Vienna) has propounded the fascinating theory             
that a great many flying dreams are erection dreams, since the               
remarkable phenomenon of erection, which constantly occupies the human       
phantasy, cannot fail to be impressive as an apparent suspension of          
the laws of gravity (cf. the winged phalli of the ancients).                 
  It is a noteworthy fact that a prudent experimenter like Mourly            
Vold, who is really averse to any kind of interpretation, nevertheless       
defends the erotic interpretation of the dreams of flying and                
hovering. * He describes the erotic element as "the most important           
motive factor of the hovering dream," and refers to the strong sense         
of bodily vibration which accompanies this type of dream, and the            
frequent connection of such dreams with erections and emissions.             
-                                                                            
  * "Uber den Traum," Ges. Schriften, Vol. III.                              
-                                                                            
  Dreams of falling are more frequently characterized by anxiety.            
Their interpretation, when they occur in women, offers no                    
difficulty, because they nearly always accept the symbolic meaning           
of falling, which is a circumlocution for giving way to an erotic            
temptation. We have not yet exhausted the infantile sources of the           
dream of falling; nearly all children have fallen occasionally, and          
then been picked up and fondled; if they fell out of bed at night,           
they were picked up by the nurse and taken into her bed.                     
  People who dream often, and with great enjoyment, of swimming,             
cleaving the waves, etc., have usually been bed-wetters, and they            
now repeat in the dream a pleasure which they have long since                
learned to forego. We shall soon learn, from one example or another,         
to what representations dreams of swimming easily lend themselves.           
  The interpretation of dreams of fire justifies a prohibition of            
the nursery, which forbids children to play with fire so that they may       
not wet the bed at night. These dreams also are based on reminiscences       
of the enuresis nocturna of childhood. In my "Fragment of an                 
Analysis of Hysteria" * I have given the complete analysis and               
synthesis of such a dream of fire in connection with the infantile           
history of the dreamer, and have shown for the representation of             
what maturer impulses this infantile material has been utilized.             
-                                                                            
  * Collected Papers, III.                                                   
-                                                                            
  It would be possible to cite quite a number of other typical dreams,       
if by such one understands dreams in which there is a frequent               
recurrence, in the dreams of different persons, of the same manifest         
dream-content. For example: dreams of passing through narrow alleys,         
or a whole suite of rooms; dreams of burglars, in respect of whom            
nervous people take measures of precaution before going to bed; dreams       
of being chased by wild animals (bulls, horses); or of being                 
threatened with knives, daggers, and lances. The last two themes are         
characteristic of the manifest dream-content of persons suffering from       
anxiety, etc. A special investigation of this class of material              
would be well worth while. In lieu of this I shall offer two                 
observations, which do not, however, apply exclusively to typical            
dreams.                                                                      
  The more one is occupied with the solution of dreams, the readier          
one becomes to acknowledge that the majority of the dreams of adults         
deal with sexual material and give expression to erotic wishes. Only         
those who really analyse dreams, that is, those who penetrate from           
their manifest content to the latent dream-thoughts, can form an             
opinion on this subject; but never those who are satisfied with              
registering merely the manifest content (as, for example, Nacke in his       
writings on sexual dreams). Let us recognize at once that there is           
nothing astonishing in this fact, which is entirely consistent with          
the principles of dream-interpretation. No other instinct has had to         
undergo so much suppression, from the time of childhood onwards, as          
the sexual instinct in all its numerous components: * from no other          
instincts are so many and such intense unconscious wishes left over,         
which now, in the sleeping state, generate dreams. In                        
dream-interpretation this importance of the sexual complexes must            
never be forgotten, though one must not, of course, exaggerate it to         
the exclusion of all other factors.                                          
-                                                                            
  * Cf. Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex.                            
-                                                                            
  Of many dreams it may be ascertained, by careful interpretation,           
that they may even be understood bisexually, inasmuch as they yield an       
indisputable over-interpretation, in which they realize homosexual           
impulses- that is, impulses which are contrary to the normal sexual          
activity of the dreamer. But that all dreams are to be interpreted           
bisexually, as Stekel * maintains, and Adler, *(2) seems to me to be a       
generalization as insusceptible of proof as it is improbable, and            
one which, therefore, I should be loth to defend; for I should,              
above all, be at a loss to know how to dispose of the obvious fact           
that there are many dreams which satisfy other than erotic needs             
(taking the word in the widest sense), as, for example, dreams of            
hunger, thirst, comfort, etc. And other similar assertions, to the           
effect that "behind every dream one finds a reference to death"              
(Stekel), or that every dream shows "an advance from the feminine to         
the masculine line" (Adler), seem to me to go far beyond the                 
admissible in the interpretation of dreams. The assertion that all           
dreams call for a sexual interpretation, against which there is such         
an untiring polemic in the literature of the subject, is quite foreign       
to my Interpretation of Dreams. It will not be found in any of the           
eight editions of this book, and is in palpable contradiction to the         
rest of its contents.                                                        
-                                                                            
  * W. Stekel, Die Sprache des Traumes (1911).                               
  *(2) Alf. Adler, "Der Psychische Hermaphroditismus im Leben und in         
der Neurose," in Fortschritte der Medizin (1910), No. 16, and later          
papers in the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse, i (1910-11).                   
-                                                                            
  We have stated elsewhere that dreams which are conspicuously               
innocent commonly embody crude erotic wishes, and this we might              
confirm by numerous further examples. But many dreams which appear           
indifferent, in which we should never suspect a tendency in any              
particular direction, may be traced, according to the analysis, to           
unmistakably sexual wish-impulses, often of an unsuspected nature. For       
example, who, before it had been interpreted, would have suspected a         
sexual wish in the following dream? The dreamer relates: Between two         
stately palaces there stands, a little way back, a small house,              
whose doors are closed. My wife leads me along the little bit of             
road leading to the house and pushes the door open, and then I slip          
quickly and easily into the interior of a courtyard that slopes              
steeply upwards.                                                             
  Anyone who has had experience in the translating of dreams will,           
of course, at once be reminded that penetration into narrow spaces and       
the opening of locked doors are among the commonest of sexual symbols,       
and will readily see in this dream a representation of attempted             
coition from behind (between the two stately buttocks of the female          
body). The narrow, steep passage is, of course, the vagina; the              
assistance attributed to the wife of the dreamer requires the                
interpretation that in reality it is only consideration for the wife         
which is responsible for abstention from such an attempt. Moreover,          
inquiry shows that on the previous day a young girl had entered the          
household of the dreamer; she had pleased him, and had given him the         
impression that she would not be altogether averse to an approach of         
this sort. The little house between the two palaces is taken from a          
reminiscence of the Hradschin in Prague, and once more points to the         
girl, who is a native of that city.                                          
  If, in conversation with my patients, I emphasize the frequency of         
the Oedipus dream- the dream of having sexual intercourse with one's         
mother- I elicit the answer: "I cannot remember such a dream."               
Immediately afterwards, however, there arises the recollection of            
another, an unrecognizable, indifferent dream, which the patient has         
dreamed repeatedly, and which on analysis proves to be a dream with          
this very content- that is, yet another Oedipus dream. I can assure          
the reader that disguised dreams of sexual intercourse with the              
dreamer's mother are far more frequent than undisguised dreams to            
the same effect. *                                                           
-                                                                            
  * I have published a typical example of such a disguised Oedipus           
dream in No. 1 of the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse (see below):            
another, with a detailed analysis, was published in No. 4 of the             
same journal by Otto Rank. For other disguised Oedipus dreams in which       
the eye appears as a symbol, see Rank (Int. Zeitschr. fur Ps. A., i,         
[1913]). Papers upon eye dreams and eye symbolism by Eder, Ferenczi,         
and Reitler will be found in the same issue. The blinding in the             
Oedipus legend and elsewhere is a substitute for castration. The             
ancients, by the way, were not unfamiliar with the symbolic                  
interpretation of the undisguised Oedipus dream (see O. Rank, Jahrb.         
ii, p. 534: "Thus, a dream of Julius Caesar's of sexual relations with       
his mother has been handed down to us, which the oreirocopists               
interpreted as a favourable omen signifying his taking possession of         
the earth (Mother Earth). Equally well known is the oracle delivered         
to the Tarquinii, to the effect that that one of them would become the       
ruler of Rome who should be the first to kiss his mother (osculum            
matri tulerit), which Brutus conceived as referring to Mother Earth          
(terram osculo contigit, scilicet quod ea communis mater omnium              
mortalium esset, Livy, I, lvi). Cf. here the dream of Hippias in             
Herodotus vi, 107. These myths and interpretations point to a                
correct psychological insight. I have found that those persons who           
consider themselves preferred or favoured by their mothers manifest in       
life that confidence in themselves, and that unshakable optimism,            
which often seem heroic, and not infrequently compel actual success.         
  Typical example of a disguised Oedipus dream:                              
  A man dreams: He has a secret affair with a woman whom another man         
wishes to marry. He is concerned lest the other should discover this         
relation and abandon the marriage; he therefore behaves very                 
affectionately to the man; he nestles up to him and kisses him. The          
facts of the dreamer's life touch the dream-content only at one point.       
He has a secret affair with a married woman, and an equivocal                
expression of her husband, with whom he is on friendly terms,                
aroused in him the suspicion that he might have noticed something of         
this relationship. There is, however, in reality, yet another                
factor, the mention of which was avoided in the dream, and which alone       
gives the key to it. The life of the husband is threatened by an             
organic malady. His wife is prepared for the possibility of his sudden       
death, and our dreamer consciously harbours the intention of                 
marrying the young widow after her husband's decease. It is through          
this objective situation that the dreamer finds himself transferred          
into the constellation of the Oedipus dream; his wish is to be enabled       
to kill the man, so that he may win the woman for his wife; his              
dream gives expression to the wish in a hypocritical distortion.             
Instead of representing her as already married to the other man, it          
represents the other man only as wishing to marry her, which indeed          
corresponds with his own secret intention, and the hostile whishes           
directed against the man are concealed under demonstrations of               
affection, which are reminiscences of his childish relations to his          
father.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  There are dreams of landscapes and localities in which emphasis is         
always laid upon the assurance: "I have been here before." but this          
Deja vu has a special significance in dreams. In this case the               
locality is the genitals of the mother; of no other place can it be          
asserted with such certainty that one has been here before. I was once       
puzzled by the account of a dream given by a patient afflicted with          
obsessional neurosis. He dreamed that he called at a house where he          
had been twice before. But this very patient had long ago told me of         
an episode of his sixth year. At that time he shared his mother's bed,       
and had abused the occasion by inserting his finger into his                 
mother's genitals while she was asleep.                                      
  A large number of dreams, which are frequently full of anxiety,            
and often have for content the traversing of narrow spaces, or staying       
long in the water, are based upon phantasies concerning the                  
intra-uterine life, the sojourn in the mother's womb, and the act of         
birth. I here insert the dream of a young man who, in his phantasy,          
has even profited by the intra-uterine opportunity of spying upon an         
act of coition between his parents.                                          
  He is in a deep shaft, in which there is a window, as in the               
Semmering tunnel. Through this he sees at first an empty landscape,          
and then he composes a picture in it, which is there all at once and         
fills up the empty space. The picture represents a field which is            
being deeply tilled by an implement, and the wholesome air, the              
associated idea of hard work, and the bluish-black clods of earth make       
a pleasant impression on him. He then goes on and sees a work on             
education lying open... and is surprised that so much attention is           
devoted in it to the sexual feelings (of children), which makes him          
think of me.                                                                 
  Here is a pretty water-dream of a female patient, which was turned         
to special account in the course of treatment.                               
  At her usual holiday resort on the... Lake, she flings herself             
into the dark water at a place where the pale moon is reflected in the       
water.                                                                       
  Dreams of this sort are parturition dreams; their interpretation           
is effected by reversing the fact recorded in the manifest                   
dream-content; thus, instead of flinging oneself into the water,             
read coming out of the water- that is, being born. * The place from          
which one is born may be recognized if one thinks of the humorous            
sense of the French la lune. The pale moon thus becomes the white            
bottom, which the child soon guesses to be the place from which it           
came. Now what can be the meaning of the patient's wishing to be             
born at a holiday resort? I asked the dreamer this, and she replied          
without hesitation: "Hasn't the treatment made me as though I were           
born again?" Thus the dream becomes an invitation to continue the            
treatment at this summer resort- that is, to visit her there;                
perhaps it also contains a very bashful allusion to the wish to become       
a mother herself. *(2)                                                       
-                                                                            
  * For the mythological meaning of water-birth, see Rank: Der               
Mythus von der Geburt des Helden (1909).                                     
  *(2) It was not for a long time that I learned to appreciate the           
significance of the phantasies and unconscious thoughts relating to          
life in the womb. They contain the explanation of the curious dread,         
felt by so many people, of being buried alive, as well as the                
profoundest unconscious reason for the belief in a life after death,         
which represents only the projection into the future of this                 
mysterious life before birth. The act of birth, moreover, is the first       
experience attended by anxiety, and is thus, the source and model of         
the affect of anxiety.                                                       
-                                                                            
  Another dream of parturition, with its interpretation, I take from a       
paper by E. Jones. "She stood at the seashore watching a small boy,          
who seemed to be hers, wading into the water. This he did till the           
water covered him and she could only see his head bobbing up and             
down near the surface. The scene then changed to the crowded to hall         
of an hotel. Her husband left her, and she 'entered into                     
conversation with' a stranger.                                               
  "The second half of the dream was discovered in the analysis to            
represent flight from her husband, and the entering into intimate            
relations with a third person, behind whom was plainly indicated Mr.         
X's brother, mentioned in a former dream. The first part of the              
dream was a fairly evident birth-phantasy. In dreams, as in mythology,       
the delivery of a child from the uterine waters is commonly                  
represented, by way of distortion, as the entry of the child into            
water; among many other instances, the births of Adonis, Osiris,             
Moses, and Bacchus are well-known illustrations of this. The bobbing         
up and down of the head in the water at once recalled to the patient         
the sensation of quickening which she had experienced in her only            
pregnancy. Thinking of the boy going into the water induced a                
reverie in which she saw herself taking him out of the water, carrying       
him into the nursery, washing and dressing him, and installing him           
in her household.                                                            
  "The second half of the dream, therefore, represents thoughts              
concerning the elopement, which belonged to the first half of the            
underlying latent content; the first half of the dream corresponded          
with the second half of the latent content, the birth phantasy.              
Besides this inversion in the order, further inversions took place           
in each half of the dream. In the first half the child entered the           
water, and then his head bobbed; in the underlying dream-thoughts            
the quickening occurred first, and then the child left the water (a          
double inversion). In the second half her husband left her; in the           
dream-thoughts she left her husband."                                        
  Another parturition dream is related by Abraham- the dream of a            
young woman expecting her first confinement: Front one point of the          
floor of the room a subterranean channel leads directly into the water       
(path of parturition- amniotic fluid). She lifts up a trap in the            
floor, and there immediately appears a creature dressed in brownish          
fur, which almost resembles a seal. This creature changes into the           
dreamer's younger brother, to whom her relation has always been              
material in character.                                                       
  Rank has shown from a number of dreams that parturition-dreams             
employ the same symbols as micturition-dreams. The erotic stimulus           
expresses itself in these dreams as in urethral stimulus. The                
 
stratification of meaning in these dreams corresponds with a chance in       
the significance of the symbol since childhood.                              
  We may here turn back to the interrupted theme (see chapter III)           
of the part played by organic, sleep-disturbing stimuli in                   
dream-formation. Dreams which have come into existence under these           
influences not only reveal quite frankly the wish-fulfilling tendency,       
and the character of convenience-dreams, but they very often display a       
quite transparent symbolism as well, since waking not infrequently           
follows a stimulus whose satisfaction in symbolic disguise has already       
been vainly attempted in the dream. This is true of emission dreams as       
well as those evoked by the need to urinate or defecate. The                 
peculiar character of emission dreams permits us directly to unmask          
certain sexual symbols already recognized as typical, but nevertheless       
violently disputed, and it also convinces us that many an apparently         
innocent dream-situation is merely the symbolic prelude to a crudely         
sexual scene. This, however, finds direct representation, as a rule,         
only in the comparatively infrequent emission dreams, while it often         
enough turns into an anxiety-dream, which likewise leads to waking.          
  The symbolism of dreams due to urethral stimulus is especially             
obvious, and has always been divined. Hippocrates had already advanced       
the theory that a disturbance of the bladder was indicated if one            
dreamt of fountains and springs (Havelock Ellis). Scherner, who has          
studied the manifold symbolism of the urethral stimulus, agrees that         
"the powerful urethral stimulus always turns into the stimulation of         
the sexual sphere and its symbolic imagery.... The dream due to              
urethral stimulus is often at the same time the representative of            
the sexual dream."                                                           
  O. Rank, whose conclusions (in his paper on Die Symbolschichtung           
im Wecktraum) I have here followed, argues very plausibly that a large       
number of "dreams due to urethral stimulus" are really caused by             
sexual stimuli, which at first seek to gratify themselves by way of          
regression to the infantile form of urethral erotism. Those cases            
are especially instructive in which the urethral stimulus thus               
produced leads to waking and the emptying of the bladder, whereupon,         
in spite of this relief, the dream is continued, and expresses its           
need in undisguisedly erotic images. *                                       
-                                                                            
  * "The same symbolic representations which in the infantile sense          
constitute the basis of the vesical dream appear in the recent sense         
in purely sexual significance: water = urine = semen = amniotic fluid;       
ship = to pump ship (urinate) = seed-capsule; getting wet = enuresis =       
coitus = pregnancy; swimming = full bladder = dwelling-place of the          
unborn; rain = urination = symbol of fertilization: traveling                
(journeying- alighting) = getting out of bed = having sexual                 
intercourse (honeymoon journey); urinating = sexual ejaculation"             
(Rank, I, c).                                                                
-                                                                            
  In a quite analogous manner dreams due to intestinal stimulus              
disclose the pertinent symbolism, and thus confirm the relation, which       
is also amply verified by ethno-psychology, of gold and feces. *             
"Thus, for example, a woman, at a time when she is under the care of a       
physician on account of an intestinal disorder, dreams of a digger for       
hidden treasure who is burying a treasure in the vicinity of a               
little wooden shed which looks like a rural privy. A second part of          
the dream has as its content how she wipes the posterior of her child,       
a little girl, who has soiled herself."                                      
-                                                                            
  * Freud, "Character and Anal Erotism," Collected Papers, II; Rank,         
Die Symbolschictung, etc.; Dattner, Intern. Zeitschr. f. Psych. i            
(1913); Reik Intern. Zeitschr., iii (1915).                                  
-                                                                            
  Dreams of rescue are connected with parturition dreams. To rescue,         
especially to rescue from the water, is, when dreamed by a woman,            
equivalent to giving birth; this sense is, however, modified when            
the dreamer is a man. *                                                      
-                                                                            
  * For such a dream see Pfister, "Ein Fall von psychoanalytischer           
Seelensorge und Seelenheilung," in Evangelische Freiheit (1909).             
Concerning the symbol of "rescuing," see my paper, "The Future               
Prospects of Psycho-Analytic Therapy" (p. 123 above). Also                   
"Contribution to the Theory of Love, I: A Special Type of Object             
Choice in Men" in Collected Papers, iv. Also Rank, "Beilege zur              
Rettungs-phantasie," in the Zentralblatt fur Psychoanalyse i (1910),         
p. 331; Reik; "Zur Rettungssymbolic," ibid., p. 299.                         
-                                                                            
  Robbers, burglars, and ghosts, of which we are afraid before going         
to bed, and which sometimes even disturb our sleep, originate in one         
and the same childish reminiscence. They are the nightly visitors            
who have waked the child in order to set it on the chamber, so that it       
may not wet the bed, or have lifted the coverlet in order to see             
clearly how the child is holding its hands while sleeping. I have been       
able to induce an exact recollection of the nocturnal visitor in the         
analysis of some of these anxiety dreams. The robbers were always            
the father; the ghosts more probably correspond to female persons in         
white night-gowns.                                                           
                                                                             
VI|F                                                                         
             F. Examples- Arithmetic and Speech in Dreams                    
-                                                                            
  Before I proceed to assign to its proper place the fourth of the           
factors which control the formation of dreams, I shall cite a few            
examples from my collection of dreams, partly for the purpose of             
illustrating the co-operation of the three factors with which we are         
already acquainted, and partly for the purpose of adducing evidence          
for certain unsupported assertions which have been made, or of               
bringing out what necessarily follows from them. It has, of course,          
been difficult in the foregoing account of the dream-work to                 
demonstrate my conclusions by means of examples. Examples in support         
of isolated statements are convincing only when considered in the            
context of an interpretation of a dream as a whole; when they are            
wrested from their context, they lose their value; on the other              
hand, a dream-interpretation, even when it is by no means profound,          
soon becomes so extensive that it obscures the thread of the                 
discussion which it is intended to illustrate. This technical                
consideration must be my excuse if I now proceed to mix together all         
sorts of things which have nothing in common except their reference to       
the text of the foregoing chapter.                                           
  We shall first consider a few examples of very peculiar or unusual         
methods of representation in dreams. A lady dreamed as follows: A            
servant-girl is standing on a ladder as though to clean the windows,         
and has with her a chimpanzee and a gorilla cat (later corrected,            
angora cat). She throws the animals on to the dreamer; the                   
chimpanzee nestles up to her, and this is very disgusting. This              
dream has accomplished its purpose by a very simple means, namely,           
by taking a mere figure of speech literally, and representing it in          
accordance with the literal meaning of its words. Monkey, like the           
names of animals in general, is an opprobrious epithet, and the              
situation of the dream means merely to hurl invectives. This same            
collection will soon furnish us with further examples of the                 
employment of this simple artifice in the dream-work.                        
  Another dream proceeds in a very similar manner: A woman with a            
child which has a conspicuously deformed cranium; the dreamer has            
heard that the child acquired this deformity owing to its position           
in its mother's womb. The doctor says that the cranium might be              
given a better shape by means of compression, but that this would            
injure the brain. She thinks that because it is a boy it won't               
suffer so much from deformity. This dream contains a plastic                 
representation of the abstract concept: Childish impressions, with           
which the dreamer has become familiar in the course of the treatment.        
  In the following example the dream-work follows rather a different         
course. The dream contains a recollection of an excursion to the             
Hilmteich, near Graz: There is a terrible storm outside; a miserable         
hotel- the water is dripping from the walls, and the beds are damp.          
(The latter part of the content was less directly expressed than I           
give it.) The dream signifies superfluous. The abstract idea occurring       
in the dream-thoughts is first made equivocal by a certain abuse of          
language; it has perhaps been replaced by overflowing, or by fluid and       
super-fluid (-fluous), and has then been brought to representation           
by an accumulation of like impressions. Water within, water without,         
water in the beds in the form of dampness- everything fluid and              
super fluid. That for the purposes of dream-representation the               
spelling is much less considered than the sound of words ought not           
to surprise us when we remember that rhyme exercises a similar               
privilege.                                                                   
  The fact that language has at its disposal a great number of words         
which were originally used in a pictorial and concrete sense, but            
are at present used in a colourless and abstract fashion, has, in            
certain other cases, made it very easy for the dream to represent            
its thoughts. The dream has only to restore to these words their             
full significance, or to follow their change of meaning a little way         
back. For example, a man dreams that his friend, who is struggling           
to get out of a very tight place, calls upon him for help. The               
analysis shows that the tight place is a hole, and that the dreamer          
symbolically uses these very words to his friend: "Be careful, or            
you'll get yourself into a hole." * Another dreamer climbs a                 
mountain from which he obtains an extraordinarily extensive view. He         
identifies himself with his brother, who is editing a review dealing         
with the Far East.                                                           
-                                                                            
  * English Example.- TR.                                                    
-                                                                            
  In a dream in Der Grune Heinrich, a spirited horse is plunging about       
in a field of the finest oats, every grain of which is really "a sweet       
almond, a raisin and a new penny" wrapped in red silk and tied with          
a bit of pig's bristle." The poet (or the dreamer) immediately               
furnishes the meaning of this dream, for the horse felt himself              
pleasantly tickled, so that he exclaimed: "The oats are pricking me"         
("I feel my oats").                                                          
  In the old Norse sagas (according to Henzen) prolific use is made in       
dreams of colloquialisms and witty expressions; one scarcely finds a         
dream without a double meaning or a play upon words.                         
  It would be a special undertaking to collect such methods of               
representation and to arrange them in accordance with the principles         
upon which they are based. Some of the representations are almost            
witty. They give one the impression that one would have never                
guessed their meaning if the dreamer himself had not succeeded in            
explaining it.                                                               
  1. A man dreams that he is asked for a name, which, however, he            
cannot recall. He himself explains that this means: "I shouldn't dream       
of it."                                                                      
  2. A female patient relates a dream in which all the persons               
concerned were singularly large. "That means," she adds, "that it must       
deal with an episode of my early childhood, for at that time all             
grown-up people naturally seemed to me immensely large." She herself         
did not appear in the dream.                                                 
  The transposition into childhood is expressed differently in other         
dreams- by the translation of time into space. One sees persons and          
scenes as though at a great distance, at the end of a long road, or as       
though one were looking at them through the wrong end of a pair of           
opera-glasses.                                                               
  3. A man who in waking life shows an inclination to employ                 
abstract and indefinite expressions, but who otherwise has his wits          
about him, dreams, in a certain connection, that he reaches a                
railway station just as a train is coming in. But then the platform          
moves towards the train, which stands still; an absurd inversion of          
the real state of affairs. This detail, again, is nothing more than an       
indication to the effect that something else in the dream must be            
inverted. The analysis of the same dream leads to recollections of           
picture-books in which men were represented standing on their heads          
and walking on their hands.                                                  
  4. The same dreamer, on another occasion, relates a short dream            
which almost recalls the technique of a rebus. His uncle gives him a         
kiss in an automobile. He immediately adds the interpretation, which         
would never have occurred to me: it means auto-erotism. In the               
waking state this might have been said in jest.                              
  5. At a New Year's Eve dinner the host, the patriarch of the family,       
ushered in the New Year with a speech. One of his sons-in-law, a             
lawyer, was not inclined to take the old man seriously, especially           
when in the course of his speech he expressed himself as follows:            
"When I open the ledger for the Old Year and glance at its pages I see       
everything on the asset side and nothing, thank the Lord, on the             
side of liability; all you children have been a great asset, none of         
you a liability." On hearing this the young lawyer thought of X, his         
wife's brother, who was a cheat and a liar, and whom he had recently         
extricated from the entanglements of the law. That night, in a               
dream. he saw the New Year's celebration once more, and heard the            
speech, or rather saw it. Instead of speaking, the old man actually          
opened the ledger, and on the side marked assets he saw his name             
amongst others, but on the other side, marked liability, there was the       
name of his brother-in-law, X. However, the word liability was changed       
into Lie-Ability, which he regarded as X's main characteristic. *            
-                                                                            
  * Reported by Brill in his Fundamental Conceptions of                      
Psychoanalysis.                                                              
-                                                                            
  6. A dreamer treats another person for a broken bone. The analysis         
shows that the fracture represents a broken marriage vow, etc.               
  7. In the dream-content the time of day often represents a certain         
period of the dreamer's childhood. Thus, for example, 5:15 a.m.              
means to one dreamer the age of five years and three months; when he         
was that age, a younger brother was born.                                    
  8. Another representation of age in a dream: A woman is walking with       
two little girls; there is a difference of fifteen months in their           
ages. The dreamer cannot think of any family of her acquaintance in          
which this is the case. She herself interprets it to mean that the two       
children represent her own person, and that the dream reminds her that       
the two traumatic events of her childhood were separated by this             
period of time 3 1/2 and 4 3/4 years).                                       
  9. It is not astonishing that persons who are undergoing                   
psycho-analytic treatment frequently dream of it, and are compelled to       
give expression in their dreams to all the thoughts and expectations         
aroused by it. The image chosen for the treatment is as a rule that of       
a journey, usually in a motor-car, this being a modern and complicated       
vehicle; in the reference to the speed of the car the patient's              
ironical humour is given free play. If the unconscious, as an                
element of waking thought, is to be represented in the dream, it is          
replaced, appropriately enough, by subterranean localities, which at         
other times, when there is no reference to analytic treatment, have          
represented the female body or the womb. Below in the dream very often       
refers to the genitals, and its opposite, above, to the face, mouth or       
breast. By wild beasts the dream-work usually symbolizes passionate          
impulses; those of the dreamer, and also those of other persons of           
whom the dreamer is afraid; or thus, by means of a very slight               
displacement, the persons who experience these passions. From this           
it is not very far to the totemistic representation of the dreaded           
father by means of vicious animals, dogs, wild horses, etc. One              
might say that wild beasts serve to represent the libido, feared by          
the ego, and combated by repression. Even the neurosis itself, the           
sick person, is often separated from the dreamer and exhibited in            
the dream as an independent person.                                          
  One may go so far as to say that the dream-work makes use of all the       
means accessible to it for the visual representation of the                  
dream-thoughts, whether these appear admissible or inadmissible to           
waking criticism, and thus exposes itself to the doubt as well as            
the derision of all those who have only hearsay knowledge of                 
dream-interpretation, but have never themselves practised it. Stekel's       
book, Die Sprache des Traumes, is especially rich in such examples,          
but I avoid citing illustrations from this work as the author's lack         
of critical judgment and his arbitrary technique would make even the         
unprejudiced observer feel doubtful.                                         
  10. From an essay by V. Tausk ("Kleider und Farben in Dienste der          
Traumdarstellung," in Interna. Zeitschr. fur Ps. A., ii [1914]):             
  (a) A dreams that he sees his former governess wearing a dress of          
black lustre, which fits closely over her buttocks. That means he            
declares this woman to be lustful.                                           
  (b) C in a dream sees a girl on the road to X bathed in a white            
light and wearing a white blouse.                                            
  The dreamer began an affair with a Miss White on this road.                
  11. In an analysis which I carried out in the French language I            
had to interpret a dream in which I appeared as an elephant. I               
naturally had to ask why I was thus represented: "Vous me trompez,"          
answered the dreamer (Trompe = trunk).                                       
  The dream-work often succeeds in representing very refractory              
material, such as proper names, by means of the forced exploitation of       
very remote relations. In one of my dreams old Brucke has set me a           
task. I make a preparation, and pick something out of it which looks         
like crumpled tinfoil. (I shall return to this dream later.) The             
corresponding association, which is not easy to find, is stanniol, and       
now I know that I have in mind the name of the author Stannius,              
which appeared on the title-page of a treatise on the nervous system         
of fishes, which in my youth I regarded with reverence. The first            
scientific problem which my teacher set me did actually relate to            
the nervous system of a fish- the Ammocoetes. Obviously, this name           
could not be utilized in the picture-puzzle.                                 
  Here I must not fail to include a dream with a curious content,            
which is worth noting also as the dream of a child, and which is             
readily explained by analysis: A lady tells me: "I can remember that         
when I was a child I repeatedly dreamed that God wore a conical              
paper hat on His head. They often used to make me wear such a hat at         
table, so that I shouldn't be able to look at the plates of the              
other children and see how much they had received of any particular          
dish. Since I had heard that God was omniscient, the dream signified         
that I knew everything in spite of the hat which I was made to wear."        
  What the dream-work consists in, and its unceremonious handling of         
its material, the dream-thoughts, may be shown in an instructive             
manner by the numbers and calculations which occur in dreams.                
Superstition, by the way, regards numbers as having a special                
significance in dreams. I shall therefore give a few examples of             
this kind from my collection.                                                
  1. From the dream of a lady, shortly before the end of her                 
treatment:                                                                   
  She wants to pay for something or other; her daughter takes 3              
florins 65 kreuzer from her purse; but the mother says: "What are            
you doing? It costs only 21 kreuzer." This fragment of the dream was         
intelligible without further explanation owing to my knowledge of            
the dreamer's circumstances. The lady was a foreigner, who had               
placed her daughter at school in Vienna, and was able to continue my         
treatment as long as her daughter remained in the city. In three weeks       
the daughter's scholastic year would end, and the treatment would then       
stop. On the day before the dream the principal of the school had            
asked her whether she could not decide to leave the child at school          
for another year. She had then obviously reflected that in this case         
she would be able to continue the treatment for another year. Now,           
this is what the dream refers to, for a year is equal to 365 days; the       
three weeks remaining before the end of the scholastic year, and of          
the treatment, are equivalent to 21 days (though not to so many              
hours of treatment). The numerals, which in the dream-thoughts refer         
to periods of time, are given money values in the dream, and                 
simultaneously a deeper meaning finds expression- for time is money.         
365 kreuzer, of course, are 3 florins 65 kreuzer. The smallness of the       
sums which appear in the dream is a self-evident wish-fulfilment;            
the wish has reduced both the cost of the treatment and the year's           
school fees.                                                                 
  2. In another dream the numerals are involved in even more complex         
relations. A young lady, who has been married for some years, learns         
that an acquaintance of hers, of about the same age, Elise L, has just       
become engaged. Thereupon she dreams: She is sitting in the theatre          
with her husband and one side of the stalls is quite empty. Her              
husband tells her that Elise L and her fiance had also wished to             
come to the theatre, but that they only could have obtained poor             
seats; three for 1 florin 50 kreuzer, and of course they could not           
take those. She thinks they didn't lose much, either.                        
  What is the origin of the 1 florin 50 kreuzer? A really                    
indifferent incident of the previous day. The dreamer's                      
sister-in-law had received 150 florins as a present from her                 
husband, and hastened to get rid of them by buying some jewellery. Let       
us note that 150 florins is 100 times 1 florin 50 kreuzer. But               
whence the 3 in connection with the seats in the theatre? There is           
only one association for this, namely, that the fiance is three months       
younger than herself. When we have ascertained the significance of the       
fact that one side of the stalls is empty we have the solution of            
the dream. This feature is an undisguised allusion to a little               
incident which had given her husband a good excuse for teasing her.          
She had decided to go to the theatre that week; she had been careful         
to obtain tickets a few days beforehand, and had had to pay the              
advance booking-fee. When they got to the theatre they found that            
one side of the house was almost empty; so that she certainly need not       
have been in such a hurry.                                                   
  I shall now substitute the dream-thoughts for the dream: "It               
surely was nonsense to marry so early; there was no need for my              
being in such a hurry. From Elise L's example I see that I should have       
got a husband just the same- and one a hundred times better- If I            
had only waited (antithesis to the haste of her sister-in-law), I            
could have bought three such men for the money (the dowry)!"- Our            
attention is drawn to the fact that the numerals in this dream have          
changed their meanings and their relations to a much greater extent          
than in the. one previously considered. The transforming and                 
distorting activity of the dream has in this case been greater- a fact       
which we interpret as meaning that these dream-thoughts had to               
overcome an unusual degree of endo-psychic resistance before they            
attained to representation. And we must not overlook the fact that the       
dream contains an absurd element, namely, that two persons are               
expected to take three seats. It will throw some light on the question       
of the interpretation of absurdity in dreams if I remark that this           
absurd detail of the dream-content is intended to represent the most         
strongly emphasized of the dream-thoughts: "It was nonsense to marry         
so early." The figure 3, which occurs in a quite subordinate                 
relation between the two persons compared (three months' difference in       
their ages), has thus been adroitly utilized to produce the idea of          
nonsense required by the dream. The reduction of the actual 150              
florins to 1 florin 50 kreuzer corresponds to the dreamer's                  
disparagement of her husband in her suppressed thoughts.                     
  3. Another example displays the arithmetical powers of dreams, which       
have brought them into such disrepute. A man dreams: He is sitting           
in the B's house (the B's are a family with which he was formerly            
acquainted), and he says: "It was nonsense that you didn't give me Amy       
for my wife." Thereupon, he asks the girl: "How old are you?"                
Answer: "I was born in 1882." "Ah, then you are 28 years old."               
  Since the dream was dreamed in the year 1898, this is obviously            
bad arithmetic, and the inability of the dreamer to calculate may,           
if it cannot be otherwise explained, be likened to that of a general         
paralytic. My patient was one of those men who cannot help thinking          
about every woman they see. The patient who for some months came             
next after him in my consulting-room was a young lady; he met this           
lady after he had constantly asked about her, and he was very                
anxious to make a good impression on her. This was the lady whose            
age he estimated at 28. So much for explaining the result of his             
apparent calculation. But 1882 was the year in which he had married.         
He had been unable to refrain from entering into conversation with the       
two other women whom he met at my house- the two by no means                 
youthful maids who alternately opened the door to him- and as he did         
not find them very responsive, he had told himself that they                 
probably regarded him as elderly and serious.                                
  Bearing in mind these examples, and others of a similar nature (to         
follow), we may say: The dream-work does not calculate at all, whether       
correctly or incorrectly; it only strings together, in the form of a         
sum, numerals which occur in the dream-thoughts, and which may serve         
as allusions to material which is insusceptible of representation.           
It thus deals with figures, as material for expressing its intentions,       
just as it deals with all other concepts, and with names and                 
speeches which are only verbal images.                                       
  For the dream-work cannot compose a new speech. No matter how many         
speeches; and answers, which may in themselves be sensible or                
absurd, may occur in dreams, analysis shows us that the dream has            
taken from the dream-thoughts fragments of speeches which have               
really been delivered or heard, and has dealt with them in the most          
arbitrary fashion. It has not only torn them from their context and          
mutilated them, accepting one fragment and rejecting another, but it         
has often fitted them together in a novel manner, so that the speech         
which seems coherent in a dream is dissolved by analysis into three or       
four components. In this new application of the words the dream has          
often ignored the meaning which they had in the dream-thoughts, and          
has drawn an entirely new meaning from them. * Upon closer inspection,       
the more distinct and compact ingredients of the dream-speech may be         
distinguished from others, which serve as connectives, and have              
probably been supplied, just as we supply omitted letters and                
syllables in reading. The dream-speech thus has the structure of             
breccia, in which the larger pieces of various material are held             
together by a solidified cohesive medium.                                    
-                                                                            
  * Analyses of other numerical dreams have been given by Jung,              
Marcinowski and others. Such dreams often involve very complicated           
arithmetical operations, which are none the less solved by the dreamer       
with astonishing confidence. Cf. also Ernest Jones, "Uber unbewusste         
Zahlenbehandlung," Zentralb. fur Psychoanalyse, 4, ii, [1912], p.            
241).                                                                        
  Neurosis behaves in the same fashion. I know a patient who-                
involuntarily and unwillingly- hears (hallucinates) songs or fragments       
of songs without being able to understand their significance for her         
psychic life. She is certainly not a paranoiac. Analysis shows that by       
exercising a certain license she gave the text of these songs a              
false application. "Oh, thou blissful one! Oh, thou happy one!" This         
is the first line of Christmas carol, but by not continuing it to            
the word, Christmastide, she turns it into a bridal song, etc. The           
same mechanism of distortion may operate, without hallucination,             
merely in association.                                                       
-                                                                            
  Strictly speaking, of course, this description is correct only for         
those dream-speeches which have something of the sensory character           
of a speech, and are described as speeches. The others, which have           
not, as it were, been perceived as heard or spoken (which have no            
accompanying acoustic or motor emphasis in the dream) are simply             
thoughts, such as occur in our waking life, and find their way               
unchanged into many of our dreams. Our reading, too, seems to                
provide an abundant and not easily traceable source for the                  
indifferent speech-material of dreams. But anything that is at all           
conspicuous as a speech in a dream can be referred to actual                 
speeches which have been made or heard by the dreamer.                       
  We have already found examples of the derivation of such                   
dream-speeches in the analyses of dreams which have been cited for           
other purposes. Thus, in the innocent market-dream (chapter V., A.)          
where the speech: That is no longer to be had serves to identify me          
with the butcher, while a fragment of the other speech: I don't know         
that, I don't take that, precisely fulfils the task of rendering the         
dream innocent. On the previous day, the dreamer, replying to some           
unreasonable demand on the part of her cook, had waved her aside             
with the words: I don't know that, behave yourself properly, and she         
afterwards took into the dream the first, indifferent-sounding part of       
the speech in order to allude to the latter part, which fitted well          
into the phantasy underlying the dream, but which might also have            
betrayed it.                                                                 
  Here is one of many examples which all lead to the same conclusion:        
  A large courtyard in which dead bodies are being burned. The dreamer       
says, "I'm going, I can't stand the sight of it." (Not a distinct            
speech.) Then he meets two butcher boys and asks, "Well, did it              
taste good?" And one of them answers, "No, it wasn't good." As               
though it had been human flesh.                                              
  The innocent occasion of this dream is as follows: After taking            
supper with his wife, the dreamer pays a visit to his worthy but by no       
means appetizing neighbour. The hospitable old lady is just sitting          
down to her own supper, and presses him (among men a composite,              
sexually significant word is used jocosely in the place of this              
word) to taste it. He declines, saying that he has no appetite. She          
replies: "Go on with you, you can manage it all right," or something         
of the kind. The dreamer is thus forced to taste and praise what is          
offered him. "But that's good!" When he is alone again with his              
wife, he complains of his neighbour's importunity, and of the                
quality of the food which he has tasted. "I can't stand the sight of         
it," a phrase that in the dream, too, does not emerge as an actual           
speech, is a thought relating to the physical charms of the lady who         
invites him, which may be translated by the statement that he has no         
desire to look at her.                                                       
  The analysis of another dream- which I will cite at this stage for         
the sake of a very distinct speech, which constitutes its nucleus, but       
which will be explained only when we come to evaluate the affects in         
dreams- is more instructive. I dream very vividly: I have gone to            
Brucke's laboratory at night, and on hearing a gentle knocking at            
the door, I open it to (the deceased) Professor Fleischl, who enters         
in the company of several strangers, and after saying a few words sits       
down at his table. Then follows a second dream: My friend Fl has             
come to Vienna, unobtrusively, in July; I meet him in the street, in         
conversation with my (deceased) friend P, and I go with them                 
somewhere, and they sit down facing each other as though at a small          
table, while I sit facing them at the narrow end of the table. Fl            
speaks of his sister, and says: "In three-quarters of an hour she            
was dead," and then something like "That is the threshold." As P             
does not understand him, Fl turns to me, and asks me how much I have         
told P of his affairs. At this, overcome by strange emotions, I try to       
tell Fl that P (cannot possibly know anything, of course, because            
he) is not alive. But noticing the mistake myself, I say: "Non vixit."       
Then I look searchingly at P, and under my gaze he becomes pale and          
blurred, and his eyes turn a sickly blue- and at last he dissolves.          
I rejoice greatly at this; I now understand that Ernst Fleischl,             
too, is only an apparition, a revenant, and I find that it is quite          
possible that such a person should exist only so long as one wishes          
him to, and that he can be made to disappear by the wish of another          
person.                                                                      
  This very pretty dream unites so many of the enigmatical                   
characteristics of the dream-content- the criticism made in the              
dream itself, inasmuch as I myself notice my mistake in saying Non           
vixit instead of Non vivit, the unconstrained intercourse with               
deceased persons, whom the dream itself declares to be dead, the             
absurdity of my conclusion, and the intense satisfaction which it            
gives me- that "I would give my life" to expound the complete solution       
of the problem. But in reality I am incapable of doing what I do in          
the dream, i.e., of sacrificing such intimate friends to my                  
ambition. And if I attempted to disguise the facts, the true meaning         
of the dream, with which I am perfectly familiar, would be spoiled.          
I must therefore be content to select a few of the elements of the           
dream for interpretation, some here, and some at a later stage.              
  The scene in which I annihilate P with a glance forms the centre           
of the dream. His eyes become strange and weirdly blue, and then he          
dissolves. This scene is an unmistakable imitation of a scene that was       
actually experienced. I was a demonstrator at the Physiological              
Institute; I was on duty in the morning, and Brucke learned that on          
several occasions I had been unpunctual in my attendance at the              
students' laboratory. One morning, therefore, he arrived at the hour         
of opening, and waited for me. What he said to me was brief and to the       
point; but it was not what he said that mattered. What overwhelmed           
me was the terrible gaze of his blue eyes, before which I melted away-       
as P does in the dream, for P has exchanged roles with me, much to           
my relief. Anyone who remembers the eyes of the great master, which          
were wonderfully beautiful even in his old age, and has ever seen            
him angered, will readily imagine the emotions of the young                  
transgressor on that occasion.                                               
  But for a long while I was unable to account for the Non vixit             
with which I pass sentence in the dream. Finally, I remembered that          
the reason why these two words were so distinct in the dream was not         
because they were heard or spoken, but because they were seen. Then          
I knew at once where they came from. On the pedestal of the statue           
of the Emperor joseph in the Vienna Hofburg are inscribed the                
following beautiful words:                                                   
-                                                                            
              Saluti patriae vixit                                           
              non diu sed totus. *                                           
-                                                                            
  * The inscription in fact reads:                                           
              Saluti publicae vixit                                          
              non diu sed totus.                                             
  [He lived for the safety of the public, not for a long time, but           
always.] The motive of the mistake: patriae [fatherland] for publicae,       
has probably been correctly divined by Wittels.                              
-                                                                            
  From this inscription I had taken what fitted one inimical train           
of thought in my dream-thoughts, and which was intended to mean: "That       
fellow has nothing to say in the matter, he is not really alive."            
And I now recalled that the dream was dreamed a few days after the           
unveiling of the memorial to Fleischl, in the cloisters of the               
University, upon which occasion I had once more seen the memorial to         
Brucke, and must have thought with regret (in the unconscious) how           
my gifted friend P, with all his devotion to science, had by his             
premature death forfeited his just claim to a memorial in these halls.       
So I set up this memorial to him in the dream; Josef is my friend            
P's baptismal name. *                                                        
-                                                                            
  * As an example of over-determination: My excuse for coming late was       
that after working late into the night, in the morning I had to make         
the long journey from Kaiser-Josef-Strasse to Wahringer Strasse.             
-                                                                            
  According to the rules of dream-interpretation, I should still not         
be justified in replacing non vivit, which I need, by non vixit, which       
is placed at my disposal by the recollection of the Kaiser Josef             
memorial. Some other element of the dream-thoughts must have                 
contributed to make this possible. Something now calls my attention to       
the fact that in the dream scene two trains of thought relating to           
my friend P meet, one hostile, the other affectionate- the former on         
the surface, the latter covered up- and both are given                       
representation in the same words: non vixit. As my friend P has              
deserved well of science, I erect a memorial to him; as he has been          
guilty of a malicious wish (expressed at the end of the dream), I            
annihilate him. I have here constructed a sentence with a special            
cadence, and in doing so I must have been influenced by some                 
existing model. But where can I find a similar antithesis, a similar         
parallel between two opposite reactions to the same person, both of          
which can claim to be wholly justified, and which nevertheless do            
not attempt to affect one another? Only in one passage which, however,       
makes a profound impression upon the reader- Brutus's speech of              
justification in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: "As Caesar loved me, I         
weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant.       
I honour him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him." Have we not here         
the same verbal structure, and the same antithesis of thought, as in         
the dream-thoughts? So I am playing Brutus in my dream. If only I            
could find in my dream-thoughts another collateral connection to             
confirm this! I think it might be the following: My friend Fl comes to       
Vienna in July. This detail is not the case in reality. To my                
knowledge, my friend has never been in Vienna in July. But the month         
of July is named after Julius Caesar, and might therefore very well          
furnish the required allusion to the intermediate thought- that I am         
playing the part of Brutus. *                                                
-                                                                            
  * And also, Caesar = Kaiser.                                               
-                                                                            
  Strangely enough, I once did actually play the part of Brutus.             
When I was a boy of fourteen, I presented the scene between Brutus and       
Caesar in Schiller's poem to an audience of children: with the               
assistance of my nephew, who was a year older than I, and who had come       
to us from England- and was thus a revenant- for in him I recognized         
the playmate of my early childhood. Until the end of my third year           
we had been inseparable; we had loved each other and fought each other       
and, as I have already hinted, this childish relation has determined         
all my later feelings in my intercourse with persons of my own age. My       
nephew John has since then had many incarnations, which have                 
revivified first one and then another aspect of a character that is          
ineradicably fixed in my unconscious memory. At times he must have           
treated me very badly, and I must have opposed my tyrant courageously,       
for in later years I was often told of a short speech in which I             
defended myself when my father- his grandfather- called me to account:       
"Why did you hit John?" "I hit him because he hit me." It must be this       
childish scene which causes non vivit to become non vixit, for in            
the language of later childhood striking is known as wichsen                 
(German: wichsen = to polish, to wax, i.e., to thrash); and the              
dream-work does not disdain to take advantage of such associations. My       
hostility towards my friend P, which has so little foundation in             
reality- he was greatly my superior, and might therefore have been a         
new edition of my old playmate- may certainly be traced to my                
complicated relations with John during our childhood. I shall, as I          
have said, return to this dream later on.                                    
                                                                             
VI|G                                                                         
        G. Absurd Dreams- Intellectual Performances in Dreams                
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  Hitherto, in our interpretation of dreams, we have come upon the           
element of absurdity in the dream-content so frequently that we must         
no longer postpone the investigation of its cause and its meaning.           
We remember, of course, that the absurdity of dreams has furnished the       
opponents of dream-interpretation with their chief argument for              
regarding the dream as merely the meaningless product of an attenuated       
and fragmentary activity of the psyche.                                      
  I will begin with a few examples in which the absurdity of the             
dream-content is apparent only, disappearing when the dream is more          
thoroughly examined. These are certain dreams which- accidently, one         
begins by thinking- are concerned with the dreamer's dead father.            
  1. Here is the dream of a patient who had lost his father six              
years before the date of the dream:                                          
  His father had been involved in a terrible accident. He was                
travelling by the night express when the train was derailed, the seats       
were telescoped, and his head was crushed from side to side. The             
dreamer sees him lying on his bed; from his left eyebrow a wound             
runs vertically upwards. The dreamer is surprised that his father            
should have met with an accident (since he is dead already, as the           
dreamer adds in relating his dream). His father's eyes are so clear.         
  According to the prevailing standards of dream-criticism, this             
dream-content would be explained as follows: At first, while the             
dreamer is picturing his father's accident, he has forgotten that            
his father has already been many years in his grave; in the course           
of the dream this memory awakens, so that he is surprised at his own         
dream even while he is dreaming it. Analysis, however, tells us that         
it is quite superfluous to seek for such explanations. The dreamer had       
commissioned a sculptor to make a bust of his father, and he had             
inspected the bust two days before the dream. It is this which seems         
to him to have come to grief (the German word means gone wrong or            
met with an accident). The sculptor has never seen his father, and has       
had to work from photographs. On the very day before the dream the son       
had sent an old family servant to the studio in order to see whether         
he, too, would pass the some judgment upon the marble bust- namely,          
that it was too narrow between the temples. And now follows the              
memory-material which has contributed to the formation of the dream:         
The dreamer's father had a habit, whenever he was harassed by business       
cares or domestic difficulties, of pressing his temples between his          
hands, as though his head was growing too large and be was trying to         
compress it. When the dreamer was four years old, he was present             
when a pistol was accidentally discharged, and his father's eyes             
were blackened (his eyes are so clear). When his father was thoughtful       
or depressed, he had a deep furrow in his forehead just where the            
dream shows his wound. The fact that in the dream this wrinkle is            
replaced by a wound points to the second occasion for the dream. The         
dreamer had taken a photograph of his little daughter; the plate had         
fallen from his hand, and when he picked it up it revealed a crack           
which ran like a vertical furrow across the child's forehead,                
extending as far as the eyebrow. He could not help feeling a                 
superstitious foreboding, for on the day before his mother's death the       
negative of her portrait had been cracked.                                   
  Thus, the absurdity of this dream is simply the result of a                
carelessness of verbal expression, which does not distinguish                
between the bust or the photograph and the original. We are all              
accustomed to making remarks like: "Don't you think it's exactly             
your father?" The appearance of absurdity in this dream might, of            
course, have been easily avoided. If it were permissible to form an          
opinion on the strength of a single case, one might be tempted to            
say that this semblance of absurdity is admitted or even desired.            
-                                                                            
                                 II.                                         
-                                                                            
  Here is another example of the same kind from my own dreams (I             
lost my father in the year 1896):                                            
  After his death, my father has played a part in the political life         
of the Magyars, and has united them into a political whole; and here I       
see, indistinctly, a little picture: a number of men, as though in the       
Reichstag; a man is standing on one or two chairs; there are others          
round about him. I remember that on his deathbed he looked so like           
Garibaldi, and I am glad that this promise has really come true.             
  Certainly this is absurd enough. It was dreamed at the time when the       
Hungarians were in a state of anarchy, owing to Parliamentary                
obstruction, and were passing through the crisis from which Koloman          
Szell subsequently delivered them. The trivial circumstance that the         
scenes beheld in dreams consist of such little pictures is not without       
significance for the elucidation of this element. The customary visual       
dream-representations of our thoughts present images that impress us         
as being life-size; my dream-picture, however, is the reproduction           
of a wood-cut inserted in the text of an illustrated history of              
Austria, representing Maria Theresa in the Reichstag of Pressburg- the       
famous scene of Moriamur pro rege nostro. * Like Maria Theresa, my           
father, in my dream, is surrounded by the multitude; but he is               
standing on one or two chairs (Stuhlen), and is thus, like a                 
Stuhlrichter (presiding judge). (He has united them; here the                
intermediary is the phrase: "We shall need no judge.") Those of us who       
stood about my father's death-bed did actually notice that he looked         
very like Garibaldi. He had a post-mortem rise of temperature; his           
cheeks shone redder and redder... involuntarily we continue: "And            
behind him, in unsubstantial (radiance), lay that which subdues us           
all- the common fate."                                                       
-                                                                            
  * [We die for our king.] I have forgotten in what author I found a         
reference to a dream which was overrun with unusually small figures,         
the source of which proved to be one of the engravings of Jacques            
Callot, which the dreamer had examined during the day. These                 
engravings contain an enormous number of very small figures; a whole         
series of them deals with the horrors of the Thirty Years War.               
-                                                                            
  This uplifting of our thoughts prepares us for the fact that we            
shall have to deal with this common fate. The post-mortem rise in            
temperature corresponds to the words after his death in the                  
dream-content. The most agonizing of his afflictions had been a              
complete paralysis of the intestines (obstruction) during the last few       
weeks of his life. All sorts of disrespectful thoughts associate             
themselves with this. One of my contemporaries, who lost his father          
while still at the Gymnasium- upon which occasion I was profoundly           
moved, and tendered him my friendship- once told me, derisively, of          
the distress of a relative whose father had died in the street, and          
had been brought home, when it appeared, upon undressing the corpse,         
that at the moment of death, or post-mortem, an evacuation of the            
bowels (Stuhlentleerung) had taken place. The daughter was deeply            
distressed by this circumstance, because this ugly detail would              
inevitably spoil her memory of her father. We have now penetrated to         
the wish that is embodied in this dream. To stand after one's death          
before one's children great and undefiled: who would not wish that?          
What now has become of the absurdity of this dream? The appearance           
of absurdity was due only to the fact that a perfectly permissible           
figure of speech, in which we are accustomed to ignore any absurdity         
that may exist as between its components, has been faithfully                
represented in the dream. Here again we can hardly deny that the             
appearance of absurdity is desired and has been purposely produced.          
  The frequency with which dead persons appear in our dreams as living       
and active and associating with us has evoked undue astonishment,            
and some curious explanations, which afford conspicuous proof of our         
misunderstanding of dreams. And yet the explanation of these dreams is       
close at hand. How often it happens that we say to ourselves: "If my         
father were still alive, what would he say to this?" The dream can           
express this if in no other way than by his presence in a definite           
situation. Thus, for instance, a young man whose grandfather has             
left him a great inheritance dreams that the old man is alive, and           
calls his grandson to account, reproaching him for his lavish                
expenditure. What we regard as an objection to the dream on account of       
our better knowledge that the man is already dead, is in reality the         
consoling thought that the dead man does not need to learn the               
truth, or satisfaction over the fact that he can no longer have a            
say in the matter.                                                           
  Another form of absurdity found in dreams of deceased relatives does       
not express scorn and derision; it serves to express the extremest           
repudiation, the representation of a suppressed thought which one            
would like to believe the very last thing one would think of. Dreams         
of this kind appear to be capable of solution only if we remember that       
a dream makes no distinction between desire and reality. For                 
example, a man who nursed his father during his last illness, and            
who felt his death very keenly, dreamed some time afterwards the             
following senseless dream: His father was again living, and conversing       
with him as usual, but (and this was the remarkable thing) he had            
nevertheless died, though he did not know it. This dream is                  
intelligible if, after he had nevertheless died, we insert in                
consequence of the dreamer's wish, and if after but he did not know          
it, we add that the dreamer had entertained this wish. While nursing         
him, the son had often wished that his father was dead; that is, he          
had had the really compassionate thought that it would be a good thing       
if death would at last put an end to his sufferings. While he was            
mourning his father's death, even this compassionate wish became an          
unconscious reproach, as though it had really contributed to shorten         
the sick man's life. By the awakening of the earliest infantile              
feelings against his father, it became possible to express this              
reproach as a dream; and it was precisely because of the extreme             
antithesis between the dream-instigator and the day-thoughts that this       
dream had to assume so absurd a form. *                                      
-                                                                            
  * Cf. "Formulations regarding the Two Principles in Mental                 
Functioning," Collected Papers, IV.                                          
-                                                                            
  As a general thing, the dreams of a deceased person of whom the            
dreamer has been fond confront the interpreter with difficult                
problems, the solution of which is not always satisfying. The reason         
for this may be sought in the especially pronounced ambivalence of           
feeling which controls the relation of the dreamer to the dead person.       
In such dreams it is quite usual for the deceased person to be treated       
at first as living; then it suddenly appears that he is dead; and in         
the continuation of the dream he is once more living. This has a             
confusing effect. I at last divined that this alternation of death and       
life is intended to represent the indifference of the dreamer ("It           
is all one to me whether he is alive or dead"). This indifference,           
of course, is not real, but wished; its purpose is to help the dreamer       
to deny his very intense and often contradictory emotional                   
attitudes, and so it becomes the dream-representation of his                 
ambivalence. For other dreams in which one meets with deceased persons       
the following rule will often be a guide: If in the dream the                
dreamer is not reminded that the dead person is dead, he sets                
himself on a par with the dead; he dreams of his own death. The sudden       
realization or astonishment in the dream ("but he has long been              
dead!") is a protest against this identification, and rejects the            
meaning that the dreamer is dead. But I will admit that I feel that          
dream-interpretation is far from having elicited all the secrets of          
dreams having this content.                                                  
-                                                                            
                                 III.                                        
-                                                                            
  In the example which I shall now cite, I can detect the dream-work         
in the act of purposely manufacturing an absurdity for which there           
is no occasion whatever in the dream-material. It is taken from the          
dream which I had as a result of meeting Count Thun just before              
going away on a holiday. I am driving in a cab, and I tell the               
driver to drive to a railway station. "Of course, I can't drive with         
you on the railway track itself," I say, after the driver had                
reproached me, as though I had worn him out; at the same time, it            
seems as though I had already made with him a journey that one usually       
makes by train. Of this confused and senseless story analysis gives          
the following explanation: During the day I had hired a cab to take me       
to a remote street in Dornbach. The driver, however, did not know            
the way, and simply kept on driving, in the manner of such worthy            
people, until I became aware of the fact and showed him the way,             
indulging in a few derisive remarks. From this driver a train of             
thought led to the aristocratic personage whom I was to meet later on.       
For the present, I will only remark that one thing that strikes us           
middle-class plebeians about the aristocracy is that they like to            
put themselves in the driver's seat. Does not Count Thun guide the           
Austrian car of State? The next sentence in the dream, however, refers       
to my brother, whom I thus also identify with the cab-driver. I had          
refused to go to Italy with him this year (Of course, I can't drive          
with you on the railway track itself), and this refusal was a sort           
of punishment for his accustomed complaint that I usually wear him out       
on this tour (this finds its way into the dream unchanged) by                
rushing him too quickly from place to place, and making him see too          
many beautiful things in a single day. That evening my brother had           
accompanied me to the railway station, but shortly before the carriage       
had reached the Western station of the Metropolitan Railway he had           
jumped out in order to take the train to Purkersdorf. I suggested to         
him that he might remain with me a little longer, as he did not travel       
to Purkersdorf by the Metropolitan but by the Western Railway. This is       
why, in my dream, I made in the cab a journey which one usually              
makes by train. In reality, however, it was the other way about:             
what I told my brother was: "The distance which you travel on the            
Metropolitan Railway you could travel in my company on the Western           
Railway" The whole confusion of the dream is therefore due to the fact       
that in my dream I replace "Metropolitan Railway" by cab, which, to be       
sure, does good service in bringing the driver and my brother into           
conjunction. I then elicit from the dream some nonsense which is             
hardly disentangled by elucidation, and which almost constitutes a           
contradiction of my earlier speech (of course, I cannot drive with you       
on the railway track itself). But as I have no excuse whatever for           
confronting the Metropolitan Railway with the cab, I must                    
intentionally have given the whole enigmatical story this peculiar           
form in my dream.                                                            
  But with what intention? We shall now learn what the absurdity in          
the dream signifies, and the motives which admitted it or created            
it. In this case the solution of the mystery is as follows: In the           
dream I need an absurdity, and something incomprehensible, in                
connection with driving (Fahren = riding, driving) because in the            
dream-thoughts I have a certain opinion that demands representation.         
One evening, at the house of the witty and hospitable lady who               
appears, in another scene of the same dream, as the housekeeper, I           
heard two riddles which I could not solve: As they were known to the         
other members of the party, I presented a somewhat ludicrous figure in       
my unsuccessful attempts to find the solutions. They were two puns           
turning on the words Nachkommen (to obey orders- offspring) and              
Vorfahren (to drive- forefathers, ancestry). They ran, I believe, as         
follows:                                                                     
-                                                                            
            The coachman does it                                             
              At the master's behests;                                       
            Everyone has it;                                                 
              In the grave it rests.                                         
                                  (Vorfahren)                                
-                                                                            
  A confusing detail was that the first halves of the two riddles were       
identical:                                                                   
-                                                                            
            The coachman does it                                             
              At the master's behests;                                       
            Not everyone has it,                                             
              In the cradle it rests.                                        
                                   (Nachkommen)                              
-                                                                            
  When I saw Count Thun drive up (vorfahren) in state, and fell into         
the Figaro-like mood, in which one finds that the sole merit of such         
aristocratic gentlemen is that they have taken the trouble to be             
born (to become Nachkommen), these two riddles became intermediary           
thoughts for the dream-work. As aristocrats may readily be replaced by       
coachmen, and since it was once the custom to call a coachman Herr           
Schwager (brother-in-law), the work of condensation could involve my         
brother in the same representation. But the dream-thought at work in         
the background is as follows: It is nonsense to be proud of one's            
ancestors (Vorfahren). I would rather be an ancestor (Vorfahr) myself.       
On account of this opinion, it is nonsense, we have the nonsense in          
the dream. And now the last riddle in this obscure passage of the            
dream is solved- namely that I have driven before (vorher gefahren,          
vorgefaltren) with this driver.                                              
  Thus, a dream is made absurd if there occurs in the                        
dream-thoughts, as one of the elements of the contents, the opinion:         
"That is nonsense"; and, in general, if criticism and derision are the       
motives of one of the dreamer's unconscious trains of thought.               
Hence, absurdity is one of the means by which the dream-work                 
represents contradiction; another means is the inversion of material         
relation between the dream-thoughts and the dream-content; another           
is the employment of the feeling of motor inhibition. But the                
absurdity of a dream is not to be translated by a simple no; it is           
intended to reproduce the tendency of the dream-thoughts to express          
laughter or derision simultaneously with the contradiction. Only             
with this intention does the dream-work produce anything ridiculous.         
Here again it transforms a part of the latent content into a                 
manifest form. *                                                             
-                                                                            
  * Here the dream-work parodies the thought which it qualifies as           
ridiculous, in that it creates something ridiculous in relation to it.       
Heine does the same thing when he wishes to deride the bad rhymes of         
the King of Bavaria. He does it by using even worse rhymes:                  
              Herr Ludwig ist ein grosser Poet                               
              Und singt er, so sturzt Apollo                                 
              Vor ihm auf die Knie und bittet und fleht,                     
              Halt ein, ich werde sonst toll, oh!                            
-                                                                            
  As a matter of fact, we have already cited a convincing example of         
this significance of an absurd dream. The dream (interpreted without         
analysis) of the Wagnerian performance which lasted until 7.45 a.m.,         
and in which the orchestra is conducted from a tower, etc. (see this         
chapter, D.), is obviously saving: It is a crazy world and an insane         
society. He who deserves a thing doesn't get it, and he who doesn't          
care for it does get it. In this way the dreamer compares her fate           
with that of her cousin. The fact that dreams of a dead father were          
the first to furnish us with examples of absurdity in dreams is by           
no means accidental. The conditions for the creation of absurd               
dreams are here grouped together in a typical fashion. The authority         
proper to the father has at an early age evoked the criticism of the         
child, and the strict demands which he has made have caused the child,       
in self-defence, to pay particularly close attention to every weakness       
of his father's; but the piety with which the father's personality           
is surrounded in our thoughts, especially after his death, intensifies       
the censorship which prevents the expression of this criticism from          
becoming conscious.                                                          
-                                                                            
                                 IV.                                         
-                                                                            
  Here is another absurd dream of a deceased father:                         
  I receive a communication from the town council of my native city          
concerning the cost of accommodation in the hospital in the year 1851.       
This was necessitated by a seizure from which I was suffering. I             
make fun of the matter for, in the first place, I was not yet born           
in 1851, and in the second place, my father, to whom the communication       
might refer, is already dead. I go to him in the adjoining room, where       
he is lying in bed, and tell him about it. To my surprise he remembers       
that in the year 1851 he was once drink and had to be locked up or           
confined. It was when he was working for the firm of T. "Then you,           
too, used to drink?" I ask. "You married soon after?" I reckon that          
I was born in 1856, which seems to me to be immediately afterwards.          
  In the light of the foregoing exposition, we shall translate the           
insistence with which this dream exhibits its absurdities as a sure          
sign of a particularly embittered and passionate polemic in the              
dream-thoughts. All the greater, then, is our astonishment when we           
perceive that in this dream the polemic is waged openly, and that my         
father is denoted as the person who is made a laughing-stock. Such           
frankness seems to contradict our assumption of a censorship                 
controlling the dream-work. The explanation is that here the father is       
only an interposed figure, while the quarrel is really with another          
person, who appears in the dream only in a single allusion. Whereas          
a dream usually treats of revolt against other persons, behind whom          
the father is concealed, here it is the other way about: the father          
serves as the man of straw to represent another, and hence the dream         
dares to concern itself openly with a person who is usually                  
hallowed, because there is present the certain knowledge that he is          
not in reality intended. We learn of this condition of affairs by            
considering the occasion of the dream. It was dreamed after I had            
heard that an older colleague, whose judgment was considered                 
infallible, had expressed disapproval and astonishment on hearing that       
one of my patients had already been undergoing psychoanalytic                
treatment at my hands for five years. The introductory sentences of          
the dream allude in a transparently disguised manner to the fact             
that this colleague had for a time taken over the duties which my            
father could no longer perform (statement of expenses, accommodation         
in the hospital); and when our friendly relations began to alter for         
the worse I was thrown into the same emotional conflict as that              
which arises in the case of a misunderstanding between father and            
son (by reason of the part played by the father, and his earlier             
functions). The dream-thoughts now bitterly resent the reproach that I       
am not making better progress, which extends itself from the treatment       
of this patient to other things. Does my colleague know anyone who can       
get on any faster? Does he not know that conditions of this sort are         
usually incurable and last for life? What are four or five years in          
comparison to a whole lifetime, especially when life has been made           
so much easier for the patient during the treatment?                         
  The impression of absurdity in this dream is brought about largely         
by the fact that sentences from different divisions of the                   
dream-thoughts are strung together without any reconciling transition.       
Thus, the sentence, I go to him it the adjoining room, etc., leaves          
the subject from which the preceding sentences are taken, and                
faithfully reproduces the circumstances under which I told my father         
that I was engaged to be married. Thus the dream is trying to remind         
me of the noble disinterestedness which the old man showed at that           
time, and to contrast this with the conduct of another                       
newly-introduced person. I now perceive that the dream is allowed to         
make fun of my father because in the dream-thoughts, in the full             
recognition of his merits, he is held up as an example to others. It         
is in the nature of every censorship that one is permitted to tell           
untruths about forbidden things rather than the truth. The next              
sentence, to the effect that my father remembers that he was once            
drink, and was locked up in consequence, contains nothing that               
really relates to my father any more. The person who is screened by          
him is here a no less important personage than the great Meynert, in         
whose footsteps I followed with such veneration, and whose attitude          
towards me, after a short period of favouritism, changed into one of         
undisguised hostility. The dream recalls to me his own statement             
that in his youth he had at one time formed the habit of                     
intoxicating himself with chloroform, with the result that he had to         
enter a sanatorium; and also my second experience with him, shortly          
before his death. I had an embittered literary controversy with him in       
reference to masculine hysteria, the existence of which he denied, and       
when I visited him during his last illness, and asked him how he felt,       
he described his condition at some length, and concluded with the            
words: "You know, I have always been one of the prettiest cases of           
masculine hysteria." Thus, to my satisfaction, and to my astonishment,       
he admitted what he so long and so stubbornly denied. But the fact           
that in this scene of my dream I can use my father to screen Meynert         
is explained not by any discovered analogy between the two persons,          
but by the fact that it is the brief yet perfectly adequate                  
representation of a conditional sentence in the dream-thoughts               
which, if fully expanded, would read as follows: "Of course, if I            
belonged to the second generation, if I were the son of a professor or       
a privy councillor, I should have progressed more rapidly." In my            
dream I make my father a professor and a privy councillor. The most          
obvious and most annoying absurdity of the dream lies in the treatment       
of the date 1851, which seems to me to be indistinguishable from 1856,       
as though a difference of five years meant nothing whatever. But it is       
just this one of the dream-thoughts that requires expression. Four           
or five years- that is precisely the length of time during which I           
enjoyed the support of the colleague mentioned at the outset; but it         
is also the duration of time I kept my fiance waiting before I married       
her; and by a coincidence that is eagerly exploited by the                   
dream-thoughts, it is also the time I have kept my oldest patient            
waiting for a complete cure. "What are five years?" ask the                  
dream-thoughts. "That is no time at all to me, that isn't worth              
consideration. I have time enough ahead of me, and just as what you          
wouldn't believe came true at last, so I shall accomplish this               
also." Moreover, the number 51, when considered apart from the               
number of the century, is determined in yet another manner and in an         
opposite sense; for which reason it occurs several times over in the         
dream. It is the age at which man seems particularly exposed to              
danger; the age at which I have seen colleagues die suddenly, among          
them one who had been appointed a few days earlier to a                      
professorship for which he had long been waiting.                            
-                                                                            
                                  V.                                         
-                                                                            
  Another absurd dream which plays with figures:                             
  An acquaintance of mine, Herr M, has been attacked in an essay by no       
less a person than Goethe and, as we all think, with unjustifiable           
vehemence. Herr M is, of course, crushed by this attack. He                  
complains of it bitterly at a dinner-party; but his veneration for           
Goethe has not suffered as a result of this personal experience. I try       
to elucidate the temporal relations a little, as they seem                   
improbable to me. Goethe died in 1832; since his attack upon M must,         
of course, have taken place earlier, M was at the time quite a young         
man. It seems plausible to me that he was 18 years old. But I do not         
know exactly what the date of the present year is, and so the whole          
calculation lapses into obscurity. The attack, by the way, is                
contained in Goethe's well-known essay on "Nature."                          
  We shall soon find the means of justifying the nonsense of this            
dream. Herr M, with whom I became acquainted at a dinner-party, had          
recently asked me to examine his brother, who showed signs of                
general paralysis. The conjecture was right; the painful thing about         
this visit was that the patient gave his brother away by alluding to         
his youthful pranks, though our conversation gave him no occasion to         
do so. I had asked the patient to tell me the year of his birth, and         
had repeatedly got him to make trifling calculations in order to             
show the weakness of his memory- which tests, by the way, he passed          
quite well. Now I can see that I behave like a paralytic in the              
dream (I do not know exactly what the date of the present year is).          
Other material of the dream is drawn from another recent source. The         
editor of a medical periodical, a friend of mine, had accepted for his       
paper a very unfavourable crushing review of the last book of my             
Berlin friend, Fl, the critic being a very youthful reviewer, who            
was not very competent to pass judgment. I thought I had a right to          
interfere, and called the editor to account; he greatly regretted            
his acceptance of the review, but he would not promise any redress.          
I thereupon broke off my relations with the periodical, and in my            
letter of resignation I expressed the hope that our personal relations       
would not suffer as a result of the incident. The third source of this       
dream is an account given by a female patient- it was fresh in my            
memory at the time- of the psychosis of her brother who had fallen           
into a frenzy crying "Nature, Nature." The physicians in attendance          
thought that the cry was derived from a reading of Goethe's                  
beautiful essay, and that it pointed to the patient's overwork in            
the study of natural philosophy. I thought, rather, of the sexual            
meaning in which even our less cultured people use the word Nature,          
and the fact that the unfortunate man afterwards mutilated his               
genitals seems to show that I was not far wrong. Eighteen years was          
the age of this patient at the time of this access of frenzy.                
  If I add, further, that the book of my so severely criticized friend       
("One asks oneself whether the author or oneself is crazy" had been          
the opinion of another critic) treats of the temporal conditions of          
life, and refers the duration of Goethe's life to the multiple of a          
number significant from the biological point of view, it will                
readily be admitted that in my dream I am putting myself in my               
friend's place. (I try to elucidate the temporal relations a                 
little.) But I behave like a paretic, and the dream revels in                
absurdity. This means that the dream-thoughts say, ironically:               
"Naturally, he is the fool, the lunatic, and you are the clever people       
who know better. Perhaps, however, it is the other way about?" Now,          
the other way about is abundantly represented in my dream, inasmuch as       
Goethe has attacked the young man, which is absurd, while it is              
perfectly possible even today for a young fellow to attack the               
immortal Goethe; and inasmuch as I reckon from the year of Goethe's          
death, while I made the paretic reckon from the year of his birth.           
  But I have further promised to show that no dream is inspired by           
other than egoistical motives. Accordingly, I must account for the           
fact that in this dream I make my friend's cause my own, and put             
myself in his place. My critical conviction in waking life would not         
justify my doing so. Now, the story of the eighteen-year-old                 
patient, and the divergent interpretations of his cry, "Nature,"             
allude to the fact that I have put myself into opposition to the             
majority of physicians by claiming a sexual aetiology for the                
psychoneuroses. I may say to myself: "You will meet with the same kind       
of criticism as your friend; indeed you have already done so to some         
extent"; so that I may now replace the he in the dream-thoughts by we.       
"Yes, you are right; we two are the fools." That mea res agitur is           
clearly shown by the mention of the short, incomparably beautiful            
essay of Goethe's, for it was a popular lecture on this essay which          
induced me to study the natural sciences when I left the Gymnasium,          
and was still undecided as to my future.                                     
-                                                                            
                                 VI.                                         
-                                                                            
  I have to show that yet another dream in which my ego does not             
appear is none the less egoistic. In chapter V., D., I referred to a         
short dream in which Professor M says: "My son, the myopic..."; and          
I stated that this was only a preliminary dream, preceding another           
in which I play a part. Here is the main dream, previously omitted,          
which challenges us to explain its absurd and unintelligible                 
word-formation.                                                              
  On account of something or other that is happening in Rome, it is          
necessary for the children to flee, and this they do. The scene is           
then laid before a gate, a double gate in the ancient style (the Porta       
Romana in Siena, as I realize while I am dreaming). I am sitting on          
the edge of a well, and I am greatly depressed; I am almost weeping. A       
woman- a nurse, a nun- brings out the two boys and hands them over           
to their father, who is not myself. The elder is distinctly my               
eldest son, but I do not see the face of the other boy. The woman asks       
the eldest boy for a parting kiss. She is remarkable for a red nose.         
The boy refuses her the kiss, but says to her, extending her his             
hand in parting, "Auf Geseres," and to both of us (or to one of us)          
"Auf Ungeseres." I have the idea that this indicates a preference.           
  This dream is built upon a tangle of thoughts induced by a play I          
saw at the theatre, called Das neue Ghetto (The New Ghetto). The             
Jewish question, anxiety as to the future of my children, who cannot         
be given a fatherland, anxiety as to educating them so that they may         
enjoy the privileges of citizens- all these features may easily be           
recognized in the accompanying dream-thoughts.                               
  "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept." Siena, like Rome,         
is famous for its beautiful fountains. In the dream I have to find           
some sort of substitute for Rome (cf. chapter V., B.) from among             
localities which are known to me. Near the Porta Romana of Siena we          
saw a large, brightly-lit building, which we learned was the                 
Manicomio, the insane asylum. Shortly before the dream I had heard           
that a co-religionist had been forced to resign a position, which he         
had secured with great effort, in a State asylum.                            
  Our interest is aroused by the speech: "Auf Geseres," where one            
might expect, from the situation continued throughout the dream,             
"Auf Wiedersehen" (Au revoir), and by its quite meaningless                  
antithesis: "Auf Ungeseres." (Un is a prefix meaning "not.")                 
  According to information received from Hebrew scholars, Geseres is a       
genuine Hebrew word, derived from the verb goiser, and may best be           
rendered by "ordained sufferings, fated disaster." From its employment       
in the Jewish jargon one would take it to mean "wailing and                  
lamentation." Ungeseres is a coinage of my own, and is the first to          
attract my attention, but for the present it baffles me. The little          
observation at the end of the dream- that Ungeseres indicates an             
advantage over Geseres- opens the way to the associations, and               
therewith to understanding. This relation holds good in the case of          
caviar; the unsalted kind is more highly prized than the salted.             
"Caviar to the general"- "noble passions." Herein lies concealed a           
jesting allusion to a member of my household, of whom I hope- for            
she is younger than I- that she will watch over the future of my             
children; this, too, agrees with the fact that another member of my          
household, our worthy nurse, is clearly indicated by the nurse (or           
nun) of the dream. But a connecting-link is wanting between the              
pair, salted- unsalted and Geseres- Ungeseres. This is to be found           
in gesauert and ungesauert (leavened and unleavened). In their               
flight or exodus from Egypt the children of Israel had not time to           
allow their dough to become leavened, and in commemoration of this           
event they eat unleavened bread at Passover to this day. Here, too,          
I can find room for the sudden association which occurred to me in           
this part of the analysis. I remembered how we, my friend from               
Berlin and myself, had strolled about the streets of Breslau, a city         
which was strange to us, during the last days of Easter. A little girl       
asked me the way to a certain street; I had to tell her that I did not       
know it; I then remarked to my friend, "I hope that later on in life         
the child will show more perspicacity in selecting the persons whom          
she allows to direct her." Shortly afterwards a sign caught my eye:          
"Dr. Herod, consulting hours..." I said to myself: "I hope this              
colleague does not happen to be a children's specialist." Meanwhile,         
my friend had been developing his views on the biological significance       
of bilateral symmetry, and had begun a sentence with the words: "If we       
had only one eye in the middle of the forehead, like Cyclops..."             
This leads us to the speech of the professor in the preliminary dream:       
"My son, the myopic." And now I have been led to the chief source            
for Geseres. Many years ago, when this son of Professor M's, who is          
today an independent thinker, was still sitting on his school-bench,         
he contracted an affection of the eye which, according to the                
doctor, gave some cause for anxiety. He expressed the opinion that           
so long as it was confined to one eye it was of no great significance,       
but that if it should extend to the other eye it would be serious. The       
affection subsided in the one eye without leaving any ill effects;           
shortly afterwards, however, the same symptoms did actually appear           
in the other eye. The boy's terrified mother immediately summoned            
the physician to her distant home in the country. But the doctor was         
now of a different opinion (took the other side). "What sort of              
'Geseres' is this you are making?" he asked the mother, impatiently.         
"If one side got well, the other will, too." And so it turned out.           
  And now as to the connection between this and myself and my                
family. The school-bench upon which Professor M's son learned his            
first lessons has become the property of my eldest son; it was given         
to him by the boy's mother, and it is into his mouth that I put the          
words of farewell in the dream. One of the wishes that may be                
connected with this transference may now be readily guessed. This            
school-bench is intended by its construction to guard the child from         
becoming shortsighted and one-sided. Hence myopia (and behind it the         
Cyclops), and the discussion about bilateralism. The fear of                 
one-sidedness has a twofold significance; it might mean not only             
physical one-sidedness, but intellectual one-sidedness also. Does it         
not seem as though the scene in the dream, with all its craziness,           
were contradicting precisely this anxiety? When on the one hand the          
boy has spoken his words of farewell, on the other hand he calls out         
the very opposite, as though to establish an equilibrium. He is              
acting, as it were, in obedience to bilateral symmetry!                      
  Thus, a dream frequently has the profoundest meaning in the places         
where it seems most absurd. In all ages those who have had something         
to say and have been unable to say it without danger to themselves           
have gladly donned the cap and bells. He for whom the forbidden saying       
was intended was more likely to tolerate it if he was able to laugh at       
it, and to flatter himself with the comment that what he disliked            
was obviously absurd. Dreams behave in real life as does the prince in       
the play who is obliged to pretend to be a madman, and hence we may          
say of dreams what Hamlet said of himself, substituting an                   
unintelligible jest for the actual truth: "I am but mad                      
north-northwest; when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a             
handsaw" (Act II. sc. ii). *                                                 
-                                                                            
  * This dream furnishes a good example in support of the                    
universally valid doctrine that dreams of the same night, even               
though they are separated in the memory, spring from the same                
thought-material. The dream-situation in which I am rescuing my              
children from the city of Rome, moreover, is distorted by a                  
reference back to an episode of my childhood. The meaning is that I          
envy certain relatives who years ago had occasion to transplant              
their children to the soil of another country.                               
-                                                                            
  Thus, my solution of the problem of absurdity in dreams is that            
the dream-thoughts are never absurd- at least, not those of the dreams       
of sane persons- and that the dream-work produces absurd dreams, and         
dreams with individually absurd elements, when the dream-thoughts            
contain criticism, ridicule, and derision, which have to be given            
expression. My next concern is to show that the dream-work is                
exhausted by the co-operation of the three factors enumerated- and           
of a fourth which has still to be mentioned- that it does no more than       
translate the dream-thoughts, observing the four conditions                  
prescribed, and that the question whether the mind goes to work in           
dreams with all its intellectual faculties, or with only part of them,       
is wrongly stated, and does not meet the actual state of affairs.            
But since there are plenty of dreams in which judgments are passed,          
criticisms made, and facts recognized in which astonishment at some          
individual element of the dream appears, and explanations are                
attempted, and arguments adduced, I must meet the objections                 
deriving from these occurrences by the citation of selected examples.        
  My answer is as follows: Everything in dreams which occurs as the          
apparent functioning of the critical faculty is to be regarded, not as       
the intellectual performance of the dream-work, but as belonging to          
the substance of the dream-thoughts, and it has found its way from           
these, as a completed structure, into the manifest dream-content. I          
may go even farther than this! I may even say that the judgments which       
are passed upon the dream as it is remembered after waking, and the          
feelings which are aroused by the reproduction of the dream, belong          
largely to the latent dream-content, and must be fitted into place           
in the interpretation of the dream.                                          
  1. One striking example of this has already been given. A female           
patient does not wish to relate her dream because it was too vague.          
She saw a person in the dream, and does not know whether it was her          
husband or her father. Then follows a second dream-fragment, in              
which there occurs a manure-pail, with which the following                   
reminiscence is associated. As a young housewife she once declared           
jestingly, in the presence of a young male relative who frequented the       
house, that her next business would be to procure a new manure-pail.         
Next morning one was sent to her, but it was filled with lilies of the       
valley. This part of the dream served to represent the phrase, "Not          
grown on my own manure." * If we complete the analysis, we find in the       
dream-thoughts the after-effect of a story heard in youth; namely,           
that a girl had given birth to a child, and that it was not clear            
who was the father. The dream-representation here overlaps into the          
waking thought, and allows one of the elements of the dream-thoughts         
to be represented by a judgment, formed in the waking state, of the          
whole dream.                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * This German expression is equivalent to our saying: "I am not            
responsible for that," "That's not my funeral," or "That's not due           
to my own efforts."- TR.                                                     
-                                                                            
  2. A similar case: One of my patients has a dream which strikes            
him as being an interesting one, for he says to himself, immediately         
after waking: "I must tell that to the doctor." The dream is analysed,       
and shows the most distinct allusion to an affair in which he had            
become involved during the treatment, and of which he had decided to         
tell me nothing. *                                                           
-                                                                            
  * The injunction or resolve already contained in the dream: "I             
must tell that to the doctor," when it occurs in dreams during               
psycho-analytic treatment, is constantly accompanied by a great              
resistance to confessing the dream, and is not infrequently followed         
by the forgetting of the dream.                                              
-                                                                            
  3. Here is a third example from my own experience:                         
  I go to the hospital with P, through a neighbourhood in which              
there are houses and gardens. Thereupon I have an idea that I have           
already seen this locality several times in my dreams. I do not know         
my way very well; P shows me a way which leads round a corner to a           
restaurant (indoor); here I ask for Frau Doni, and I hear that she           
is living at the back of the house, in a small room, with three              
children. I go there, and on the way I meet an undefined person with         
my two little girls. After I have been with them for a while, I take         
them with me. A sort of reproach against my wife for having left             
them there.                                                                  
  On waking I am conscious of a great satisfaction, whose motive seems       
to be the fact that I shall now learn from the analysis what is              
meant by I have already dreamed of this. * But the analysis of the           
dream tells me nothing about this; it shows me only that the                 
satisfaction belongs to the latent dream-content, and not to a               
judgment of the dream. It is satisfaction concerning the fact that I         
have had children by my marriage. P's path through life and my own ran       
parallel for a time; now he has outstripped me both socially and             
financially, but his marriage has remained childless. Of this the            
two occasions of the dream give proof on complete analysis. On the           
previous day I had read in the newspaper the obituary notice of a            
certain Frau Dona A- y (which I turn into Doni), who had died in             
childbirth; I was told by my wife that the dead woman had been               
nursed by the same midwife whom she herself had employed at the              
birth of our two youngest boys. The name Dona had caught my attention,       
for I had recently met with it for the first time in an English novel.       
The other occasion for the dream may be found in the date on which           
it was dreamed; this was the night before the birthday of my eldest          
boy, who, it seems, is poetically gifted.                                    
-                                                                            
  * A subject which has been extensively discussed in recent volumes         
If the Revue Philosophique (paramnesia in dreams).                           
-                                                                            
  4. The same satisfaction remained with me after waking from the            
absurd dream that my father, after his death, had played a political         
role among the Magyars. It is motivated by the persistence of the            
feeling which accompanied the last sentence of the dream: I remember         
that on his deathbed he looked so like Garibaldi, and I am glad that         
it has really come true... (Followed by a forgotten continuation.) I         
can now supply from the analysis what should fill this gap. It is            
the mention of my second boy, to whom I have given the baptismal             
name of an eminent historical personage who attracted me greatly             
during my boyhood, especially during my stay in England. I had to wait       
for a year before I could fulfil my intention of using this name if          
the next child should be a son, and with great satisfaction I                
greeted him by this name as soon as he was born. It is easy to see how       
the father's suppressed desire for greatness is, in his thoughts,            
transferred to his children; one is inclined to believe that this is         
one of the ways by which the suppression of this desire (which becomes       
necessary in the course of life) is effected. The little fellow won          
his right to inclusion in the text of this dream by virtue of the fact       
that the same accident- that of soiling his clothes (quite                   
pardonable in either a child or in a dying person)- had occurred to          
him. Compare with this the allusion Stuhlrichter (presiding judge) and       
the wish of the dream: to stand before one's children great and              
undefiled.                                                                   
  5. If I should now have to look for examples of judgments or               
expressions of opinion which remain in the dream itself, and are not         
continued in, or transferred to, our waking thoughts, my task would be       
greatly facilitated were I to take my examples from dreams which             
have already been cited for other purposes. The dream of Goethe's            
attack on Herr M appears to contain quite a number of acts of                
judgment. I try to elucidate the temporal relations a little, as             
they seem improbable to me. Does not this look like a critical impulse       
directed against the nonsensical idea that Goethe should have made a         
literary attack upon a young man of my acquaintance? It seems                
plausible to me that he was 18 years old. That sounds quite like the         
result of a calculation, though a silly one; and the I do not know           
exactly what is the date of the present year would be an example of          
uncertainty or doubt in dreams.                                              
  But I know from analysis that these acts of judgment, which seem           
to have been performed in the dream for the first time, admit of a           
different construction, in the light of which they become                    
indispensable for interpreting the dream, while at the same time all         
absurdity is avoided. With the sentence I try to elucidate the               
temporal relations a little, I put myself in the place of my friend,         
who is actually trying to elucidate the temporal relations of life.          
The sentence then loses its significance as a judgment which objects         
to the nonsense of the previous sentences. The interposition, Which          
seems improbable to me, belongs to the following: It seems plausible         
to me. With almost these identical words I replied to the lady who           
told me of her brother's illness: "It seems improbable to me" that the       
cry of "Nature, Nature," was in any way connected with Goethe; it            
seems much more plausible to me that it has the sexual significance          
which is known to you. In this case, it is true, a judgment was              
expressed, but in reality, not in a dream, and on an occasion which is       
remembered and utilized by the dream-thoughts. The dream-content             
appropriates this judgment like any other fragment of the                    
dream-thoughts.                                                              
  The number 18 with which the judgment in the dream is                      
meaninglessly connected still retains a trace of the context from            
which the real judgment was taken. Lastly, the I do not know exactly         
what is the date of the present year is intended for no other                
purpose than that of my identification with the paralytic, in                
examining whom this particular fact was established.                         
  In the solution of these apparent acts of judgment in dreams, it           
will be well to keep in mind the above-mentioned rule of                     
interpretation, which tells us that we must disregard the coherence          
which is established in the dream between its constituent parts as           
an unessential phenomenon, and that every dream-element must be              
taken separately and traced back to its source. The dream is a               
compound, which for the purposes of investigation must be broken up          
into its elements. On the other hand, we become alive to the fact that       
there is a psychic force which expresses itself in our dreams and            
establishes this apparent coherence; that is, the material obtained by       
the dream-work undergoes a secondary elaboration. Here we have the           
manifestations of that psychic force which we shall presently take           
into consideration as the fourth of the factors which co-operate in          
dream-formation.                                                             
  6. Let us now look for other examples of acts of judgment in the           
dreams which have already been cited. In the absurd dream about the          
communication from the town council, I ask the question, "You                
married soon after?" I reckon that I was born in 1856, which seems           
to me to be directly afterwards. This certainly takes the form of an         
inference. My father married shortly after his attack, in the year           
1851. I am the eldest son, born in 1856; so this is correct. We know         
that this inference has in fact been falsified by the wish-fulfilment,       
and that the sentence which dominates the dream-thoughts is as               
follows: Four or five years- that is no time at all- that need not           
be counted. But every part of this chain of reasoning may be seen to         
be otherwise determined from the dream-thoughts, as regards both its         
content and its form. It is the patient of whose patience my colleague       
complains who intends to marry immediately the treatment is ended. The       
manner in which I converse with my father in this dream reminds me           
of an examination or cross-examination, and thus of a university             
professor who was in the habit of compiling a complete docket of             
personal data when entering his pupils' names: You were born when?-          
1856.- Patre?- Then the applicant gave the Latin form of the baptismal       
name of the father and we students assumed that the Hofrat drew              
inferences from the father's name which the baptismal name of the            
candidate would not always have justified. Hence, the drawing of             
inferences in the dream would be merely the repetition of the                
drawing of inferences which appears as a scrap of material in the            
dream-thoughts. From this we learn something new. If an inference            
occurs in the dream-content, it assuredly comes from the                     
dream-thoughts; but it may be contained in these as a fragment of            
remembered material, or it may serve as the logical connective of a          
series of dream-thoughts. In any case, an inference in the dream             
represents an inference taken from the dream-thoughts. *                     
-                                                                            
  * These results correct at several points my earlier statements            
concerning the representation of logical relations (chapter VI.,             
C.). These described the general procedure of the dream-work, but            
overlooked its most delicate and most careful operations.                    
-                                                                            
  It will be well to continue the analysis of this dream at this             
point. With the inquisition of the professor is associated the               
recollection of an index (in my time published in Latin) of the              
university students; and further, the recollection of my own course of       
study. The five years allowed for the study of medicine were, as             
usual, too little for me. I worked unconcernedly for some years              
longer; my acquaintances regarded me as a loafer, and doubted                
whether I should get through. Then, suddenly, I decided to take my           
examinations, and I got through in spite of the postponement. A              
fresh confirmation of the dream-thoughts with which I defiantly meet         
my critics: "Even though you won't believe it, because I am taking           
my time, I shall reach the conclusion (German, Schluss = end,                
conclusion, inference). It has often happened like that."                    
  In its introductory portion, this dream contains several sentences         
which, we can hardly deny, are of the nature of an argument. And             
this argument is not at all absurd; it might just as well occur in           
my waking thoughts. In my dream I make fun of the communication from         
the town council, for in the first place I was not yet born in 1851,         
and in the second place my father, to whom it might refer, is                
already dead. Not only is each of these statements perfectly correct         
in itself, but they are the very arguments that I should employ if I         
received such a communication. We know from the foregoing analysis           
that this dream has sprung from the soil of deeply embittered and            
scornful dream-thoughts; and if we may also assume that the motive           
of the censorship is a very powerful one, we shall understand that the       
dream-thought has every occasion to create a flawless refutation of an       
unreasonable demand, in accordance with the pattern contained in the         
dream-thoughts. But the analysis shows that in this case the                 
dream-work has not been required to make a free imitation, but that          
material taken from the dream-thoughts had to be employed for the            
purpose. It is as though in an algebraic equation there should               
occur, besides the figures, plus and minus signs, and symbols of             
powers and of roots, and as though someone, in copying this                  
equation, without understanding it, should copy both the symbols and         
the figures, and mix them all up together. The two arguments may be          
traced to the following material: It is painful to me to think that          
many of the hypotheses upon which I base my psychological solution           
of the psychoneuroses which will arouse scepticism and ridicule when         
they first become known. For instance, I shall have to assert that           
impressions of the second year of life, and even the first, leave an         
enduring trace upon the emotional life of subsequent neuropaths, and         
that these impressions- although greatly distorted and exaggerated           
by the memory- may furnish the earliest and profoundest basis of a           
hysterical symptom. Patients to whom I explain this at a suitable            
moment are wont to parody my explanation by offering to search for           
reminiscences of the period when they were not yet born. My disclosure       
of the unsuspected part played by the father in the earliest sexual          
impulses of female patients may well have a similar reception. (Cf.          
the discussion in chapter V., D). Nevertheless, it is my                     
well-founded conviction that both doctrines are true. In                     
confirmation of this I recall certain examples in which the death of         
the father occurred when the child was very young, and subsequent            
incidents, otherwise inexplicable, proved that the child had                 
unconsciously reserved recollections of the person who had so early          
gone out of its life. I know that both my assertions are based upon          
inferences whose validity will be attacked. It is the doing of the           
wish-fulfilment that precisely the material of those inferences, which       
I fear will be contested, should be utilized by the dream-work for           
establishing incontestable conclusions.                                      
  7. In one dream, which I have hitherto only touched upon,                  
astonishment at the subject emerging is distinctly expressed at the          
outset.                                                                      
  The elder Brucke must have set me some task or other; strangely            
enough, it relates to the preparation of the lower part of my own            
body, the pelvis and legs, which I see before me as though in the            
dissecting-room, but without feeling the absence of part of my body,         
and without a trace of horror. Louise N is standing beside me, and           
helps me in the work. The pelvis is eviscerated; now the upper, now          
the lower aspect is visible, and the two aspects are commingled. Large       
fleshy red tubercles are visible (which, even in the dream, make me          
think of haemorrhoids). Also something lying over them had to be             
carefully picked off; it looked like crumpled tinfoil. * Then I was          
once more in possession of my legs, and I made a journey through the         
city, but I took a cab (as I was tired). To my astonishment, the cab         
drove into the front door of a house, which opened and allowed it to         
pass into a corridor, which was broken off at the end, and                   
eventually led on into the open. *(2) Finally I wandered through             
changing landscapes, with an Alpine guide, who carried my things. He         
carried me for some distance, out of consideration for my tired              
legs. The ground was swampy; we went along the edge; people were             
sitting on the ground, like Red Indians or gypsies; among them a girl.       
Until then I had made my way along on the slippery ground, in constant       
astonishment that I was so well able to do so after making the               
preparation. At last we came to a small wooden house with an open            
window at one end. Here the guide set me down, and laid two planks,          
which stood in readiness, on the window-sill so as to bridge the chasm       
which had to be crossed from the window. Now I grew really alarmed           
about my legs. Instead of the expected crossing, I saw two grown-up          
men lying upon wooden benches which were fixed on the walls of the           
hut, and something like two sleeping children next to them; as               
though not the planks but the children were intended to make the             
crossing possible. I awoke with terrified thoughts.                          
-                                                                            
  * Stanniol, allusion to Stannius; the nervous system of fishes; cf         
chapter VI., F.                                                              
  *(2) The place in the corridor of my apartment-house where the             
perambulators of the other tenants stand; it is also otherwise               
hyper-determined several times over.                                         
-                                                                            
  Anyone who his been duly impressed by the extensive nature of              
dream-condensation will readily imagine what a number of pages the           
exhaustive analysis of this dream would fill. Fortunately for the            
context, I shall make this dream only the one example of                     
astonishment in dreams, which makes its appearance in the                    
parenthetical remark, strangely enough. Let us consider the occasion         
of the dream. It is a visit of this lady, Louise N, who helps me             
with my work in the dream. She says: "Lend me something to read." I          
offer her She, by Rider Haggard. A strange book, but full of hidden          
meaning," I try to explain; "the eternal feminine, the immortality           
of our emotions-" Here she interrupts me: "I know that book already.         
Haven't you something of your own?" "No, my own immortal works are           
still unwritten." "Well, when are you going to publish your                  
so-called 'latest revelations,' which, you promised us, even we should       
be able to read?" she asks, rather sarcastically. I now perceive             
that she is a mouthpiece for someone else, and I am silent. I think of       
the effort it cost me to make public even my work on dreams, in              
which I had to surrender so much of my own intimate nature. ("The best       
that you know you can't tell the boys.") The preparation of my own           
body which I am ordered to make in my dream is thus the                      
self-analysis involved in the communication of my dreams. The elder          
Brucke very properly finds a place here; in the first years of my            
scientific work it so happened that I neglected the publication of a         
certain discovery until his insistence forced me to publish it. But          
the further trains of thought, proceeding from my conversation with          
Louise N, go too deep to become conscious; they are side-tracked by          
way of the material which has been incidentally awakened in me by            
the mention of Rider Haggard's She. The comment strangely enough             
applies to this book, and to another by the same author, The Heart           
of the World; and numerous elements of the dream are taken from              
these two fantastic romances. The swampy ground over which the dreamer       
is carried, the chasm which has to be crossed by means of planks, come       
from She; the Red Indians, the girl, and the wooden house, from The          
Heart of the World. In both novels a woman is the leader, and both           
treat of perilous wanderings; She has to do with an adventurous              
journey to an undiscovered country, a place almost untrodden by the          
foot of man. According to a note which I find in my record of the            
dream, the fatigue in my legs was a real sensation from those days.          
Probably a weary mood corresponded with this fatigue, and the doubting       
question: "How much farther will my legs carry me?" In She, the end of       
the adventure is that the heroine meets her death in the mysterious          
central fire, instead of winning immortality for herself and for             
others. Some related anxiety has mistakably arisen in the                    
dream-thoughts. The wooden house is assuredly also a coffin- that            
is, the grave. But in representing this most unwished-for of all             
thoughts by means of a wish-fulfilment, the dream-work has achieved          
its masterpiece. I was once in a grave, but it was an empty Etruscan         
grave near Orvieto- a narrow chamber with two stone benches on the           
walls, upon which were lying the skeletons of two adults. The interior       
of the wooden house in the dream looks exactly like this grave, except       
that stone has been replaced by wood. The dream seems to say: "If            
you must already sojourn in your grave, let it be this Etruscan              
grave," and by means of this interpolation it transforms the most            
mournful expectation into one that is really to be desired.                  
Unfortunately, as we shall learn, the dream is able to change into its       
opposite only the idea accompanying an affect, but not always the            
affect itself. Hence, I awake with thoughts of terror, even after            
the idea that perhaps my children will achieve what has been denied to       
their father has forced its way to representation: a fresh allusion to       
the strange romance in which the identity of a character is                  
preserved through a series of generations covering two thousand years.       
  8. in the context of another dream there is a similar expression           
of astonishment at what is experienced in the dream. This, however, is       
connected with such a striking, far-fetched, and almost intellectual         
attempt at explanation that if only on this account I should have to         
subject the whole dream to analysis, even if it did not possess two          
other interesting features. On the night of the eighteenth of July I         
was travelling on the Southern Railway, and in my sleep I heard              
someone call out: "Hollthurn, 10 minutes." I immediately think of            
Holothuria- of a natural history museum- that here is a place where          
valiant men have vainly resisted the domination of their overlord.-          
Yes, the counter-reformation in Austria!- As though it were a place in       
Styria or the Tyrol. Now I see indistinctly a small museum, in which         
the relics of the acquisitions of these men are preserved. I should          
like to leave the train, but I hesitate to do so. There are women with       
fruit on the platform; they squat on the ground, and in that                 
position invitingly hold up their baskets.- I hesitated, in doubt as         
to whether we have time, but here we are still stationary.- I am             
suddenly in another compartment in which the leather and the seats are       
so narrow that one's spine directly touches the back. * I am surprised       
at this, but I may have changed carriages while asleep. Several              
people, among them an English brother and sister; a row of books             
plainly on a shelf on the wall.- I see The Wealth of Nations, and            
Matter and Motion (by Maxwell), thick books bound in brown linen.            
The man asks his sister about a book of Schiller's, whether she has          
forgotten it. These books seem to belong now to me, now to them. At          
this point I wish to join in the conversation in order to confirm or         
support what is being said. I wake sweating all over, because all            
the windows are shut, The train stops at Marburg.                            
-                                                                            
  * This description is not intelligible even to myself, but I               
follow the principle of reproducing the dream in those words which           
occur to me while I am writing it down. The wording itself is a part         
of the dream-representation.                                                 
-                                                                            
  While writing down the dream, a part of it occurs to me which my           
memory wished to pass over. I tell the brother and sister (in                
English), referring to a certain book: "It is from..." but I correct         
myself: "It is by..." The man remarks to his sister: "He said it             
correctly."                                                                  
  The dream begins with the name of a station, which seems to have           
almost waked me. For this name, which was Marburg, I substitute              
Hollthurn. The fact that I heard Marburg the first, or perhaps the           
second time it was called out, is proved by the mention of Schiller in       
the dream; he was born in Marburg, though not the Styrian Marburg. *         
Now on this occasion, although I was travelling first class, I was           
doing so under very disagreeable circumstances. The train was                
overcrowded; in my compartment I had come upon a lady and gentleman          
who seemed very fine people, and had not the good breeding, or did not       
think it worth while, to conceal their displeasure at my intrusion. My       
polite greeting was not returned, and although they were sitting             
side by side (with their backs to the engine), the woman before my           
eyes hastened to pre-empt the seat opposite her, and next to the             
window, with her umbrella; the door was immediately closed, and              
pointed remarks about the opening of windows were exchanged.                 
Probably I was quickly recognized as a person hungry for fresh air. It       
was a hot night, and the atmosphere of the compartment, closed on both       
sides, was almost suffocating. My experience as a traveller leads me         
to believe that such inconsiderate and overbearing conduct marks             
people who have paid for their tickets only partly, or not at all.           
When the conductor came round, and I presented my dearly bought              
ticket, the lady exclaimed haughtily and almost threateningly: "My           
husband has a pass." She was an imposing-looking person, with a              
discontented expression, in age not far removed from the autumn of           
feminine beauty; the man had no chance to say anything; he sat there         
motionless. I tried to sleep. In my dream I take a terrible revenge on       
my disagreeable travelling companions; no one would suspect what             
insults and humiliations are concealed behind the disjointed fragments       
of the first half of the dream. After this need has been satisfied,          
the second wish, to exchange my compartment for another, makes               
itself felt. The dream changes its scene so often, and without               
making the slightest objection to such changes, that it would not have       
seemed at all remarkable had I at once, from my memories, replaced           
my travelling companions by more agreeable persons. But here was a           
case where something or other opposes the change of scene, and finds         
it necessary to explain it. How did I suddenly get into another              
compartment? I could not positively remember having changed carriages.       
So there was only one explanation. I must have left the carriage while       
asleep- an unusual occurrence, examples of which, however, are known         
to neuropathologists. We know of persons who undertake railway               
journeys in a crepuscular state, without betraying their abnormal            
condition by any sign whatever, until at some stage of their journey         
they come to themselves, and are surprised by the gap in their memory.       
Thus, while I am still dreaming, I declare my own case to be such a          
case of automatisme ambulatoire.                                             
-                                                                            
  * Schiller was not born in one of the Marbergs, but in Marbach, as         
every German schoolboy knows, and I myself knew. This again is one           
of those errors (Cf. chapter VI., B) which creep in as substitutes for       
an intentional falsification in another place and which I have               
endeavoured to explain in The Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life.             
-                                                                            
  Analysis permits of another solution. The attempt at explanation,          
which so surprises me if I am to attribute it to the dream-work, is          
not original, but is copied from the neurosis of one of my patients. I       
have already spoken in another chapter of a highly cultured and kindly       
man who began, shortly after the death of his parents, to accuse             
himself of murderous tendencies, and who was distressed by the               
precautionary measures which he had to take to secure himself                
against these tendencies. His was a case of severe obsessional ideas         
with full insight. To begin with, it was painful to him to walk              
through the streets, as he was obsessed by the necessity of accounting       
for all the persons he met; he had to know whither they had                  
disappeared; if one of them suddenly eluded his pursuing glance, he          
was left with a feeling of distress and the idea that he might               
possibly have made away with the man. Behind this obsessive idea was         
concealed, among other things, a Cain-phantasy, for "all men are             
brothers." Owing to the impossibility of accomplishing this task, he         
gave up going for walks, and spent his life imprisoned within his four       
walls. But reports of murders which had been committed in the world          
outside were constantly reaching his room by way of the newspapers,          
and his conscience tormented him with the doubt that he might be the         
murderer for whom the police were looking. The certainty that he had         
not left the house for weeks protected him for a time against these          
accusations, until one day there dawned upon him the possibility             
that he might have left his house while in an unconscious state, and         
might thus have committed murder without knowing anything about it.          
From that time onwards he locked his front door, and gave the key to         
his old housekeeper, strictly forbidding her to give it into his             
hands, even if he demanded it.                                               
  This, then, is the origin of the attempted explanation that I may          
have changed carriages while in an unconscious state; it has been            
taken into the dream ready-made, from the material of the                    
dream-thoughts, and is evidently intended to identify me with the            
person of my patient. My memory of this patient was awakened by              
natural association. My last night journey had been made a few weeks         
earlier in his company. He was cured, and we were going into the             
country together to his relatives, who had sent for me; as we had a          
compartment to ourselves, we left all the windows open throughout            
the night, and for as long as I remained awake we had a most                 
interesting conversation. I knew that hostile impulses towards his           
father in childhood, in a sexual connection, had been at the root of         
his illness. By identifying myself with him, I wanted to make an             
analogous confession to myself. The second scene of the dream really         
resolves itself into a wanton phantasy to the effect that my two             
elderly travelling companions had acted so uncivilly towards me              
because my arrival on the scene had prevented them from exchanging           
kisses and embraces during the night, as they had intended. This             
phantasy, however, goes back to an early incident of my childhood            
when, probably impelled by sexual curiosity, I had intruded into my          
parents' bedroom, and was driven thence by my father's emphatic              
command.                                                                     
  I think it would be superfluous to multiply such examples. They            
would all confirm what we have learned from those already cited:             
namely, that an act of judgment in a dream is merely the repetition of       
an original act of judgment in the dream-thoughts. In most cases it is       
an unsuitable repetition, fitted into an inappropriate context;              
occasionally, however, as in our last example, it is so artfully             
applied that it may almost give one the impression of independent            
intellectual activity in the dream. At this point we might turn our          
attention to that psychic activity which, though it does not appear to       
co-operate constantly in the formation of dreams, yet endeavours to          
fuse the dream-elements of different origin into a flawless and              
significant whole. We consider it necessary, however, first of all           
to consider the expressions of affect which appear in dreams, and to         
compare these with the affects which analysis discovers in the               
dream-thoughts.                                                              
                                                                             
VI|H                                                                         
                       H. The Affects in Dreams                              
-                                                                            
  A shrewd remark of Stricker's called our attention to the fact             
that the expressions of affects in dreams cannot be disposed of in the       
contemptuous fashion in which we are wont to shake off the                   
dream-content after we have waked. "If I am afraid of robbers in my          
dreams, the robbers, to be sure, are imaginary, but the fear of them         
is real"; and the same thing is true if I rejoice in my dream.               
According to the testimony of our feelings, an affect experienced in a       
dream is in no way inferior to one of like intensity experienced in          
waking life, and the dream presses its claim to be accepted as part of       
our real psychic experiences, by virtue of its affective rather than         
its ideational content. In the waking state, we do not put the one           
before the other, since we do not know how to evaluate an affect             
psychically except in connection with an ideational content. If an           
affect and an idea are ill-matched as regards their nature or their          
intensity, our waking judgment becomes confused.                             
  The fact that in dreams the ideational content does not always             
produce the affective result which in our waking thoughts we should          
expect as its necessary consequence has always been a cause of               
astonishment. Strumpell declared that ideas in dreams are stripped           
of their psychic values. But there is no lack of instances in which          
the reverse is true; when an intensive manifestation of affect appears       
in a content which seems to offer no occasion for it. In my dream I          
may be in a horrible, dangerous, or disgusting situation, and yet I          
may feel no fear or aversion; on the other hand, I am sometimes              
terrified by harmless things, and sometimes delighted by childish            
things.                                                                      
  This enigma disappeared more suddenly and more completely than             
perhaps any other dream-problem if we pass from the manifest to the          
latent content. We shall then no longer have to explain it, for it           
will no longer exist. Analysis tells us that the ideational contents         
have undergone displacements and substitutions, while the affects have       
remained unchanged. No wonder, then, that the ideational content which       
has been altered by dream-distortion no longer fits the affect which         
has remained intact; and no cause for wonder when analysis has put the       
correct content into its original place. *                                   
-                                                                            
  * If I am not greatly mistaken, the first dream which I was able           
to elicit from my grandson (aged 20 months) points to the fact that          
the dream-work had succeeded in transforming its material into a             
wish-fulfilment, while the affect which belonged to it remained              
unchanged even in the sleeping state. The night before its father            
was to return to the front the child cried out, sobbing violently:           
"Papa, Papa- Baby." That may mean: Let Papa and Baby still be                
together; while the weeping takes cognizance of the imminent                 
departure. The child was at the time very well able to express the           
concept of separation. Fort (= away, replaced by a peculiarly                
accented, long-drawn-out ooooh) had been his first word, and for             
many months before this first dream he had played at away with all his       
toys; which went back to his early self-conquest in allowing his             
mother to go away.                                                           
-                                                                            
  In a psychic complex which has been subjected to the influence of          
the resisting censorship, the affects are the unyielding                     
constituent, which alone can guide us to the correct completion.             
This state of affairs is revealed in the psychoneuroses even more            
distinctly than in dreams. Here the affect is always in the right,           
at least as regards its quality; its intensity may, of course, be            
increased by displacement of the neurotic attention. When the                
hysterical patient wonders that he should be so afraid of a trifle, or       
when the sufferer from obsessions is astonished that he should               
reproach himself so bitterly for a mere nothing, they are both in            
error, inasmuch as they regard long conceptual content- the trifle,          
the mere nothing- as the essential thing, and they defend themselves         
in vain, because they make this conceptual content the                       
starting-point of their thought-work. Psycho-analysis, however, puts         
them on the right path, inasmuch as it recognizes that, on the               
contrary, it is the affect that is justified, and looks for the              
concept which pertains to it, and which has been repressed by a              
substitution. All that we need assume is that the liberation of affect       
and the conceptual content do not constitute the indissoluble                
organic unity as which we are wont to regard them, but that the two          
parts may be welded together, so that analysis will separate them.           
Dream-interpretation shows that this is actually the case.                   
  I will first of all give an example in which analysis explains the         
apparent absence of affect in a conceptual content which ought to            
compel a liberation of affect.                                               
-                                                                            
                                  I.                                         
-                                                                            
  The dreamer sees three lions in a desert, one of which is                  
laughing, but she is not afraid of them. Then, however, she must             
have fled from them, for she is trying to climb a tree. But she              
finds that her cousin, the French teacher, is already up in the              
tree, etc.                                                                   
  The analysis yields the following material: The indifferent occasion       
of the dream was a sentence in the dreamer's English exercise: "The          
lion's greatest adornment is his mane." Her father used to wear a            
beard which encircled his face like a Mane. The name of her English          
teacher is Miss Lyons. An acquaintance of hers sent her the ballads of       
Loewe (Loewe = lion). These, then, are the three lions; why should she       
be afraid of them? She has read a story in which a negro who has             
incited his fellows to revolt is hunted with bloodhounds, and climbs a       
tree to save himself. Then follow fragmentary recollections in the           
merriest mood, such as the following directions for catching lions           
(from Die Fliegende Blatter): "Take a desert and put it through a            
sieve; the lions will be left behind." Also a very amusing, but not          
very proper anecdote about an official who is asked why he does not          
take greater pains to win the favour of his chief, and who replies           
that he has been trying to creep into favour, but that his immediate         
superior was already up there. The whole matter becomes intelligible         
as soon as one learns that on the dream-day the lady had received a          
visit from her husband's superior. He was very polite to her, and            
kissed her hand, and she was not at all afraid of him, although he           
is a big bug (Grosses Tier = big animal) and plays the part of a             
social lion in the capital of her country. This lion is, therefore,          
like the lion in A Midsummer Night's Dream, who is unmasked as Snug          
the joiner; and of such stuff are all the dream-lions of which one           
is not afraid.                                                               
-                                                                            
                                 II.                                         
-                                                                            
  As my second example, I will cite the dream of the girl who saw            
her sister's little son lying as a corpse in his coffin, but who, it         
may be added, was conscious of no pain or sorrow. Why she was                
unmoved we know from the analysis. The dream only disguised her wish         
to see once more the man she loved; the affect had to be attuned to          
the wish, and not to its disguisement. There was thus no occasion            
for sorrow.                                                                  
  In a number of dreams the affect does at least remain connected with       
the conceptual content which has replaced the content really belonging       
to it. In others, the dissolution of the complex is carried farther.         
The affect is entirely separated from the idea belonging to it, and          
finds itself accommodated elsewhere in the dream, where it fits into         
the new arrangement of the dream-elements. We have seen that the             
same thing happens to acts of judgment in dreams. If an important            
inference occurs in the dream-thoughts, there is one in the dream            
also; but the inference in the dream may be displaced to entirely            
different material. Not infrequently this displacement is effected           
in accordance with the principle of antithesis.                              
  I will illustrate the latter possibility by the following dream,           
which I have subjected to the most exhaustive analysis.                      
-                                                                            
                                 III.                                        
-                                                                            
  A castle by the sea; afterwards it lies not directly on the coast,         
but on a narrow canal leading to the sea. A certain Herr P is the            
governor of the castle. I stand with him in a large salon with three         
windows, in front of which rise the projections of a wall, like              
battlements of a fortress. I belong to the garrison, perhaps as a            
volunteer naval officer. We fear the arrival of enemy warships, for we       
are in a state of war. Herr P intends to leave the castle; he gives me       
instructions as to what must be done if what we fear should come to          
pass. His sick wife and his children are in the threatened castle.           
As soon as the bombardment begins, the large hall is to be cleared. He       
breathes heavily, and tries to get away; I detain him, and ask him how       
I am to send him news in case of need. He says something further,            
and immediately afterwards he sinks to the floor dead. I have probably       
taxed him unnecessarily with my questions. After his death, which            
makes no further impression upon me, I consider whether the widow is         
to remain in the castle, whether I should give notice of the death           
to the higher command, whether I should take over the control of the         
castle as the next in command. I now stand at the window, and                
scrutinize the ships as they pass by; they are cargo steamers, and           
they rush by over the dark water; several with more than one funnel,         
others with bulging decks (these are very like the railway stations in       
the preliminary dream, which has not been related). Then my brother is       
standing beside me, and we both look out of the window on to the             
canal. At the sight of one ship we are alarmed, and call out: "Here          
comes the warship!" It turns out, however, that they are only the            
ships which I have already seen, returning. Now comes a small ship,          
comically truncated, so that it ends amidships; on the deck one sees         
curious things like cups or little boxes. We call out as with one            
voice: "That is the breakfast ship."                                         
  The rapid motion of the ships, the deep blue of the water, the brown       
smoke of the funnels- all these together produce an intense and gloomy       
impression.                                                                  
  The localities in this dream are compiled from several journeys to         
the Adriatic (Miramare, Duino, Venice, Aquileia). A short but                
enjoyable Easter trip to Aquileia with my brother, a few weeks               
before the dream, was still fresh in my memory; also the naval war           
between America and Spain, and, associated with this my anxiety as           
to the fate of my relatives in America, play a part in the dream.            
Manifestations of affect appear at two places in the dream. In one           
place an affect that would be expected is lacking: it expressly              
emphasized that the death of the governor makes no impression upon me;       
at another point, when I see the warships, I am frightened, and              
experience all the sensations of fright in my sleep. The                     
distribution of affects in this well-constructed dream has been              
effected in such a way that any obvious contradiction is avoided.            
For there is no reason why I should be frightened at the governor's          
death, and it is fitting that, as the commander of the castle, I             
should be alarmed by the sight of the warship. Now analysis shows that       
Herr P is nothing but a substitute for my own ego (in the dream I am         
his substitute). I am the governor who suddenly dies. The                    
dream-thoughts deal with the future of my family after my premature          
death. No other disagreeable thought is to be found among the                
dream-thoughts. The alarm which goes with the sight of the warship           
must be transferred from it to this disagreeable thought. Inversely,         
the analysis shows that the region of the dream-thoughts from which          
the warship comes is laden with most cheerful reminiscences. In              
Venice, a year before the dream, one magically beautiful day, we stood       
at the windows of our room on the Riva Schiavoni and looked out over         
the blue lagoon, on which there was more traffic to be seen than             
usual. Some English ships were expected; they were to be given a             
festive reception; and suddenly my wife cried, happy as a child: "Here       
comes the English warship!" In the dream I am frightened by the very         
same words; once more we see that speeches in dreams have their origin       
in speeches in real life. I shall presently show that even the element       
English in this speech has not been lost for the dream-work. Here,           
then, between the dream-thoughts and the dream-content, I turn joy           
into fright, and I need only point to the fact that by means of this         
transformation I give expression to part of the latent                       
dream-content. The example shows, however, that the dream-work is at         
liberty to detach the occasion of an affect from its connections in          
the dream-thoughts, and to insert it at any other place it chooses           
in the dream-content.                                                        
  I will take the opportunity which is here, incidentally offered of         
subjecting to a closer analysis the breakfast ship, whose appearance         
in the dream so absurdly concludes a situation that has been                 
rationally adhered to. If I look more closely at this dream-object,          
I am impressed after the event by the fact that it was black. and that       
by reason of its truncation at its widest beam it achieved, at the           
truncated end, a considerable resemblance to an object which had             
aroused our interest in the museums of the Etruscan cities. This             
object was a rectangular cup of black clay, with two handles, upon           
which stood things like coffee-cups or tea-cups, very similar to our         
modern service for the breakfast table. Upon inquiry we learned that         
this was the toilet set of an Etruscan lady, with little boxes for           
rouge and powder; and we told one another jestingly that it would            
not be a bad idea to take a thing like that home to the lady of the          
house. The dream-object, therefore, signifies a black toilet (toilette       
= dress), or mourning. and refers directly to a death. The other end         
of the dream-object reminds us of the boat (German, Nachen, from the         
Greek root, nechus, as a philological friend informs me), upon which         
corpses were laid in prehistoric times, and were left to be buried           
by the sea. This is associated with the return of the ships in the           
dream.                                                                       
  "Silently on his rescued boat the old man drifts into harbour."            
  It is the return voyage after the shipwreck (German: Schiff-bruch          
= ship-breaking); the breakfast ship looks as though it were broken          
off amidships. But whence comes the name breakfast ship? This is where       
English comes in, which we have left over from the warships.                 
Breakfast, a breaking of the fast. Breaking again belongs to shipwreck       
(Schiff-bruch), and fasting is associated with the black (mourning).         
  But the only thing about this breakfast ship which has been newly          
created by the dream is its name. The thing existed in reality, and          
recalls to me one of the merriest moments of my last journey. As we          
distrusted the fare in Aquileia, we took some food with us from Goerz,       
and bought a bottle of the excellent Istrian wine in Aquileia; and           
while the little mail-steamer slowly travelled through the canale            
 
delle Mee and into the lonely expanse of lagoon in the direction of          
Grado, we had breakfast on deck in the highest spirits- we were the          
only passengers- and it tasted to us as few breakfasts have ever             
tasted. This, then, was the breakfast ship, and it is behind this very       
recollection of the gayest joie de vivre that the dream hides the            
saddest thoughts of an unknown and mysterious future.                        
  The detachment of affects from the groups of ideas which have              
occasioned their liberation is the most striking thing that happens to       
them in dream-formation, but it is neither the only nor even the             
most essential change which they undergo on the way from the                 
dream-thoughts to the manifest dream. If the affects in the                  
dream-thoughts are compared with those in the dream, one thing at once       
becomes clear: Wherever there is an affect in the dream, it is to be         
found also in the dream-thoughts; the converse, however, is not              
true. In general, a dream is less rich in affects than the psychic           
material from which it is elaborated. When I have reconstructed the          
dream-thoughts, I see that the most intense psychic impulses are             
constantly striving in them for self-assertion, usually in conflict          
with others which are sharply opposed to them. Now, if I turn back           
to the dream. I often find it colourless and devoid of any very              
intensive affective tone. Not only the content, but also the affective       
tone of my thoughts is often reduced by the dream-work to the level of       
the indifferent. I might say that a suppression of the affects has           
been accomplished by the dream-work. Take, for example, the dream of         
the botanical monograph. It corresponds to a passionate plea for my          
freedom to act as I am acting, to arrange my life as seems right to          
me, and to me alone. The dream which results from this sounds                
indifferent; I have written a monograph; it is lying before me; it           
is provided with coloured plates, and dried plants are to be found           
in each copy. It is like the peace of a deserted battlefield; no trace       
is left of the tumult of battle.                                             
  But things may turn out quite differently; vivid expressions of            
affect may enter into the dream itself; but we will first of all             
consider the unquestioned fact that so many dreams appear indifferent,       
whereas it is never possible to go deeply into the dream-thoughts            
without deep emotion.                                                        
  The complete theoretical explanation of this suppression of                
affects during the dream-work cannot be given here; it would require a       
most careful investigation of the theory of the affects and of the           
mechanism of repression. Here I can put forward only two                     
suggestions. I am forced- for other reasons- to conceive the                 
liberation of affects as a centrifugal process directed towards the          
interior of the body, analogous to the processes of motor and                
secretory innervation. Just as in the sleeping state the emission of         
motor impulses towards the outer world seems to be suspended, so the         
centrifugal awakening of affects by unconscious thinking during              
sleep may be rendered more difficult. The affective impulses which           
occur during the course of the dream-thoughts may thus in themselves         
be feeble, so that those that find their way into the dream are no           
stronger. According to this line of thought, the suppression of the          
affects would not be a consequence of the dream-work at all, but a           
consequence of the state of sleep. This may be so, but it cannot             
possibly be all the truth. We must remember that all the more                
complex dreams have revealed themselves as the result of a                   
compromise between conflicting psychic forces. On the one hand, the          
wish-forming thoughts have to oppose the contradiction of a                  
censorship; on the other hand, as we have often seen, even in                
unconscious thinking, every train of thought is harnessed to its             
contradictory counterpart. Since all these trains of thought are             
capable of arousing affects, we shall, broadly speaking, hardly go           
astray if we conceive the suppression of affects as the result of            
the inhibition which the contrasts impose upon one another, and the          
censorship upon the urges which it has suppressed. The inhibition of         
affects would accordingly be the second consequence of the                   
dream-censorship, just as dream-distortion was the first consequence.        
  I will here insert an example of a dream in which the indifferent          
emotional tone of the dream-content may be explained by the antagonism       
of the dream-thoughts. I must relate the following short dream,              
which every reader will read with disgust.                                   
-                                                                            
                                 IV.                                         
-                                                                            
  Rising ground, and on it something like an open-air latrine; a             
very long bench, at the end of which is a wide aperture. The whole           
of the back edge is thickly covered with little heaps of excrement           
of all sizes and degrees of freshness. A thicket behind the bench. I         
urinate upon the bench; a long stream of urine rinses everything             
clean, the patches of excrement come off easily and fall into the            
opening. Nevertheless, it seems as though something remained at the          
end.                                                                         
  Why did I experience no disgust in this dream?                             
  Because, as the analysis shows, the most pleasant and gratifying           
thoughts have cooperated in the formation of this dream. Upon                
analysing it, I immediately think of the Augean stables which were           
cleansed by Hercules. I am this Hercules. The rising ground and the          
thicket belong to Aussee, where my children are now staying. I have          
discovered the infantile aetiology of the neuroses, and have thus            
guarded my own children from falling ill. The bench (omitting the            
aperture, of course) is the faithful copy of a piece of furniture of         
which an affectionate female patient has made me a present. This             
reminds me how my patients honour me. Even the museum of human               
excrement is susceptible of a gratifying interpretation. However             
much it disgusts me, it is a souvenir of the beautiful land of               
Italy, where in the small cities, as everyone knows, the privies are         
not equipped in any other way. The stream of urine that washes               
everything clean is an unmistakable allusion to greatness. It is in          
this manner that Gulliver extinguishes the great fire in Lilliput;           
to be sure, he thereby incurs the displeasure of the tiniest of              
queens. In this way, too, Gargantua, the superman of Master                  
Rabelais, takes vengeance upon the Parisians, straddling Notre-Dame          
and training his stream of urine upon the city. Only yesterday I was         
turning over the leaves of Garnier's illustrations to Rabelais               
before I went to bed. And, strangely enough, here is another proof           
that I am the superman! The platform of Notre-Dame was my favourite          
nook in Paris; every free afternoon I used to go up into the towers of       
the cathedral and there clamber about between the monsters and               
gargoyles. The circumstance that all the excrement vanishes so rapidly       
before the stream of urine corresponds to the motto: Afflavit et             
dissipati sunt, which I shall some day make the title of a chapter           
on the therapeutics of hysteria.                                             
  And now as to the affective occasion of the dream. It had been a hot       
summer afternoon; in the evening, I had given my lecture on the              
connection between hysteria and the perversions, and everything              
which I had to say displeased me thoroughly, and seemed utterly              
valueless. I was tired; I took not the least pleasure in my                  
difficult work, and longed to get away from this rummaging in human          
filth; first to see my children, and then to revisit the beauties of         
Italy. In this mood I went from the lecture-hall to a cafe to get some       
little refreshment in the open air, for my appetite had forsaken me.         
But a member of my audience went with me; he begged for permission           
to sit with me while I drank my coffee and gulped down my roll, and          
began to say flattering things to me. He told me how much he had             
learned from me, that he now saw everything through different eyes,          
that I had cleansed the Augean stables of error and prejudice, which         
encumbered the theory of the neuroses- in short, that I was a very           
great man. My mood was ill-suited to his hymn of praise; I struggled         
with my disgust, and went home earlier in order to get rid of him; and       
before I went to sleep I turned over the leaves of Rabelais, and             
read a short story by C. F. Meyer entitled Die Leiden eines Knaben           
(The Sorrows of a Boy).                                                      
  The dream had originated from this material, and Meyer's novel had         
supplied the recollections of scenes of childhood. * The day's mood of       
annoyance and disgust is continued in the dream, inasmuch as it is           
permitted to furnish nearly all the material for the dream-content.          
But during the night the opposite mood of vigorous, even immoderate          
self-assertion awakened and dissipated the earlier mood. The dream had       
to assume such a form as would accommodate both the expressions of           
self-depreciation and exaggerated self-glorification in the same             
material. This compromise-formation resulted in an ambiguous                 
dream-content, but, owing to the mutual inhibition of the opposites,         
in an indifferent emotional tone.                                            
-                                                                            
  * Cf. the dream about Count Thun, last scene.                              
-                                                                            
  According to the theory of wish-fulfilment, this dream would not           
have been possible had not the opposed, and indeed suppressed, yet           
pleasure-emphasized megalomanic train of thought been added to the           
thoughts of disgust. For nothing painful is intended to be represented       
in dreams; the painful elements of our daily thoughts are able to            
force their way into our dreams only if at the same time they are able       
to disguise a wish-fulfilment.                                               
  The dream-work is able to dispose of the affects of the                    
dream-thoughts in yet another way than by admitting them or reducing         
them to zero. It can transform them into their opposites. We are             
acquainted with the rule that for the purposes of interpretation every       
element of the dream may represent its opposite, as well as itself.          
One can never tell beforehand which is to be posited; only the context       
can decide this point. A suspicion of this state of affairs has              
evidently found its way into the popular consciousness; the                  
dream-books, in their interpretations, often proceed according to            
the principle of contraries. This transformation into the contrary           
is made possible by the intimate associative ties which in our               
thoughts connect the idea of a thing with that of its opposite. Like         
every other displacement, this serves the purposes of the                    
censorship, but it is often the work of wish-fulfilment, for                 
wish-fulfilment consists in nothing more than the substitution of an         
unwelcome thing by its opposite. Just as concrete images may be              
transformed into their contraries in our dreams, so also may the             
affects of the dream-thoughts, and it is probable that this                  
inversion of affects is usually brought about by the dream-censorship.       
The suppression and inversion of affects is useful even in social            
life, as is shown by the familiar analogy of the dream-censorship and,       
above all, hypocrisy. If I am conversing with a person to whom I             
must show consideration while I should like to address him as an             
enemy, it is almost more important that I should conceal the                 
expression of my affect from him than that I should modify the               
verbal expression of my thoughts. If I address him in courteous terms,       
but accompany them by looks or gestures of hatred and disdain, the           
effect which I produce upon him is not very different from what it           
would have been had I cast my unmitigated contempt into his face.            
Above all, then, the censorship bids me suppress my affects. and if          
I am a master of the art of dissimulation I can hypocritically display       
the opposite affect- smiling where I should like to be angry, and            
pretending affection where I should like to destroy.                         
  We have already had an excellent example of such an inversion of           
affect in the service of the dream-censorship. In the dream of my            
uncle's beard I feel great affection for my friend R, while (and             
because) the dream-thoughts berate him as a simpleton. From this             
example of the inversion of affects we derived our first proof of            
the existence of the censorship. Even here it is not necessary to            
assume that the dream-work creates a counter-affect of this kind             
that is altogether new; it usually finds it lying ready in the               
material of the dream-thoughts, and merely intensifies it with the           
psychic force of the defence-motives until it is able to predominate         
in the dream-formation. In the dream of my uncle, the affectionate           
counter-affect probably has its origin in an infantile source (as            
the continuation of the dream would suggest), for owing to the               
peculiar nature of my earliest childhood experiences the relation of         
uncle and nephew has become the source of all my friendships and             
hatreds (cf. analysis chapter VI., F.).                                      
  An excellent example of such a reversal of affect is found in a            
dream recorded by Ferenczi. * "An elderly gentleman was awakened at          
night by his wife, who was frightened because he laughed so loudly and       
uncontrollably in his sleep. The man afterwards related that he had          
had the following dream: I lay in my bed, a gentleman known to me came       
in, I wanted to turn on the light, but I could not; I attempted to           
do so repeatedly, but in vain. Thereupon my wife got out of bed, in          
order to help me, but she, too, was unable to manage it; being ashamed       
of her neglige in the presence of the gentleman, she finally gave it         
up and went back to her bed; all this was so comical that I had to           
laugh terribly. My wife said: 'What are you laughing at, what are            
you laughing at?' but I continued to laugh until I woke. The following       
day the man was extremely depressed, and suffered from headache: 'From       
too much laughter, which shook me up,' he thought.                           
-                                                                            
  * Internat. Zeitschr. f. Psychoanalyse, IV (1916).                         
-                                                                            
  "Analytically considered, the dream looks less comical. In the             
latent dream-thoughts the gentleman known to him who came into the           
room is the image of death as the 'great unknown,' which was                 
awakened in his mind on the previous day. The old gentleman, who             
suffers from arteriosclerosis, had good reason to think of death on          
the day before the dream. The uncontrollable laughter takes the              
place of weeping and sobbing at the idea that he has to die. It is the       
light of life that he is no longer able to turn on. This mournful            
thought may have associated itself with a failure to effect sexual           
intercourse, which he had attempted shortly before this, and in              
which the assistance of his wife en neglige was of no avail; he              
realized that he was already on the decline. The dream-work knew how         
to transform the sad idea of impotence and death into a comic scene,         
and the sobbing into laughter."                                              
  There is one class of dreams which has a special claim to be               
called hypocritical, and which severely tests the theory of                  
wish-fulfilment. My attention was called to them when Frau Dr. M.            
Hilferding proposed for discussion by the Psychoanalytic Society of          
Vienna a dream recorded by Rosegger, which is here reprinted:                
  In Waldheimat, vol. xi, Rosegger writes as follows in his story,           
Fremd gemacht (p. 303):                                                      
  "I usually enjoy healthful sleep, yet I have gone without repose           
on many a night; in addition to my modest existence as a student and         
literary man, I have for long years dragged out the shadow of a              
veritable tailor's life- like a ghost from which I could not become          
divorced.                                                                    
  "It is not true that I have occupied myself very often or very             
intensely with thoughts of my past during the day. A stormer of heaven       
and earth who has escaped from the hide of the Philistine has other          
things to think about. And as a gay young fellow, I hardly gave a            
thought to my nocturnal dreams; only later, when I had formed the            
habit of thinking about everything, or when the Philistine within me         
began to assert itself a little, did it strike me that- when I dreamed       
at all- I was always a journeyman tailor, and that in that capacity          
I had already worked in my master's shop for a long time without any         
pay. As I sat there beside him, and sewed and pressed, I was perfectly       
well aware that I no longer belonged there, and that as a burgess of         
the town I had other things to attend to; but I was always on a              
holiday, or away in the country, and so I sat beside my master and           
helped him. I often felt far from comfortable about it, and                  
regretted the waste of time which I might have employed for better and       
more useful purposes. If anything was not quite correct in measure and       
cut I had to put up with a scolding from my master. Of wages there was       
never a question. Often, as I sat with bent back in the dark workshop,       
I decided to give notice and make myself scarce. Once I actually did         
so, but the master took no notice of me, and next time I was sitting         
beside him again and sewing.                                                 
  "How happy I was when I woke up after such weary hours! And I then         
resolved that, if this intrusive dream should ever occur again, I            
would energetically throw it off, and would cry aloud: 'It is only a         
delusion, I am lying in bed, and I want to sleep'... And the next            
night I would be sitting in the tailor's shop again.                         
  "So it went on for years, with dismal regularity. Once when the            
master and I were working at Alpelhofer's, at the house of the peasant       
with whom I began my apprenticeship, it happened that my master was          
particularly dissatisfied with my work. 'I should like to know where         
in the world your thoughts are?' he cried, and looked at me                  
sullenly. I thought the most sensible thing to do would be to get up         
and explain to the master that I was working with him only as a              
favour, and then take my leave. But I did not do this. I even                
submitted when the master engaged an apprentice, and ordered me to           
make room for him on the bench. I moved into the corner, and kept on         
sewing. On the same day another journeyman was engaged; a bigoted            
fellow; he was the Bohemian who had worked for us nineteen years             
earlier, and then had fallen into the lake on his way home from the          
public-house. When he tried to sit down there was no room for him. I         
looked at the master inquiringly, and he said to me: 'You have no            
talent for tailoring; you may go; you're a stranger henceforth.' My          
fright on that occasion was so overpowering that I woke.                     
  "The grey of morning glimmered through the clear windows of my             
familiar home. Objets d'art surrounded me; in the tasteful bookcase          
stood the eternal Homer, the gigantic Dante, the incomparable                
Shakespeare, the glorious Goethe- all radiant and immortal. From the         
adjoining room resounded the clear little voices of the children,            
who were waking up and prattling to their mother. I felt as though I         
had rediscovered that idyllically sweet, peaceful, poetical and              
spiritualized life in which I have so often and so deeply been               
conscious of contemplative human happiness. And yet I was vexed that I       
had not given my master notice first, but had been dismissed by him.         
  "And how remarkable this seems to me: since that night, when my            
master 'made a stranger' of me, I have enjoyed restful sleep; I no           
longer dream of my tailoring days, which now lie in the remote past:         
which in their unpretentious simplicity were really so cheerful, but         
which, none the less, have cast a long shadow over the later years           
of my life."                                                                 
  In this series of dreams of a poet who, in his younger years, had          
been a journeyman tailor, it is hard to recognize the domination of          
the wish-fulfilment. All the delightful things occurred in his               
waking life, while the dream seemed to drag along with it the                
ghost-like shadow of an unhappy existence which had long been                
forgotten. Dreams of my own of a similar character enable me to give         
some explanation of such dreams. As a young doctor, I worked for a           
long time in the Chemical Institute without being able to accomplish         
anything in that exacting science, so that in the waking state I never       
think about this unfruitful and actually somewhat humiliating period         
of my student days. On the other hand, I have a recurring dream to the       
effect that I am working in the laboratory, making analyses, and             
experiments, and so forth; these dreams, like the                            
examination-dreams, are disagreeable, and they are never very                
distinct. During the analysis of one of these dreams my attention            
was directed to the word analysis, which gave me the key to an               
understanding of them. Since then I have become an analyst. I make           
analyses which are greatly praised- psycho-analyses, of course. Now          
I understand: when I feel proud of these analyses in my waking life,         
and feel inclined to boast of my achievements, my dreams hold up to me       
at night those other, unsuccessful analyses, of which I have no reason       
to be proud; they are the punitive dreams of the upstart, like those         
of the journeyman tailor who became a celebrated poet. But how is it         
possible for a dream to place itself at the service of                       
self-criticism in its conflict with parvenu pride, and to take as            
its content a rational warning instead of a prohibited                       
wish-fulfilment? I have already hinted that the answer to this               
question presents many difficulties. We may conclude that the                
foundation of the dream consisted at first of an arrogant phantasy           
of ambition; but that in its stead only its suppression and                  
abasement has reached the dream-content. One must remember that              
there are masochistic tendencies in mental life to which such an             
inversion might be attributed. I see no objection to regarding such          
dreams as punishment-dreams, as distinguished from wish-fulfilling           
dreams. I should not see in this any limitation of the theory of             
dreams hitherto as presented, but merely a verbal concession to the          
point of view to which the convergence of contraries seems strange.          
But a more thorough investigation of individual dreams of this class         
allows us to recognize yet another element. In an indistinct,                
subordinate portion of one of my laboratory dreams, I was just at            
the age which placed me in the most gloomy and most unsuccessful             
year of my professional career; I still had no position, and no idea         
how I was going to support myself, when I suddenly found that I had          
the choice of several women whom I might marry! I was, therefore,            
young again and, what is more, she was young again- the woman who            
has shared with me all these difficult years. In this way, one of            
the wishes which constantly gnaws at the heart of the aging man was          
revealed as the unconscious dream-instigator. The conflict raging in         
other psychic strata between vanity and self-criticism had certainly         
determined the dream-content, but the more deeply-rooted wish for            
youth had alone made it possible as a dream. One often says to oneself       
even in the waking state: "To be sure, things are going well with            
you today, and once you found life very hard; but, after all, life was       
sweet in those days, when you were still so young." *                        
-                                                                            
  * Ever since psycho-analysis has dissected the personality into an         
ego and a super-ego (Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego,           
p. 664 below), it has been easy to recognize in these                        
punishment-dreams wishfulfilments of the super-ego.                          
-                                                                            
  Another group of dreams, which I have often myself experienced,            
and which I have recognized to be hypocritical, have as their                
content a reconciliation with persons with whom one has long ceased to       
have friendly relations. The analysis constantly discovers an occasion       
which might well induce me to cast aside the last remnants of                
consideration for these former friends, and to treat them as strangers       
or enemies. But the dream chooses to depict the contrary relation.           
  In considering dreams recorded by a novelist or poet, we may often         
enough assume that he has excluded from the record those details which       
he felt to be disturbing and regarded as unessential. His dreams             
thus set us a problem which could be readily solved if we had an exact       
reproduction of the dream-content.                                           
  O. Rank has called my attention to the fact that in Grimm's                
fairy-tale of the valiant little tailor, or Seven at One Stroke, there       
is related a very similar dream of an upstart. The tailor, who has           
become a hero, and has married the king's daughter, dreams one night         
while lying beside the princess, his wife, about his trade; having           
become suspicious, on the following night she places armed guards            
where they can listen to what is said by the dreamer, and arrest             
him. But the little tailor is warned, and is able to correct his             
dream.                                                                       
  The complicated processes of removal, diminution, and inversion by         
which the affects of the dream-thoughts finally become the affects           
of the dream may be very well survived in suitable syntheses of              
completely analysed dreams. I shall here discuss a few examples of           
affective manifestations in dreams which will, I think, prove this           
conclusively in some of the cases cited.                                     
-                                                                            
                                  V.                                         
-                                                                            
  In the dream about the odd task which the elder Brucke sets me- that       
of preparing my own pelvis- I am aware in the dream itself of not            
feeling appropriate horror. Now this is a wish-fulfilment in more            
senses than one. The preparation signifies the self-analyses which I         
perform, as it were, by publishing my book on dreams, which I actually       
found so painful that I postponed the printing of the completed              
manuscript for more than a year. The wish now arises that I may              
disregard this feeling of aversion, and for that reason I feel no            
horror (Grauen, which also means to grow grey) in the dream. I               
should much like to escape Grauen in the other sense too, for I am           
already growing quite grey, and the grey in my hair warns me to              
delay no longer. For we know that at the end of the dream this thought       
secures representation: "I shall have to leave my children to reach          
the goal of their difficult journey without my help."                        
  In the two dreams that transfer the expression of satisfaction to          
the moments immediately after waking, this satisfaction is in the            
one case motivated by the expectation that I am now going to learn           
what is meant by I have already dreamed of this, and refers in reality       
to the birth of my first child, and in the other case it is                  
motivated by the conviction that "that which has been announced by a         
premonitory sign" is now going to happen, and the satisfaction is that       
which I felt on the arrival of my second son. Here the same affects          
that dominated in the dream-thoughts have remained in the dream, but         
the process is probably not quite so simple as this in any dream. If         
the two analyses are examined a little more closely it will be seen          
that this satisfaction, which does not succumb to the censorship,            
receives reinforcement from a source which must fear the censorship,         
and whose affect would certainly have aroused opposition if it had not       
screened itself by a similar and readily admitted affect of                  
satisfaction from the permitted source, and had, so to speak,                
sneaked in behind it. I am unfortunately unable to show this in the          
case of the actual dream, but an example from another situation will         
make my meaning intelligible. I will put the following case: Let there       
be a person near me whom I hate so strongly that I have a lively             
impulse to rejoice should anything happen to him. But the moral side         
of my nature does not give way to this impulse; I do not dare to             
express this sinister wish, and when something does happen to him            
which he does not deserve I suppress my satisfaction, and force myself       
to thoughts and expressions of regret. Everyone will at some time have       
found himself in such a position. But now let it happen that the hated       
person, through some transgression of his own, draws upon himself a          
well-deserved calamity; I shall now be allowed to give free rein to my       
satisfaction at his being visited by a just punishment, and I shall be       
expressing an opinion which coincides with that of other impartial           
persons. But I observe that my satisfaction proves to be more                
intense than that of others, for it has received reinforcement from          
another source- from my hatred, which was hitherto prevented by the          
inner censorship from furnishing the affect, but which, under the            
altered circumstances, is no longer prevented from doing so. This case       
generally occurs in social life when antipathetic persons or the             
adherents of an unpopular minority have been guilty of some offence.         
Their punishment is then usually commensurate not with their guilt,          
but with their guilt plus the ill-will against them that has                 
hitherto not been put into effect. Those who punish them doubtless           
commit an injustice, but they are prevented from becoming aware of           
it by the satisfaction arising from the release within themselves of a       
suppression of long standing. In such cases the quality of the               
affect is justified, but not its degree; and the self-criticism that         
has been appeased in respect of the first point is only too ready to         
neglect to scrutinize the second point. Once you have opened the             
doors, more people enter than it was your original intention to admit.       
  A striking feature of the neurotic character, namely, that in it           
causes capable of evoking affect produce results which are                   
qualitatively justified but quantitatively excessive, is to be               
explained on these lines, in so far as it admits of a psychological          
explanation at all. But the excess of affect proceeds from unconscious       
and hitherto suppressed affective sources which are able to                  
establish an associative connection with the actual occasion, and            
for whose liberation of affect the unprotested and permitted source of       
affects opens up the desired path. Our attention is thus called to the       
fact that the relation of mutual inhibition must not be regarded as          
the only relation obtaining between the suppressed and the suppressing       
psychic institution. The cases in which the two institutions bring           
about a pathological result by co-operation and mutual reinforcement         
deserve just as much attention. These hints regarding the psychic            
mechanism will contribute to our understanding of the expressions of         
affects in dreams. A gratification which makes its appearance in a           
dream, and which, of course, may readily be found in its proper              
place in the dream-thoughts, may not always be fully explained by            
means of this reference. As a rule, it is necessary to search for a          
second source in the dream-thoughts, upon which the pressure of the          
censorship rests, and which, under this pressure, would have yielded         
not gratification but the contrary affect, had it not been enabled           
by the presence of the first dream-source to free its                        
gratification-affect from repression, and reinforce the                      
gratification springing from the other source. Hence affects which           
appear in dreams appear to be formed by the confluence of several            
tributaries, and are over-determined in respect of the material of the       
dream-thoughts. Sources of affect which are able to furnish the same         
affect combine in the dream-work in order to produce it. *                   
-                                                                            
  * I have since explained the extraordinary effect of pleasure              
produced by tendency wit on analogous lines.                                 
-                                                                            
  Some insight into these involved relations is gained from the              
analysis of the admirable dream in which Non vixit constitutes the           
central point (cf. chapter VI., F). In this dream expressions of             
affect of different qualities are concentrated at two points in the          
manifest content. Hostile and painful impulses (in the dream itself we       
have the phrase overcome by strange emotions) overlap one another at         
the point where I destroy my antagonistic friend with a couple of            
words. At the end of the dream I am greatly pleased, and am quite            
ready to believe in a possibility which I recognize as absurd when I         
am awake, namely, that there are revenants who can be swept away by          
a mere wish.                                                                 
  I have not yet mentioned the occasion of this dream. It is an              
important one, and leads us far down into the meaning of the dream.          
From my friend in Berlin (whom I have designated as Fl) I had received       
the news that he was about to undergo an operation, and that relatives       
of his living in Vienna would inform me as to his condition. The first       
few messages after the operation were not very reassuring, and               
caused me great anxiety. I should have liked to go to him myself,            
but at that time I was afflicted with a painful complaint which made         
every movement a torment. I now learn from the dream-thoughts that I         
feared for this dear friend's life. I knew that his only sister,             
with whom I had never been acquainted, had died young, after a very          
brief illness. (In the dream Fl tells me about his sister, and says:         
"In three-quarters of an hour she was dead.") I must have imagined           
that his own constitution was not much stronger, and that I should           
soon be travelling, in spite of my health, in response to far worse          
news- and that I should arrive too late, for which I should                  
eternally reproach myself. * This reproach, that I should arrive too         
late, has become the central point of the dream, but it has been             
represented in a scene in which the revered teacher of my student            
years- Brucke- reproaches me for the same thing with a terrible look         
from his blue eyes. What brought about this alteration of the scene          
will soon become apparent: the dream cannot reproduce the scene itself       
as I experienced it. To be sure, it leaves the blue eyes to the              
other man, but it gives me the part of the annihilator, an inversion         
which is obviously the work of the wish-fulfilment. My concern for the       
life of my friend, my self-reproach for not having gone to him, my           
shame (he had come to me in Vienna unobtrusively), my desire to              
consider myself excused on account of my illness- all this builds up         
an emotional tempest which is distinctly felt in my sleep, and which         
rages in that region of the dream-thoughts.                                  
-                                                                            
  * It is this fancy from the unconscious dream-thoughts which               
peremptorily demands non vivit instead of non vixit. "You have come          
too late, he is no longer alive." The fact that the manifest situation       
of the dream aims at the non vivit has been mentioned in chapter             
VI., G.                                                                      
-                                                                            
  But there was another thing in the occasion of the dream which had         
quite the opposite effect. With the unfavourable news during the first       
days of the operation I received also an injunction to speak to no one       
about the whole affair, which hurt my feelings, for it betrayed an           
unnecessary distrust of my discretion. I knew, of course, that this          
request did not proceed from my friend, but that it was due to               
clumsiness or excessive timidity on the part of the messenger; yet the       
concealed reproach affected me very disagreeably, because it was not         
altogether unjustified. As we know, only reproaches which have               
something in them have the power to hurt. Years ago, when I was              
younger than I am now, I knew two men who were friends, and who              
honoured me with their friendship; and I quite superfluously told            
one of them what the other had said of him. This incident, of                
course, had nothing to do with the affairs of my friend Fl, but I have       
never forgotten the reproaches to which I had to listen on that              
occasion. One of the two friends between whom I made trouble was             
Professor Fleischl; the other one I will call by his baptismal name,         
Josef, a name which was borne also by my friend and antagonist P,            
who appears in this dream.                                                   
  In the dream the element unobtrusively points to the reproach that I       
cannot keep anything to myself, and so does the question of Fl as to         
how much of his affairs I have told P. But it is the intervention of         
that old memory which transposes the reproach for arriving too late          
from the present to the time when I was working in Brucke's                  
laboratory; and by replacing the second person in the annihilation           
scene of the dream by a Josef, I enable this scene to represent not          
only the first reproach- that I have arrived too late- but also that         
other reproach, more strongly affected by the repression, to the             
effect that I do not keep secrets. The work of condensation and              
displacement in this dream, as well as the motives for it, are now           
obvious.                                                                     
  My present trivial annoyance at the injunction not to divulge              
secrets draws reinforcement from springs that flow far beneath the           
surface, and so swells to a stream of hostile impulses towards persons       
who are in reality dear to me. The source which furnishes the                
reinforcement is to be found in my childhood. I have already said that       
my warm friendships as well as my enmities with persons of my own            
age go back to my childish relations to my nephew, who was a year            
older than I. In these he had the upper hand, and I early learned            
how to defend myself; we lived together, were inseparable, and loved         
one another, but at times, as the statements of older persons testify,       
we used to squabble and accuse one another. In a certain sense, all my       
friends are incarnations of this first figure; they are all revenants.       
My nephew himself returned when a young man, and then we were like           
Caesar and Brutus. An intimate friend and a hated enemy have always          
been indispensable to my emotional life; I have always been able to          
create them anew, and not infrequently my childish ideal has been so         
closely approached that friend and enemy have coincided in the same          
person; but not simultaneously, of course, nor in constant                   
alternation, as was the case in my early childhood.                          
  How, when such associations exist, a recent occasion of emotion            
may cast back to the infantile occasion and substitute this as a cause       
of affect, I shall not consider now. Such an investigation would             
properly belong to the psychology of unconscious thought, or a               
psychological explanation of the neuroses. Let us assume, for the            
purposes of dream-interpretation, that a childish recollection               
presents itself, or is created by the phantasy with, more or less, the       
following content: We two children quarrel on account of some                
object- just what we shall leave undecided, although the memory, or          
illusion of memory, has a very definite object in view- and each             
claims that he got there first, and therefore has the first right to         
it. We come to blows; Might comes before Right; and, according to            
the indications of the dream, I must have known that I was in the            
wrong (noticing the error myself); but this time I am the stronger,          
and take possession of the battlefield; the defeated combatant hurries       
to my father, his grandfather, and accuses me, and I defend myself           
with the words, which I have heard from my father: "I hit him                
because he hit me." Thus, this recollection, or more probably                
phantasy, which forces itself upon my attention in the course of the         
analysis- without further evidence I myself do not know how- becomes a       
central item of the dream-thoughts, which collects the affective             
impulses prevailing in the dream-thoughts, as the bowl of a fountain         
collects the water that flows into it. From this point the                   
dream-thoughts flow along the following channels: "It serves you right       
that you have had to make way for me; why did you try to push me             
off? I don't need you; I'll soon find someone else to play with," etc.       
Then the channels are opened through which these thoughts flow back          
again into the dream-representation. For such an "ote-toi que je m'y         
mette," * I once had to reproach my deceased friend Josef. He was next       
to me in the line of promotion in Brucke's laboratory, but advancement       
there was very slow. Neither of the two assistants budged from his           
place, and youth became impatient. My friend, who knew that his days         
were numbered, and was bound by no intimate relation to his                  
superior, sometimes gave free expression to his impatience. As this          
superior was a man seriously ill, the wish to see him removed by             
promotion was susceptible of an obnoxious secondary interpretation.          
Several years earlier, to be sure, I myself had cherished, even more         
intensely, the same wish- to obtain a post which had fallen vacant;          
wherever there are gradations of rank and promotion the way is               
opened for the suppression of covetous wishes. Shakespeare's Prince          
Hal cannot rid himself of the temptation to see how the crown fits,          
even at the bedside of his sick father. But, as may readily be               
understood, the dream inflicts this inconsiderate wish not upon me,          
but upon my friend. *(2)                                                     
-                                                                            
  * Make room for me.                                                        
  *(2) It will have been obvious that the name Josef plays a great           
part in my dreams (see the dream about my uncle). It is particularly         
easy for me to hide my ego in my dreams behind persons of this name,         
since Joseph was the name of the dream-interpreter in the Bible.             
-                                                                            
  "As he was ambitious, I slew him." As he could not expect that the         
other man would make way for him, the man himself has been put out           
of the way. I harbour these thoughts immediately after attending the         
unveiling of the memorial to the other man at the University. Part           
of the satisfaction which I feel in the dream may therefore be               
interpreted: A just punishment; it serves you right.                         
  At the funeral of this friend a young man made the following remark,       
which seemed rather out of place: "The preacher talked as though the         
world could no longer exist without this one human being." Here was          
a stirring of revolt in the heart of a sincere man, whose grief had          
been disturbed by exaggeration. But with this speech are connected the       
dream-thoughts: "No one is really irreplaceable; how many men have I         
already escorted to the grave! But I am still alive; I have survived         
them all; I claim the field." Such a thought, at the moment when I           
fear that if I make a journey to see him I shall find my friend no           
longer among the living, permits only of the further development             
that I am glad once more to have survived someone; that it is not I          
who have died but he; that I am master of the field, as once I was           
in the imagined scene of my childhood. This satisfaction, infantile in       
origin, at the fact that I am master of the field, covers the                
greater part of the affect which appears in the dream. I am glad             
that I am the survivor; I express this sentiment with the naive egoism       
of the husband who says to his wife: "If one of us dies, I shall             
move to Paris." My expectation takes it as a matter of course that I         
am not the one to die.                                                       
  It cannot be denied that great self-control is needed to interpret         
one's dreams and to report them. One has to reveal oneself as the sole       
villain among all the noble souls with whom one shares the breath of         
life. Thus, I find it quite comprehensible that revenants should exist       
only as long as one wants them, and that they can be obliterated by          
a wish. It was for this reason that my friend Josef was punished.            
But the revenants are the successive incarnations of the friend of           
my childhood; I am also gratified at having replaced this person for         
myself over and over again, and a substitute will doubtless soon be          
found even for the friend whom I am now on the point of losing. No one       
is irreplaceable.                                                            
  But what has the dream-censorship been doing in the meantime? Why          
does it not raise the most emphatic objection to a train of thoughts         
characterized by such brutal selfishness, and transform the                  
satisfaction inherent therein into extreme discomfort? I think it is         
because other unobjectionable trains of thought referring to the             
same persons result also in satisfaction, and with their affect              
cover that proceeding from the forbidden infantile sources. In another       
stratum of thought I said to myself, at the ceremony of unveiling            
the memorial: "I have lost so many dear friends, some through death,         
some through the dissolution of friendship; is it not good that              
substitutes have presented themselves, that I have gained a friend who       
means more to me than the others could, and whom I shall now always          
retain, at an age when it is not easy to form new friendships?" The          
gratification of having found this substitute for my lost friend can         
be taken over into the dream without interference, but behind it there       
sneaks in the hostile feeling of malicious gratification from the            
infantile source. Childish affection undoubtedly helps to reinforce          
the rational affection of today; but childish hatred also has found          
its way into the representation.                                             
  But besides this, there is in the dream a distinct reference to            
another train of thoughts which may result in gratification. Some time       
before this, after long waiting, a little daughter was born to my            
friend. I knew how he had grieved for the sister whom he had lost at         
an early age, and I wrote to him that I felt that he would transfer to       
this child the love he had felt for her, that this little girl would         
at last make him forget his irreparable loss.                                
  Thus this train also connects up with the intermediary thoughts of         
the latent dream-content, from which paths radiate in the most               
contrary directions: "No one is irreplaceable. See, here are only            
revenants; all those whom one has lost return." And now the bonds of         
association between the contradictory components of the dream-thoughts       
are more tightly drawn by the accidental circumstance that my friend's       
little daughter bears the same name as the girl playmate of my own           
youth, who was just my own age, and the sister of my oldest friend and       
antagonist. I heard the name Pauline with satisfaction, and in order         
to allude to this coincidence I replaced one Josef in the dream by           
another Josef, and found it impossible to suppress the identical             
initials in the name Fleischl and Fl. From this point a train of             
thought runs to the naming of my own children. I insisted that the           
names should not be chosen according to the fashion of the day, but          
should be determined by regard for the memory of those dear to us. The       
children's names make them revenants. And, finally, is not the               
procreation of children for all men the only way of access to                
immortality?                                                                 
  I shall add only a few observations as to the affects of dreams            
considered from another point of view. In the psyche of the sleeper an       
affective tendency- what we call a mood- may be contained as its             
dominating element, and may induce a corresponding mood in the               
dream. This mood may be the result of the experiences and thoughts           
of the day, or it may be of somatic origin; in either case it will           
be accompanied by the corresponding trains of thought. That this             
ideational content of the dream-thoughts should at one time                  
determine the affective tendency primarily, while at another time it         
is awakened in a secondary manner by the somatically determined              
emotional disposition, is indifferent for the purposes of                    
dream-formation. This is always subject to the restriction that it can       
represent only a wish-fulfilment, and that it may lend its psychic           
energy to the wish alone. The mood actually present will receive the         
same treatment as the sensation which actually emerges during sleep          
(Cf. chapter V., C), which is either neglected or reinterpreted in the       
sense of a wish-fulfilment. Painful moods during sleep become the            
motive force of the dream, inasmuch as they awake energetic wishes           
which the dream has to fulfil. The material in which they inhere is          
elaborated until it is serviceable for the expression of the                 
wish-fulfilment. The more intense and the more dominating the                
element of the painful mood in the dream-thoughts, the more surely           
will the most strongly suppressed wish-impulses take advantage of            
the opportunity to secure representation; for thanks to the actual           
existence of discomfort, which otherwise they would have to create,          
they find that the more difficult part of the work necessary to ensure       
representation has already been accomplished; and with these                 
observations we touch once more upon the problem of anxiety-dreams,          
which will prove to be the boundary-case of dream-activity.                  
                                                                             
VI|I                                                                         
                     I. The Secondary Elaboration                            
-                                                                            
  We will at last turn our attention to the fourth of the factors            
participating in dream-formation.                                            
  If we continue our investigation of the dream-content on the lines         
already laid down- that is, by examining the origin in the                   
dream-thoughts of conspicuous occurrences- we come upon elements             
that can be explained only by making an entirely new assumption. I           
have in mind cases where one manifests astonishment, anger, or               
resistance in a dream, and that, too, in respect of part of the              
dream-content itself. Most of these impulses of criticism in dreams          
are not directed against the dream-content, but prove to be part of          
the dream-material, taken over and fittingly applied, as I have              
already shown by suitable examples. There are, however, criticisms           
of this sort which are not so derived: their correlatives cannot be          
found in the dream-material. What, for instance, is meant by the             
criticism not infrequent in dreams: "After all, it's only a dream"?          
This is a genuine criticism of the dream, such as I might make if I          
were awake, Not infrequently it is only the prelude to waking; even          
oftener it is preceded by a painful feeling, which subsides when the         
actuality of the dream-state has been affirmed. The thought: "After          
all, it's only a dream" in the dream itself has the same intention           
as it has on the stage on the lips of Offenbach's Belle Helene; it           
seeks to minimize what has just been experienced, and to secure              
indulgence for what is to follow. It serves to lull to sleep a certain       
mental agency which at the given moment has every occasion to rouse          
itself and forbid the continuation of the dream, or the scene. But           
it is more convenient to go on sleeping and to tolerate the dream,           
"because, after all, it's only a dream." I imagine that the                  
disparaging criticism: "After all, it's only a dream," appears in            
the dream at the moment when the censorship. which is never quite            
asleep, feels that it has been surprised by the already admitted             
dream. It is too late to suppress the dream, and the agency                  
therefore meets with this remark the anxiety or painful emotion              
which rises into the dream. It is an expression of the esprit                
d'escalier on the part of the psychic censorship.                            
  In this example we have incontestable proof that everything which          
the dream contains does not come from the dream-thoughts, but that a         
psychic function, which cannot be differentiated from our waking             
thoughts, may make contributions to the dream-content. The question          
arises, does this occur only in exceptional cases, or does the psychic       
agency, which is otherwise active only as the censorship, play a             
constant part in dream-formation?                                            
  One must decide unhesitatingly for the latter view. It is                  
indisputable that the censoring agency, whose influence we have so far       
recognized only in the restrictions of and omissions in the                  
dream-content, is likewise responsible for interpolations in and             
amplifications of this content. Often these interpolations are readily       
recognized; they are introduced with hesitation, prefaced by an "as          
if"; they have no special vitality of their own, and are constantly          
inserted at points where they may serve to connect two portions of the       
dream-content or create a continuity between two sections of the             
dream. They manifest less ability to adhere in the memory than do            
the genuine products of the dream-material; if the dream is forgotten,       
they are forgotten first, and I strongly suspect that our frequent           
complaint that although we have dreamed so much we have forgotten most       
of the dream, and have remembered only fragments, is explained by            
the immediate falling away of just these cementing thoughts. In a            
complete analysis, these interpolations are often betrayed by the fact       
that no material is to be found for them in the dream-thoughts. But          
after careful examination I must describe this case as the less              
usual one; in most cases the interpolated thoughts can be traced to          
material in the dream-thoughts which can claim a place in the dream          
neither by its own merits nor by way of over-determination. Only in          
the most extreme cases does the psychic function in dream-formation          
which we are now considering rise to original creation; whenever             
possible it makes use of anything appropriate that it can find in            
the dream-material.                                                          
  What distinguishes this part of the dream-work, and also betrays it,       
is its tendency. This function proceeds in a manner which the poet           
maliciously attributes to the philosopher: with its rags and tatters         
it stops up the breaches in the structure of the dream. The result           
of its efforts is that the dream loses the appearance of absurdity and       
incoherence, and approaches the pattern of an intelligible experience.       
But the effort is not always crowned with complete success. Thus,            
dreams occur which may, upon superficial examination, seem faultlessly       
logical and correct; they start from a possible situation, continue it       
by means of consistent changes, and bring it- although this is rare-         
to a not unnatural conclusion. These dreams have been subjected to the       
most searching elaboration by a psychic function similar to our waking       
thought; they seem to have a meaning, but this meaning is very far           
removed from the real meaning of the dream. If we analyse them, we are       
convinced that the secondary elaboration has handled the material with       
the greatest freedom, and has retained as little as possible of its          
proper relations. These are the dreams which have, so to speak,              
already been once interpreted before we subject them to waking               
interpretation. In other dreams this tendencious elaboration has             
succeeded only up to a point; up to this point consistency seems to          
prevail, but then the dream becomes nonsensical or confused; but             
perhaps before it concludes it may once more rise to a semblance of          
rationality In yet other dreams the elaboration has failed completely;       
we find ourselves helpless, confronted with a senseless mass of              
fragmentary contents.                                                        
  I do not wish to deny to this fourth dream-forming power, which will       
soon become familiar to us- it is in reality the only one of the             
four dream-creating factors which is familiar to us in other                 
connections- I do not wish to deny to this fourth factor the faculty         
of creatively making new contributions to our dreams. But its                
influence is certainly exerted, like that of the other factors, mainly       
in the preference and selection of psychic material already formed           
in the dream-thoughts. Now there is a case where it is to a great            
extent spared the work of building, as it were, a facade to the              
dream by the fact that such a structure, only waiting to be used,            
already exists in the material of the dream-thoughts. I am                   
accustomed to describe the element of the dream-thoughts which I             
have in mind as phantasy; I shall perhaps avoid misunderstanding if          
I at once point to the day-dream as an analogy in waking life. * The         
part played by this element in our psychic life has not yet been fully       
recognized and revealed by psychiatrists; though M. Benedikt has, it         
seems to me, made a highly promising beginning. Yet the significance         
of the day-dream has not escaped the unerring insight of the poets; we       
are all familiar with the description of the day-dreams of one of            
his subordinate characters which Alphonse Daudet has given us in his         
Nabab. The study of the psychoneuroses discloses the astonishing             
fact that these phantasies or day-dreams are the immediate                   
predecessors of symptoms of hysteria- at least, of a great many of           
them; for hysterical symptoms are dependent not upon actual                  
memories, but upon the phantasies built up on a basis of memories. The       
frequent occurrence of conscious day-phantasies brings these                 
formations to our ken; but while some of these phantasies are                
conscious, there is a super-abundance of unconscious phantasies, which       
must perforce remain unconscious on account of their content and their       
origin in repressed material. A more thorough examination of the             
character of these day-phantasies shows with what good reason the same       
name has been given to these formations as to the products of                
nocturnal thought- dreams. They have essential features in common with       
nocturnal dreams; indeed, the investigation of day-dreams might really       
have afforded the shortest and best approach to the understanding of         
nocturnal dreams.                                                            
-                                                                            
  * Reve, petit roman = day-dream, story.                                    
-                                                                            
  Like dreams, they are wish-fulfilments; like dreams, they are              
largely based upon the impressions of childish experiences; like             
dreams, they obtain a certain indulgence from the censorship in              
respect of their creations. If we trace their formation, we become           
aware how the wish-motive which has been operative in their production       
has taken the material of which they are built, mixed it together,           
rearranged it, and fitted it together into a new whole. They bear very       
much the same relation to the childish memories to which they refer as       
many of the baroque palaces of Rome bear to the ancient ruins, whose         
hewn stones and columns have furnished the material for the structures       
built in the modern style.                                                   
  In the secondary elaboration of the dream-content which we have            
ascribed to our fourth dream-forming factor, we find once more the           
very same activity which is allowed to manifest itself, uninhibited by       
other influences, in the creation of day-dreams. We may say, without         
further preliminaries, that this fourth factor of ours seeks to              
construct something like a day-dream from the material which offers          
itself. But where such a day-dream has already been constructed in the       
context of the dream-thoughts, this factor of the dream-work will            
prefer to take possession of it, and contrive that it gets into the          
dream-content. There are dreams that consist merely of the                   
repetition of a day-phantasy, which has perhaps remained                     
unconscious- as, for instance, the boy's dream that he is riding in          
a war-chariot with the heroes of the Trojan war. In my Autodidasker          
dream the second part of the dream at least is the faithful repetition       
of a day-phantasy- harmless in itself- of my dealings with Professor         
N. The fact that the exciting phantasy forms only a part of the dream,       
or that only a part of it finds its way into the dream-content, is due       
to the complexity of the conditions which the dream must satisfy at          
its genesis. On the whole, the phantasy is treated like any other            
component of the latent material; but it is often still recognizable         
as a whole in the dream. In my dreams there are often parts which            
are brought into prominence by their producing a different                   
impression from that produced by the other parts. They seem to me to         
be in a state of flux, to be more coherent and at the same time more         
transient than other portions of the same dream. I know that these are       
unconscious phantasies which find their way into the context of the          
dream, but I have never yet succeeded in registering such a                  
phantasy. For the rest, these phantasies, like all the other component       
parts of the dream-thoughts, are jumbled together, condensed,                
superimposed, and so on; but we find all the transitional stages, from       
the case in which they may constitute the dream-content, or at least         
the dream-facade, unaltered, to the most contrary case, in which             
they are represented in the dream-content by only one of their               
elements, or by a remote allusion to such an element. The fate of            
the phantasies in the dream-thoughts is obviously determined by the          
advantages they can offer as against the claims of the censorship            
and the pressure of condensation.                                            
  In my choice of examples for dream-interpretation I have, as far           
as possible, avoided those dreams in which unconscious phantasies play       
a considerable part, because the introduction of this psychic                
element would have necessitated an extensive discussion of the               
psychology of unconscious thought. But even in this connection I             
cannot entirely avoid the phantasy, because it often finds its way           
into the dream complete, and still more often perceptibly glimmers           
through it. I might mention yet one more dream, which seems to be            
composed of two distinct and opposed phantasies, overlapping here            
and there, of which the first is superficial, while the second               
becomes, as it were, the interpretation of the first. *                      
-                                                                            
  * I have analysed an excellent example of a dream of this kind,            
having its origin in the stratification of several phantasies, in            
the Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria (Collected Papers,         
vol. III). I undervalued the significance of such phantasies for             
dream-formation as long as I was working principally on my own dreams,       
which were rarely based upon day-dreams but most frequently upon             
discussions and mental conflicts. With other persons it is often             
much easier to prove the complete analogy between the nocturnal              
dream and the day-dream. In hysterical patients an attack may often be       
replaced by a dream; it is then obvious that the day-dream phantasy is       
the first step for both these psychic formations.                            
-                                                                            
  The dream- it is the only one of which I possess no careful notes-         
is roughly to this effect: The dreamer- a young unmarried man- is            
sitting in his favourite inn, which is seen correctly; several persons       
come to fetch him, among them someone who wants to arrest him. He says       
to his table companions, "I will pay later, I am coming back." But           
they cry, smiling scornfully: "We know all about that; that's what           
everybody says." One guest calls after him: "There goes another              
one." He is then led to a small place where he finds a woman with a          
child in her arms. One of his escorts says: "This is Herr Muller." A         
commissioner or some other official is running through a bundle of           
tickets or papers, repeating Muller, Muller, Muller. At last the             
commissioner asks him a question, which he answers with a "Yes." He          
then takes a look at the woman, and notices that she has grown a large       
beard.                                                                       
  The two component parts are here easily separable. What is                 
superficial is the phantasy of being arrested; this seems to be              
newly created by the dream-work. But behind it the phantasy of               
marriage is visible, and this material, on the other hand, has been          
slightly modified by the dream-work, and the features which may be           
common to the two phantasies appear with special distinctness, as in         
Galton's composite photographs. The promise of the young man, who is         
at present a bachelor, to return to his place at his accustomed table-       
the scepticism of his drinking companions, made wise by their many           
experiences- their calling after him: "There goes (marries) another          
one"- are all features easily susceptible of the other interpretation,       
as is the affirmative answer given to the official. Running through          
a bundle of papers and repeating the same name corresponds to a              
subordinate but easily recognized feature of the marriage ceremony-          
the reading aloud of the congratulatory telegrams which have arrived         
at irregular intervals, and which, of course, are all addressed to the       
same name. In the personal appearance of the bride in this dream the         
marriage phantasy has even got the better of the arrest phantasy which       
screens it. The fact that this bride finally wears a beard I can             
explain from information received- I had no opportunity of making an         
analysis. The dreamer had, on the previous day, been crossing the            
street with a friend who was just as hostile to marriage as himself,         
and had called his friend's attention to a beautiful brunette who            
was coming towards them. The friend had remarked: "Yes, if only              
these women wouldn't get beards as they grow older, like their               
fathers."                                                                    
  Of course, even in this dream there is no lack of elements with            
which the dream-distortion has done deep work. Thus, the speech, "I          
will pay later," may have reference to the behaviour feared on the           
part of the father-in-law in the matter of a dowry. Obviously all            
sorts of misgivings are preventing the dreamer from surrendering             
himself with pleasure to the phantasy of marriage. One of these              
misgivings- at with marriage he might lose his freedom- has embodied         
itself in the transformation of a scene of arrest.                           
  If we once more return to the thesis that the dream-work prefers           
to make use of a ready-made phantasy, instead of first creating one          
from the material of the dream-thoughts, we shall perhaps be able to         
solve one of the most interesting problems of the dream. I have              
related the dream of Maury, who is struck on the back of the neck by a       
small board, and wakes after a long dream- a complete romance of the         
period of the French Revolution. Since the dream is produced in a            
coherent form, and completely fits the explanation of the waking             
stimulus, of whose occurrence the sleeper could have had no forboding,       
only one assumption seems possible, namely, that the whole richly            
elaborated dream must have been composed and dreamed in the short            
interval of time between the falling of the board on cervical                
vertebrae and the waking induced by the blow. We should not venture to       
ascribe such rapidity to the mental operations of the waking state, so       
that we have to admit that the dream-work has the privilege of a             
remarkable acceleration of its issue.                                        
  To this conclusion, which rapidly became popular, more recent              
authors (Le Lorrain, Egger, and others) have opposed emphatic                
objections; some of them doubt the correctness of Maury's record of          
the dream, some seek to show that the rapidity of our mental                 
operations in waking life is by no means inferior to that which we           
can, without reservation, ascribe to the mental operations in                
dreams. The discussion raises fundamental questions, which I do not          
think are at all near solution. But I must confess that Egger's              
objections, for example, to Maury's dream of the guillotine, do not          
impress me as convincing. I would suggest the following explanation of       
this dream: Is it so very improbable that Maury's dream may have             
represented a phantasy which had been preserved for years in his             
memory, in a completed state, and which was awakened- I should like to       
say, alluded to- at the moment when he became aware of the waking            
stimulus? The whole difficulty of composing so long a story, with            
all its details, in the exceedingly short space of time which is             
here at the dreamer's disposal then disappears; the story was                
already composed. If the board had struck Maury's neck when he was           
awake, there would perhaps have been time for the thought: "Why,             
that's just like being guillotined." But as he is struck by the              
board while asleep, the dream-work quickly utilizes the incoming             
stimulus for the construction of a wish-fulfilment, as if it thought         
(this is to be taken quite figuratively): "Here is a good                    
opportunity to realize the wish-phantasy which I formed at such and          
such a time while I was reading." It seems to me undeniable that             
this dream-romance is just such a one as a young man is wont to              
construct under the influence of exciting impressions. Who has not           
been fascinated- above all, a Frenchman and a student of the history         
of civilization- by descriptions of the Reign of Terror, in which            
the aristocracy, men and women, the flower of the nation, showed             
that it was possible to die with a light heart, and preserved their          
ready wit and the refinement of their manners up to the moment of            
the last fateful summons? How tempting to fancy oneself in the midst         
of all this, as one of these young men who take leave of their               
ladies with a kiss of the hand, and fearlessly ascend the scaffold! Or       
perhaps ambition was the ruling motive of the phantasy- the ambition         
to put oneself in the place of one of those powerful personalities           
who, by their sheer force of intellect and their fiery eloquence,            
ruled the city in which the heart of mankind was then beating so             
convulsively; who were impelled by their convictions to send thousands       
of human beings to their death, and were paving the way for the              
transformation of Europe; who, in the meantime, were not sure of their       
own heads, and might one day lay them under the knife of the                 
guillotine, perhaps in the role of a Girondist or the hero Danton? The       
detail preserved in the memory of the dream, accompanied by an               
enormous crowd, seems to show that Maury's phantasy was an ambitious         
one of just this character.                                                  
  But the phantasy prepared so long ago need not be experienced              
again in sleep; it is enough that it should be, so to speak,                 
"touched off." What I mean is this: If a few notes are struck, and           
someone says, as in Don Juan: "That is from The Marriage of Figaro           
by Mozart," memories suddenly surge up within me, none of which I            
can recall to consciousness a moment later. The phrase serves as a           
point of irruption from which a complete whole is simultaneously put         
into a condition of stimulation. It may well be the same in                  
unconscious thinking. Through the waking stimulus the psychic                
station is excited which gives access to the whole guillotine                
phantasy. This phantasy, however, is not run through in sleep, but           
only in the memory of the awakened sleeper. Upon waking, the sleeper         
remembers in detail the phantasy which was transferred as a whole into       
the dream. At the same time, he has no means of assuring himself             
that he is really remembering something which was dreamed. The same          
explanation- namely, that one is dealing with finished phantasies            
which have been evoked as wholes by the waking stimulus- may be              
applied to other dreams which are adapted to the waking stimulus-            
for example, to Napoleon's dream of a battle before the explosion of a       
bomb. Among the dreams collected by Justine Tobowolska in her                
dissertation on the apparent duration of time in dreams, * I think the       
most corroborative is that related by Macario (1857) as having been          
dreamed by a playwright, Casimir Bonjour. Bonjour intended one evening       
to witness the first performance of one of his own plays, but he was         
so tired that he dozed off in his chair behind the scenes just as            
the curtain was rising. In his sleep he went through all the five acts       
of his play, and observed all the various signs of emotion which             
were manifested by the audience during each individual scene. At the         
close of the performance, to his great satisfaction, he heard his name       
called out amidst the most lively manifestations of applause. Suddenly       
he woke. He could hardly believe his eyes or his ears; the performance       
had not gone beyond the first lines of the first scene; he could not         
have been asleep for more than two minutes. As for the dream, the            
running through the five acts of the play and the observing the              
attitude of the public towards each individual scene need not, we            
may venture to assert, have been something new, produced while the           
dreamer was asleep; it may have been a repetition of an already              
completed work of the phantasy. Tobowolska and other authors have            
emphasized a common characteristic of dreams that show an                    
accelerated flow of ideas: namely, that they seem to be especially           
coherent, and not at all like other dreams, and that the dreamer's           
memory of them is summary rather than detailed. But these are                
precisely the characteristics which would necessarily be exhibited           
by ready-made phantasies touched off by the dream-work- a conclusion         
which is not, of course, drawn by these authors. I do not mean to            
assert that all dreams due to a waking stimulus admit of this                
explanation, or that the problem of the accelerated flux of ideas in         
dreams is entirely disposed of in this manner.                               
-                                                                            
  * Justine Tobowolska, Etude sur les illusions de temps dans les            
reves du sommeil normal (1900) p. 53.                                        
-                                                                            
  And here we are forced to consider the relation of this secondary          
elaboration of the dream-content to the other factors of the                 
dream-work. May not the procedure perhaps be as follows? The                 
dream-forming factors, the efforts at condensation, the necessity of         
evading the censorship, and the regard for representability by the           
psychic means of the dream first of all create from the dream-material       
a provisional dream-content, which is subsequently modified until it         
satisfies as far as possible the exactions of a secondary agency.            
No, this is hardly probable. We must rather assume that the                  
requirements of this agency constitute from the very first one of            
the conditions which the dream must satisfy, and that this                   
condition, as well as the conditions of condensation, the opposing           
censorship, and representability, simultaneously influence, in an            
inductive and selective manner, the whole mass of material in the            
dream-thoughts. But of the four conditions necessary for                     
dream-formation, the last recognized is that whose exactions appear to       
be least binding upon the dream. The following consideration makes           
it seem very probable that this psychic function, which undertakes the       
so-called secondary elaboration of the dream-content, is identical           
with the work of our waking thought: Our waking (preconscious) thought       
behaves towards any given perceptual material precisely as the               
function in question behaves towards the dream-content. It is                
natural to our waking thought to create order in such material, to           
construct relations, and to subject it to the requirements of an             
intelligible coherence. Indeed, we go rather too far in this                 
respect; the tricks of conjurers befool us by taking advantage of this       
intellectual habit of ours. In the effort to combine in an                   
intelligible manner the sensory impressions which present themselves         
we often commit the most curious mistakes, and even distort the              
truth of the material before us. The proofs of this fact are so              
familiar that we need not give them further consideration here. We           
overlook errors which make nonsense of a printed page because we             
imagine the proper words. The editor of a widely read French journal         
is said to have made a bet that he could print the words from in front       
or from behind in every sentence of a long article without any of            
his readers noticing it. He won his bet. Years ago I came across a           
comical example of false association in a newspaper. After the session       
of the French Chamber in which Dupuy quelled the panic, caused by            
the explosion of a bomb thrown by an anarchist, with the courageous          
words, "La seance continue," * the visitors in the gallery were              
asked to testify as to their impressions of the outrage. Among them          
were two provincials. One of these said that immediately after the end       
of a speech he had heard a detonation, but that he had thought that it       
was the parliamentary custom to fire a shot whenever a speaker had           
finished. The other, who had apparently already listened to several          
speakers, had got hold of the same idea, but with this variation, that       
he supposed the shooting to be a sign of appreciation following a            
specially successful speech.                                                 
-                                                                            
  * The meeting will continue.                                               
-                                                                            
  Thus, the psychic agency which approaches the dream-content with the       
demand that it must be intelligible, which subjects it to a first            
interpretation, and in doing so leads to the complete misunderstanding       
of it, is none other than our normal thought. In our interpretation          
the rule will be, in every case, to disregard the apparent coherence         
of the dream as being of suspicious origin and, whether the elements         
are confused or clear, to follow the same regressive path to the             
dream-material.                                                              
  At the same time, we note those factors upon which the                     
above-mentioned (chapter VI., C) scale of quality in dreams- from            
confusion to clearness- is essentially independent. Those parts of the       
dream seem to us clear in which the secondary elaboration has been           
able to accomplish something; those seem confused where the powers           
of this performance have failed. Since the confused parts of the dream       
are often likewise those which are less vividly presented, we may            
conclude that the secondary dream-work is responsible also for a             
contribution to the plastic intensity of the individual                      
dream-structures.                                                            
  If I seek an object of comparison for the definitive formation of          
the dream, as it manifests itself with the assistance of normal              
thinking, I can think of none better than those mysterious                   
inscriptions with which Die Fliegende Blatter has so long amused its         
readers. In a certain sentence which, for the sake of contrast, is           
in dialect, and whose significance is as scurrilous as possible, the         
reader is led to expect a Latin inscription. For this purpose the            
letters of the words are taken out of their syllabic groupings, and          
are rearranged. Here and there a genuine Latin word results; at              
other points, on the assumption that letters have been obliterated           
by weathering, or omitted, we allow ourselves to be deluded about            
the significance of certain isolated and meaningless letters. If we do       
not wish to be fooled we must give up looking for an inscription, must       
take the letters as they stand, and combine them, disregarding their         
arrangement, into words of our mother tongue.                                
  The secondary elaboration is that factor of the dream-work which has       
been observed by most of the writers on dreams, and whose importance         
has been duly appreciated. Havelock Ellis gives an amusing allegorical       
description of its performances: "As a matter of fact, we might even         
imagine the sleeping consciousness as saying to itself: 'Here comes          
our master, Waking Consciousness, who attaches such mighty                   
importance to reason and logic and so forth. Quick! gather things            
up, put them in order- any order will do- before he enters to take           
possession.'" *                                                              
-                                                                            
  * The World of Dreams, pp. 10, 11 (London, 1911).                          
-                                                                            
  The identity of this mode of operation with that of waking thought         
is very clearly stated by Delacroix in his Sur la structure logique du       
reve (p. 526): "Cette fonction d'interpretation n'est pas particuliere       
au reve; c'est le meme travail de coordination logique que nous              
faisons sur nos sensations pendant la veille." *                             
-                                                                            
  * This function of interpretation is not particular to the dream; it       
is the same work of logical coordination that we use on our sensations       
when awake.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  J. Sully is of the same opinion; and so is Tobowolska: "Sur ces            
successions incoherentes d'hallucinations, l'esprit s'efforce de faire       
le meme travail de coordination logique qu'il fait pendant le veille         
sur les sensations. Il relie entre elles par un lien imaginaire toutes       
ces images decousues et bouche les ecarts trop grands qui se                 
trouvaient entre elles" * (p. 93).                                           
-                                                                            
  * With these series of incoherent halucinations, the mind must do          
the same work of logical coordination that it does with the sensations       
when awake. With a bon of imagination, it reunites all the                   
disconnected images, and fills in the gaps found which are too great.        
-                                                                            
  Some authors maintain that this ordering and interpreting activity         
begins even in the dream and is continued in the waking state. Thus          
Paulhan (p. 547): "Cependant j'ai souvent pense qu'il pouvait y              
avoir une certain deformation, ou plutot reformation du reve dans le         
souvenir.... La tendence systematisante de l'imagination pourrait fort       
bien achever apres le reveil ce qu'elle a ebauche pendant le                 
sommeil. De la sorte, la rapidite reelle de la pensee serait augmentee       
en apparence par les perfectionnements dus a l'imagination                   
eveillee." *                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * However, I have often thought that there might be a certain              
deformation, or rather reformation, of the dream when it is                  
recalled.... The systematizing tendency of the imagination can well          
finish, after waking, the sketch begun in sleep. In that way, the real       
speed of thought will be augmented in appearance by improvements due         
to the wakened imagination.                                                  
-                                                                            
  Leroy and Tobowolska (p. 502): "Dans le reve, au contraire,                
l'interpretation et la coordination se font non seulement a l'aide des       
donnees du reve, mais encore a l'aide de celles de la veille...." *          
-                                                                            
  * In the dream, on the contrary, the interpretation and coordination       
are made not only with the aid of what is given by the dream, but also       
with what is given by the wakened mind.                                      
-                                                                            
  It was therefore inevitable that this one recognized factor of             
dream-formation should be over-estimated, so that the whole process of       
creating the dream was attributed to it. This creative work was              
supposed to be accomplished at the moment of waking, as was assumed by       
Goblot, and with deeper conviction by Foucault, who attributed to            
waking thought the faculty of creating the dream out of the thoughts         
which emerged in sleep.                                                      
  In respect to this conception, Leroy and Tobowolska express                
themselves as follows: "On a cru pouvoir placer le reve au moment du         
reveil et ils ont attribue a la pensee de la veille la fonction de           
construire le reve avec les images presentes dans la pensee du               
sommeil." *                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * It was thought that the dream could be placed at the moment of           
waking, and they attributed to the waking thoughts the function of           
constructing the dream from the images present in the sleeping               
thoughts.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  To this estimate of the secondary elaboration I will add the one           
fresh contribution to the dream-work which has been indicated by the         
sensitive observations of H. Silberer. Silberer has caught the               
transformation of thoughts into images in flagranti, by forcing              
himself to accomplish intellectual work while in a state of fatigue          
and somnolence. The elaborated thought vanished, and in its place            
there appeared a vision which proved to be a substitute for- usually         
abstract- thoughts. In these experiments it so happened that the             
emerging image, which may be regarded as a dream-element,                    
represented something other than the thoughts which were waiting for         
elaboration: namely, the exhaustion itself, the difficulty or distress       
involved in this work; that is, the subjective state and the manner of       
functioning of the person exerting himself rather than the object of         
his exertions. Silberer called this case, which in him occurred              
quite often, the functional phenomenon, in contradistinction to the          
material phenomenon which he expected.                                       
  "For example: one afternoon I am lying, extremely sleepy, on my            
sofa, but I nevertheless force myself to consider a philosophical            
problem. I endeavour to compare the views of Kant and Schopenhauer           
concerning time. Owing to my somnolence I do not succeed in holding on       
to both trains of thought, which would have been necessary for the           
purposes of comparison. After several vain efforts, I once more              
exert all my will-power to formulate for myself the Kantian                  
deduction in order to apply it to Schopenhauer's statement of the            
problem. Thereupon, I directed my attention to the latter, but when          
I tried to return to Kant, I found that he had again escaped me, and I       
tried in vain to fetch him back. And now this fruitless endeavour to         
rediscover the Kantian documents mislaid somewhere in my head suddenly       
presented itself, my eyes being closed, as in a dream-image, in the          
form of a visible, plastic symbol: I demand information of a grumpy          
secretary, who, bent over a desk, does not allow my urgency to disturb       
him; half straightening himself, he gives me a look of angry                 
refusal." *                                                                  
-                                                                            
  * Jahrb., i, p. 514.                                                       
-                                                                            
  Other examples, which relate to the fluctuation between sleep and          
waking:                                                                      
  "Example No. 2. Conditions: Morning, while awaking. While to a             
certain extent asleep (crepuscular state), thinking over a previous          
dream, in a way repeating and finishing it, I feel myself drawing            
nearer to the waking state, yet I wish to remain in the crepuscular          
state.                                                                       
.."Scene: I am stepping with one foot over a stream, but I at once           
pull it back again and resolve to remain on this side." *                    
-                                                                            
  * Jahrb., iii, p. 625.                                                     
-                                                                            
  "Example No. 6. Conditions the same as in Example No. 4 (he wishes         
to remain in bed a little longer without oversleeping). I wish to            
indulge in a little longer sleep.                                            
.."Scene: I am saying good-bye to somebody, and I agree to meet him          
(or her) again before long."                                                 
  I will now proceed to summarize this long disquisition on the              
dream-work. We were confronted by the question whether in                    
dream-formation the psyche exerts all its faculties to their full            
extent, without inhibition, or only a fraction of them, which are            
restricted in their action. Our investigations lead us to reject             
such a statement of the problem as wholly inadequate in the                  
circumstances. But if, in our answer, we are to remain on the ground         
upon which the question forces us, we must assent to two conceptions         
which are apparently opposed and mutually exclusive. The psychic             
activity in dream-formation resolves itself into two achievements: the       
production of the dream-thoughts and the transformation of these             
into the dream-content. The dream-thoughts are perfectly accurate, and       
are formed with all the psychic profusion of which we are capable;           
they belong to the thoughts which have not become conscious, from            
which our conscious thoughts also result by means of a certain               
transposition. There is doubtless much in them that is worth                 
knowing, and also mysterious, but these problems have no particular          
relation to our dreams, and cannot claim to be treated under the             
head of dream-problems. * On the other hand, we have the process which       
changes the unconscious thoughts into the dream-content, which is            
peculiar to the dream-life and characteristic of it. Now, this               
peculiar dream-work is much farther removed from the pattern of waking       
thought than has been supposed by even the most decided depreciators         
of the psychic activity in dream-formation. It is not so much that           
it is more negligent, more incorrect, more forgetful, more                   
incomplete than waking thought; it is something altogether                   
different, qualitatively, from waking thought, and cannot therefore be       
compared with it. It does not think, calculate, or judge at all, but         
limits itself to the work of transformation. It may be exhaustively          
described if we do not lose sight of the conditions which its                
product must satisfy. This product, the dream, has above all to be           
withdrawn from the censorship, and to this end the dream-work makes          
use of the displacement of psychic intensities, even to the                  
transvaluation of all psychic values; thoughts must be exclusively           
or predominantly reproduced in the material of visual and acoustic           
memory-traces, and from this requirement there proceeds the regard           
of the dream-work for representability, which it satisfies by fresh          
displacements. Greater intensities have (probably) to be produced than       
are at the disposal of the night dream-thoughts, and this purpose is         
served by the extensive condensation to which the constituents of            
the dream-thoughts are subjected. Little attention is paid to the            
logical relations of the thought-material; they ultimately find a            
veiled representation in the formal peculiarities of the dream. The          
affects of the dream-thoughts undergo slighter alterations than              
their conceptual content. As a rule, they are suppressed; where they         
are preserved, they are freed from the concepts and combined in              
accordance with their similarity. Only one part of the dream-work- the       
revision, variable in amount, which is effected by the partially             
wakened conscious thought- is at all consistent with the conception          
which the writers on the subject have endeavoured to extend to the           
whole performance of dream-formation.                                        
-                                                                            
  * Formerly I found it extraordinarily difficult to accustom my             
readers to the distinction between the manifest dream-content and            
the latent dream-thoughts. Over and over again arguments and                 
objections were adduced from the uninterpreted dream as it was               
retained in the memory, and the necessity of interpreting the dream          
was ignored. But now, when the analysts have at least become                 
reconciled to substituting for the manifest dream its meaning as found       
by interpretation, many of them are guilty of another mistake, to            
which they adhere just as stubbornly. They look for the essence of the       
dream in this latent content, and thereby overlook the distinction           
between latent dream-thoughts and the dream-work. The dream is               
fundamentally nothing more than a special form of our thinking,              
which is made possible by the conditions of the sleeping state. It           
is the dream-work which produces this form, and it alone is the              
essence of dreaming- the only explanation of its singularity. I say          
this in order to correct the reader's judgment of the notorious              
prospective tendency of dreams. That the dream should concern itself         
with efforts to perform the tasks with which our psychic life is             
confronted is no more remarkable than that our conscious waking life         
should so concern itself, and I will only add that this work may be          
done also in the preconscious, a fact already familiar to us.                
                                                                             
VII                                                                          
              VII. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE DREAM PROCESSES                     
-                                                                            
  AMONG the dreams which have been communicated to me by others, there       
is one which is at this point especially worthy of our attention. It         
was told me by a female patient who had heard it related in a                
lecture on dreams. Its original source is unknown to me. This dream          
evidently made a deep impression upon the lady, since she went so            
far as to imitate it, i.e., to repeat the elements of this dream in          
a dream of her own; in order, by this transference, to express her           
agreement with a certain point in the dream.                                 
  The preliminary conditions of this typical dream were as follows:          
A father had been watching day and night beside the sick-bed of his          
child. After the child died, he retired to rest in an adjoining              
room, but left the door ajar so that he could look from his room             
into the next, where the child's body lay surrounded by tall                 
candles. An old man, who had been installed as a watcher, sat beside         
the body, murmuring prayers. After sleeping for a few hours the father       
dreamed that the child was standing by his bed, clasping his arm and         
crying reproachfully: "Father, don't you see that I am burning?" The         
father woke up and noticed a bright light coming from the adjoining          
room. Rushing in, he found that the old man had fallen asleep, and the       
sheets and one arm of the beloved body were burnt by a fallen candle.        
  The meaning of this affecting dream is simple enough, and the              
explanation given by the lecturer, as my patient reported it, was            
correct. The bright light shining through the open door on to the            
sleeper's eyes gave him the impression which he would have received          
had he been awake: namely, that a fire had been started near the             
corpse by a falling candle. It is quite possible that he had taken           
into his sleep his anxiety lest the aged watcher should not be equal         
to his task.                                                                 
  We can find nothing to change in this interpretation; we can only          
add that the content of the dream must be overdetermined, and that the       
speech of the child must have consisted of phrases which it had              
uttered while still alive, and which were associated with important          
events for the father. Perhaps the complaint, "I am burning," was            
associated with the fever from which the child died, and "Father,            
don't you see?" to some other affective occurrence unknown to us.            
  Now, when we have come to recognize that the dream has meaning,            
and can be fitted into the context of psychic events, it may be              
surprising that a dream should have occurred in circumstances which          
called for such an immediate waking. We shall then note that even this       
dream is not lacking in a wish-fulfilment. The dead child behaves as         
though alive; he warns his father himself; he comes to his father's          
bed and clasps his arm, as he probably did in the recollection from          
which the dream obtained the first part of the child's speech. It            
was for the sake of this wish-fulfilment that the father slept a             
moment longer. The dream was given precedence over waking reflection         
because it was able to show the child still living. If the father            
had waked first, and had then drawn the conclusion which led him             
into the adjoining room, he would have shortened the child's life by         
this one moment.                                                             
  There can be no doubt about the peculiar features in this brief            
dream which engage our particular interest. So far, we have                  
endeavoured mainly to ascertain wherein the secret meaning of the            
dream consists, how it is to be discovered, and what means the               
dream-work uses to conceal it. In other words, our greatest interest         
has hitherto been centered on the problems of interpretation. Now,           
however, we encounter a dream which is easily explained, and the             
meaning of which is without disguise; we note that nevertheless this         
dream preserves the essential characteristics which conspicuously            
differentiate a dream from our waking thoughts, and this difference          
demands an explanation. It is only when we have disposed of all the          
problems of interpretation that we feel how incomplete is our                
psychology of dreams.                                                        
  But before we turn our attention to this new path of                       
investigation, let us stop and look back, and consider whether we have       
not overlooked something important on our way hither. For we must            
understand that the easy and comfortable part of our journey lies            
behind us. Hitherto, all the paths that we have followed have led,           
if I mistake not, to light, to explanation, and to full understanding;       
but from the moment when we seek to penetrate more deeply into the           
psychic processes in dreaming, all paths lead into darkness. It is           
quite impossible to explain the dream as a psychic process, for to           
explain means to trace back to the known, and as yet we have no              
psychological knowledge to which we can refer such explanatory               
fundamentals as may be inferred from the psychological investigation         
of dreams. On the contrary, we shall be compelled to advance a               
number of new assumptions, which do little more than conjecture the          
structure of the psychic apparatus and the play of the energies active       
in it; and we shall have to be careful not to go too far beyond the          
simplest logical construction, since otherwise its value will be             
doubtful. And even if we should be unerring in our inferences, and           
take cognizance of all the logical possibilities, we should still be         
in danger of arriving at a completely mistaken result, owing to the          
probable incompleteness of the preliminary statement of our elementary       
data. We shall not he able to arrive at any conclusions as to the            
structure and function of the psychic instrument from even the most          
careful investigation of dreams, or of any other isolated activity;          
or, at all events, we shall not be able to confirm our conclusions. To       
do this we shall have to collate such phenomena as the comparative           
study of a whole series of psychic activities proves to be reliably          
constant. So that the psychological assumptions which we base on the         
analysis of the dream-processes will have to mark time, as it were,          
until they can join up with the results of other investigations which,       
proceeding from another starting-point, will seek to penetrate to            
the heart of the same problem.                                               
                                                                             
VII|A                                                                        
                     A. The Forgetting of Dreams                             
-                                                                            
  I propose, then, that we shall first of all turn our attention to          
a subject which brings us to a hitherto disregarded objection, which         
threatens to undermine the very foundation of our efforts at                 
dream-interpretation. The objection has been made from more than one         
quarter that the dream which we wish to interpret is really unknown to       
us, or, to be more precise, that we have no guarantee that we know           
it as it really occurred.                                                    
  What we recollect of the dream, and what we subject to our methods         
of interpretation, is, in the first place, mutilated by the                  
unfaithfulness of our memory, which seems quite peculiarly incapable         
of retaining dreams, and which may have omitted precisely the most           
significant parts of their content. For when we try to consider our          
dreams attentively, we often have reason to complain that we have            
dreamed much than we remember; that unfortunately we know nothing more       
than this one fragment, and that our recollection of even this               
fragment seems to us strangely uncertain. Moreover, everything goes to       
prove that our memory reproduces the dream not only incompletely but         
also untruthfully, in a falsifying manner. As, on the one hand, we may       
doubt whether what we dreamed was really as disconnected as it is in         
our recollections, so on the other hand we may doubt whether a dream         
was really as coherent as our account of it; whether in our                  
attempted reproduction we have not filled in the gaps which really           
existed, or those which are due to forgetfulness, with new and               
arbitrarily chosen material; whether we have not embellished the             
dream, rounded it off and corrected it, so that any conclusion as to         
its real content becomes impossible. Indeed, one writer (Spitta) *           
surmises that all that is orderly and coherent is really first put           
into the dream during the attempt to recall it. Thus we are in               
danger of being deprived of the very object whose value we have              
undertaken to determine.                                                     
-                                                                            
  * Similar views are expressed by Foucault and Tannery.                     
-                                                                            
  In all our dream-interpretations we have hitherto ignored these            
warnings. On the contrary, indeed, we have found that the smallest,          
most insignificant, and most uncertain components of the dream-content       
invited interpretations no less emphatically than those which were           
distinctly and certainly contained in the dream. In the dream of             
Irma's injection we read: "I quickly called in Dr. M," and we                
assumed that even this small addendum would not have got into the            
dream if it had not been susceptible of a special derivation. In             
this way we arrived at the history of that unfortunate patient to            
whose bedside I quickly called my older colleague. In the seemingly          
absurd dream which treated the difference between fifty-one and              
fifty-six as a quantity negligible the number fifty-one was                  
mentioned repeatedly. Instead of regarding this as a matter of course,       
or a detail of indifferent value, we proceeded from this to a second         
train of thought in the latent dream-content, which led to the               
number fifty-one, and by following up this clue we arrived at the            
fears which proposed fifty-one years as the term of life in the              
sharpest opposition to a dominant train of thought which was                 
boastfully lavish of the years. In the dream Non vixit I found, as           
an insignificant interpolation, that I had at first overlooked the           
sentence: As P does not understand him, Fl asks me, etc. The                 
interpretation then coming to a standstill, I went back to these             
words, and I found through them the way to the infantile phantasy            
which appeared in the dream-thoughts as an intermediate point of             
junction. This came about by means of the poet's verses:                     
-                                                                            
              Selten habt ihr mich verstanden,                               
              Selten auch verstand ich Euch,                                 
              Nur wenn wir im Kot uns fanden                                 
              So verstanden wir uns gleich! *                                
-                                                                            
  * Seldom have you understood me,                                           
    Seldom have I understood you,                                            
    But when we found ourselves in the mire,                                 
    We at once understood each other!                                        
-                                                                            
  Every analysis will afford evidence of the fact that the most              
insignificant features of the dream are indispensable to                     
interpretation, and will show how the completion of the task is              
delayed if we postpone our examination of them. We have given equal          
attention, in the interpretation of dreams, to every nuance of               
verbal expression found in them; indeed, whenever we are confronted by       
a senseless or insufficient wording, as though we had failed to              
translate the dream into the proper version, we have respected even          
these defects of expression. In brief, what other writers have               
regarded as arbitrary improvisations, concocted hastily to avoid             
confusion, we have treated like a sacred text. This contradiction            
calls for explanation.                                                       
  It would appear, without doing any injustice to the writers in             
question, that the explanation is in our favour. From the standpoint         
of our newly-acquired insight into the origin of dreams, all                 
contradictions are completely reconciled. It is true that we distort         
the dream in our attempt to reproduce it; we once more find therein          
what we have called the secondary and often misunderstanding                 
elaboration of the dream by the agency of normal thinking. But this          
distortion is itself no more than a part of the elaboration to which         
the dream-thoughts are constantly subjected as a result of the               
dream-censorship. Other writers have here suspected or observed that         
part of the dream-distortion whose work is manifest; but for us this         
is of little consequence, as we know that a far more extensive work of       
distortion, not so easily apprehended, has already taken the dream for       
its object from among the hidden dream-thoughts. The only mistake of         
these writers consists in believing the modification effected in the         
dream by its recollection and verbal expression to be arbitrary,             
incapable of further solution, and consequently liable to lead us            
astray in our cognition of the dream. They underestimate the                 
determination of the dream in the psyche. Here there is nothing              
arbitrary. It can be shown that in all cases a second train of thought       
immediately takes over the determination of the elements which have          
been left undetermined by the first. For example, I wish quite               
arbitrarily to think of a number; but this is not possible; the number       
that occurs to me is definitely and necessarily determined by thoughts       
within me which may be quite foreign to my momentary purpose. * The          
modifications which the dream undergoes in its revision by the               
waking mind are just as little arbitrary. They preserve an associative       
connection with the content, whose place they take, and serve to             
show us the way to this content, which may itself be a substitute            
for yet another content.                                                     
-                                                                            
  * Cf. The Psycho-pathology of Everday Life.                                
-                                                                            
  In analysing the dreams of patients I impose the following test of         
this assertion, and never without success. If the first report of a          
dream seems not very comprehensible, I request the dreamer to repeat         
it. This he rarely does in the same words. But the passages in which         
the expression is modified are thereby made known to me as the weak          
points of the dream's disguise; they are what the embroidered emblem         
on Siegfried's raiment was to Hagen. These are the points from which         
the analysis may start. The narrator has been admonished by my               
announcement that I intend to take special pains to solve the dream,         
and immediately, obedient to the urge of resistance, he protects the         
weak points of the dream's disguise, replacing a treacherous                 
expression by a less relevant one. He thus calls my attention to the         
expressions which he has discarded. From the efforts made to guard           
against the solution of the dream, I can also draw conclusions about         
the care with which the raiment of the dream has been woven.                 
  The writers whom I have mentioned are, however, less justified             
when they attribute so much importance to the doubt with which our           
judgment approaches the relation of the dream. For this doubt is not         
intellectually warranted; our memory can give no guarantees, but             
nevertheless we are compelled to credit its statements far more              
frequently than is objectively justifiable. Doubt concerning the             
accurate reproduction of the dream, or of individual data of the             
dream, is only another offshoot of the dream-censorship, that is, of         
resistance to the emergence of the dream-thoughts into                       
consciousness. This resistance has not yet exhausted itself by the           
displacements and substitutions which it has effected, so that it            
still clings, in the form of doubt, to what has been allowed to              
emerge. We can recognize this doubt all the more readily in that it is       
careful never to attack the intensive elements of the dream, but             
only the weak and indistinct ones. But we already know that a                
transvaluation of all the psychic values has taken place between the         
dream-thoughts and the dream. The distortion has been made possible          
only by devaluation; it constantly manifests itself in this way and          
sometimes contents itself therewith. If doubt is added to the                
indistinctness of an element of the dream-content, we may, following         
this indication, recognize in this element a direct offshoot of one of       
the outlawed dream-thoughts. The state of affairs is like that               
obtaining after a great revolution in one of the republics of                
antiquity or the Renaissance. The once powerful, ruling families of          
the nobility are now banished; all high posts are filled by                  
upstarts; in the city itself only the poorer and most powerless              
citizens, or the remoter followers of the vanquished party, are              
tolerated. Even the latter do not enjoy the full rights of                   
citizenship. They are watched with suspicion. In our case, instead           
of suspicion we have doubt. I must insist, therefore, that in the            
analysis of a dream one must emancipate oneself from the whole scale         
of standards of reliability; and if there is the slightest possibility       
that this or that may have occurred in the dream, it should be treated       
as an absolute certainty. Until one has decided to reject all                
respect for appearances in tracing the dream-elements, the analysis          
will remain at a standstill. Disregard of the element concerned has          
the psychic effect, in the person analysed, that nothing in connection       
with the unwished ideas behind this element will occur to him. This          
effect is really not self-evident; it would be quite reasonable to           
say, "Whether this or that was contained in the dream I do not know          
for certain; but the following ideas happen to occur to me." But no          
one ever does say so; it is precisely the disturbing effect of doubt         
in the analysis that permits it to be unmasked as an offshoot and            
instrument of the psychic resistance. Psycho-analysis is justifiably         
suspicions. One of its rules runs: Whatever disturbs the progress of         
the work is a resistance. *                                                  
-                                                                            
  * This peremptory statement: "Whatever disturbs the progress of            
the work is a resistance" might easily be misunderstood. It has, of          
course, the significance merely of a technical rule, a warning for the       
analyst. It is not denied that during an analysis events may occur           
which cannot be ascribed to the intention of the person analysed.            
The patient's father may die in other ways than by being murdered by         
the patient, or a war may break out and interrupt the analysis. But          
despite the obvious exaggeration of the above statement there is still       
something new and useful in it. Even if the disturbing event is real         
and independent of the patient, the extent of the disturbing influence       
does often depend only on him, and the resistance reveals itself             
unmistakably in the ready and immoderate exploitation of such an             
opportunity.                                                                 
-                                                                            
  The forgetting of dreams, too, remains inexplicible until we seek to       
explain it by the power of the psychic censorship. The feeling that          
one has dreamed a great deal during the night and has retained only          
a little of it may have yet another meaning in a number of cases: it         
may perhaps mean that the dream-work has continued in a perceptible          
manner throughout the night, but has left behind it only one brief           
dream. There is, however, no possible doubt that a dream is                  
progressively forgotten on waking. One often forgets it in spite of          
a painful effort to recover it. I believe, however, that just as one         
generally overestimates the extent of this forgetting, so also one           
overestimates the lacunae in our knowledge of the dream due to the           
gaps occurring in it. All the dream-content that has been lost by            
forgetting can often be recovered by analysis; in a number of cases,         
at all events, it is possible to discover from a single remaining            
fragment, not the dream, of course- which, after all, is of no               
importance- but the whole of the dream-thoughts. It requires a greater       
expenditure of attention and self-suppression in the analysis; that is       
all; but it shows that the forgetting of the dream is not innocent           
of hostile intention. *                                                      
-                                                                            
  * As an example of the significance of doubt and uncertainty in a          
dream with a simultaneous shrinking of the dream-content to a single         
element, see my General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis the dream of         
the sceptical lady patient, p. 492 below, the analysis of which was          
successful, despite a short postponement.                                    
-                                                                            
  A convincing proof of the tendencious nature of dream-forgetting- of       
the fact that it serves the resistance- is obtained on analysis by           
investigating a preliminary stage of forgetting. * It often happens          
that, in the midst of an interpretation, an omitted fragment of the          
dream suddenly emerges which is described as having been previously          
forgotten. This part of the dream that has been wrested from                 
forgetfulness is always the most important part. It lies on the              
shortest path to the solution of the dream, and for that every               
reason it was most exposed to the resistance. Among the examples of          
dreams that I have included in the text of this treatise, it once            
happened that I had subsequently to interpolate a fragment of                
dream-content. The dream is a dream of travel, which revenges itself         
on two unamiable traveling companions; I have left it almost                 
entirely uninterpreted, as part of its content is obscene. The part          
omitted reads: "I said, referring to a book of Schiller's: 'It is            
from...' but corrected myself, as I realized my mistake: 'It is by...'       
Whereupon the man remarked to his sister, 'Yes, he said it                   
correctly.'" *(2)                                                            
-                                                                            
  * Concerning the intention of forgetting in general, see my The            
Psycho-pathology of Everyday Life.                                           
  *(2) Such corrections in the use of foreign languages are not rare         
in dreams, but they are usually attributed to foreigners. Maury (p.          
143), while he was studying English, once dreamed that he informed           
someone that he had called on him the day before in the following            
words: "I called for you yesterday." The other answered correctly:           
"You mean: I called on you yesterday."                                       
-                                                                            
  Self-correction in dreams, which to some writers seems so wonderful,       
does not really call for consideration. But I will draw from my own          
memory an instance typical of verbal errors in dreams. I was                 
nineteen years of age when I visited England for the first time, and I       
spent a day on the shore of the Irish Sea. Naturally enough, I               
amused myself by picking up the marine animals left on the beach by          
the tide, and I was just examining a starfish (the dream begins with         
Hollthurn- Holothurian) when a pretty little girl came up to me and          
asked me: "Is it a starfish? Is it alive?" I replied, "Yes, he is            
alive," but then felt ashamed of my mistake, and repeated the sentence       
correctly. For the grammatical mistake which I then made, the dream          
substitutes another which is quite common among German people. "Das          
Buch ist von Schiller" is not to be translated by "the book is               
from," but by "the book is by." That the dream-work accomplishes             
this substitution, because the word from, owing to its consonance with       
the German adjective fromm (pious, devout) makes a remarkable                
condensation possible, should no longer surprise us after all that           
we have heard of the intentions of the dream-work and its unscrupulous       
selection of means. But what relation has this harmless recollection         
of the seashore to my dream? It explains, by means of a very                 
innocent example, that I have used the word- the word denoting gender,       
or sex or the sexual (he)- in the wrong place. This is surely one of         
the keys to the solution of the dream. Those who have heard of the           
derivation of the book-title Matter and Motion (Moliere in Le Malade         
Imaginaire: La Matiere est-elle laudable?- A Motion of the bowels)           
will readily be able to supply the missing parts.                            
  Moreover, I can prove conclusively, by a demonstratio ad oculos,           
that the forgetting of the dream is in a large measure the work of the       
resistance. A patient tells me that he has dreamed, but that the dream       
has vanished without leaving a trace, as if nothing had happened. We         
set to work, however; I come upon a resistance which I explain to            
the patient; encouraging and urging him, I help him to become                
reconciled to some disagreeable thought; and I have hardly succeeded         
in doing so when he exclaims: "Now I can recall what I dreamed!" The         
same resistance which that day disturbed him in the work of                  
interpretation caused him also to forget the dream. By overcoming this       
resistance I have brought back the dream to his memory.                      
  In the same way the patient, having reached a certain part of the          
work, may recall a dream which occurred three, four, or more days ago,       
and which has hitherto remained in oblivion. *                               
-                                                                            
  * Ernest Jones describes an analogous case of frequent occurrence;         
during the analysis of one dream another dream of the same night is          
often recalled which until then was not merely forgotten, but was            
not even suspected.                                                          
-                                                                            
  Psycho-analytical experience has furnished us with yet another proof       
of the fact that the forgetting of dreams depends far more on the            
resistance than on the mutually alien character of the waking and            
sleeping states, as some writers have believed it to depend. It              
often happens to me, as well as to other analysts, and to patients           
under treatment, that we are waked from sleep by a dream, as we say,         
and that immediately thereafter, while in full possession of our             
mental faculties, we begin to interpret the dream. Often in such cases       
I have not rested until I have achieved a full understanding of the          
dream, and yet it has happened that after waking I have forgotten            
the interpretation-work as completely as I have forgotten the                
dream-content itself, though I have been aware that I have dreamed and       
that I had interpreted the dream. The dream has far more frequently          
taken the result of the interpretation with it into forgetfulness than       
the intellectual faculty has succeeded in retaining the dream in the         
memory. But between this work of interpretation and the waking               
thoughts there is not that psychic abyss by which other writers have         
sought to explain the forgetting of dreams. When Morton Prince objects       
to my explanation of the forgetting of dreams on the ground that it is       
only a special case of the amnesia of dissociated psychic states,            
and that the impossibility of applying my explanation of this                
special amnesia to other types of amnesia makes it valueless even            
for its immediate purpose, he reminds the reader that in all his             
descriptions of such dissociated states he has never attempted to            
discover the dynamic explanation underlying these phenomena. For had         
he done so, he would surely have discovered that repression (and the         
resistance produced thereby) is the cause not of these dissociations         
merely, but also of the amnesia of their psychic content.                    
  That dreams are as little forgotten as other psychic acts, that even       
in their power of impressing themselves on the memory they may               
fairly be compared with the other psychic performances, was proved           
to me by an experiment which I was able to make while preparing the          
manuscript of this book. I had preserved in my notes a great many            
dreams of my own which, for one reason or another, I could not               
interpret, or, at the time of dreaming them, could interpret only very       
imperfectly. In order to obtain material to illustrate my assertion, I       
attempted to interpret some of them a year or two later. In this             
attempt I was invariably successful; indeed, I may say that the              
interpretation was effected more easily after all this time than             
when the dreams were of recent occurrence. As a possible explanation         
of this fact, I would suggest that I had overcome many of the internal       
resistances which had disturbed me at the time of dreaming. In such          
subsequent interpretations I have compared the old yield of                  
dream-thoughts with the present result, which has usually been more          
abundant, and I have invariably found the old dream-thoughts unaltered       
among the present ones. However, I soon recovered from my surprise           
when I reflected that I had long been accustomed to interpret dreams         
of former years that had occasionally been related to me by my               
patients as though they had been dreams of the night before; by the          
same method, and with the same success. In the section on                    
anxiety-dreams I shall include two examples of such delayed                  
dream-interpretations. When I made this experiment for the first             
time I expected, not unreasonably, that dreams would behave in this          
connection merely like neurotic symptoms. For when I treat a                 
psychoneurotic for instance, an hysterical patient, by psychoanalysis,       
I am compelled to find explanations for the first symptoms of the            
malady, which have long since disappeared, as well as for those              
still existing symptoms which have brought the patient to me; and I          
find the former problem easier to solve than the more exigent one of         
today. In the Studies in Hysteria, * published as early as 1895, I was       
able to give the explanation of a first hysterical attack which the          
patient, a woman over forty years of age, had experienced in her             
fifteenth year. *(2)                                                         
-                                                                            
  * Studien uber Hysterie, Case II.                                          
  *(2) Dreams which have occurred during the first years of childhood,       
and which have sometimes been retained in the memory for decades             
with perfect sensorial freshness, are almost always of great                 
importance for the understanding of the development and the neurosis         
of the dreamer. The analysis of them protects the physician from             
errors and uncertainties which might confuse him even theoretically.         
-                                                                            
  I will now make a few rather unsystematic remarks relating to the          
interpretations of dreams, which will perhaps serve as a guide to            
the reader who wishes to test my assertions by the analysis of his own       
dreams.                                                                      
  He must not expect that it will be a simple and easy matter to             
interpret his own dreams. Even the observation of endoptic                   
phenomena, and other sensations which are commonly immune from               
attention, calls for practice, although this group of observations           
is not opposed by any psychic motive. It is very much more difficult         
to get hold of the unwished ideas. He who seeks to do so must fulfil         
the requirements laid down in this treatise, and while following the         
rules here given, he must endeavour to restrain all criticism, all           
preconceptions, and all affective or intellectual bias in himself            
during the work of analysis. He must be ever mindful of the precept          
which Claude Bernard held up to the experimenter in the                      
physiological laboratory: "Travailler comme une bete"- that is, he           
must be as enduring as an animal, and also as disinterested in the           
results of his work. He who will follow this advice will no longer           
find the task a difficult one. The interpretation of a dream cannot          
always be accomplished in one session; after following up a chain of         
associations you will often feel that your working capacity is               
exhausted; the dream will not tell you anything more that day; it is         
then best to break off, and to resume the work the following day.            
Another portion of the dream-content then solicits your attention, and       
you thus obtain access to a fresh stratum of the dream-thoughts. One         
might call this the fractional interpretation of dreams.                     
  It is most difficult to induce the beginner in                             
dream-interpretation to recognize the fact that his task is not              
finished when he is in possession of a complete interpretation of            
the dream which is both ingenious and coherent, and which gives              
particulars of all the elements of the dream-content. Besides this,          
another interpretation, an over-interpretation of the same dream,            
one which has escaped him, may be possible. It is really not easy to         
form an idea of the wealth of trains of unconscious thought striving         
for expression in our minds, or to credit the adroitness displayed           
by the dream-work in killing- so to speak- seven flies at one                
stroke, like the journeyman tailor in the fairy-tale, by means of            
its ambiguous modes of expression. The reader will constantly be             
inclined to reproach the author for a superfluous display of                 
ingenuity, but anyone who has had personal experience of                     
dream-interpretation will know better than to do so.                         
  On the other hand, I cannot accept the opinion, first expressed by         
H. Silberer, that every dream- or even that many dreams, and certain         
groups of dreams- calls for two different interpretations, between           
which there is even supposed to be a fixed relation. One of these,           
which Silberer calls the psycho-analytic interpretation, attributes to       
the dream any meaning you please, but in the main an infantile               
sexual one. The other, the more important interpretation, which he           
calls the anagogic interpretation, reveals the more serious and              
often profound thoughts which the dream-work has used as its material.       
Silberer does not prove this assertion by citing a number of dreams          
which he has analysed in these two directions. I am obliged to               
object to this opinion on the ground that it is contrary to facts. The       
majority of dreams require no over-interpretation, and are                   
especially insusceptible of an anagogic interpretation. The                  
influence of a tendency which seeks to veil the fundamental conditions       
of dream-formation and divert our interest from its instinctual              
roots is as evident in Silberer's theory as in other theoretical             
efforts of the last few years. In a number of cases I can confirm            
Silberer's assertions; but in these the analysis shows me that the           
dream-work was confronted with the task of transforming a series of          
highly abstract thoughts, incapable of direct representation, from           
waking life into a dream. The dream-work attempted to accomplish             
this task by seizing upon another thought-material which stood in            
loose and often allegorical relation to the abstract thoughts, and           
thereby diminished the difficulty of representing them. The abstract         
interpretation of a dream originating in this manner will be given           
by the dreamer immediately, but the correct interpretation of the            
substituted material can be obtained only by means of the familiar           
technique.                                                                   
  The question whether every dream can be interpreted is to be               
answered in the negative. One should not forget that in the work of          
interpretation one is opposed by the psychic forces that are                 
responsible for the distortion of the dream. Whether one can master          
the inner resistances by one's intellectual interest, one's capacity         
for self-control, one's psychological knowledge, and one's                   
experience in dream-interpretation depends on the relative strength of       
the opposing forces. It is always possible to make some progress;            
one can at all events go far enough to become convinced that a dream         
has meaning, and generally far enough to gain some idea of its               
meaning. It very often happens that a second dream enables us to             
confirm and continue the interpretation assumed for the first. A whole       
series of dreams, continuing for weeks or months, may have a common          
basis, and should therefore be interpreted as a continuity. In               
dreams that follow one another, we often observe that one dream              
takes as its central point something that is only alluded to in the          
periphery of the next dream, and conversely, so that even in their           
interpretations the two supplement each other. That different dreams         
of the same night are always to be treated, in the work of                   
interpretation, as a whole, I have already shown by examples.                
  In the best interpreted dreams we often have to leave one passage in       
obscurity because we observe during the interpretation that we have          
here a tangle of dream-thoughts which cannot be unravelled, and              
which furnishes no fresh contribution to the dream-content. This,            
then, is the keystone of the dream, the point at which it ascends into       
the unknown. For the dream-thoughts which we encounter during the            
interpretation commonly have no termination, but run in all directions       
into the net-like entanglement of our intellectual world. It is from         
some denser part of this fabric that the dream-wish then arises,             
like the mushroom from its mycelium.                                         
  Let us now return to the facts of dream-forgetting. So far, of             
course, we have failed to draw any important conclusion from them.           
When our waking life shows an unmistakable intention to forget the           
dream which has been formed during the night, either as a whole,             
immediately after waking, or little by little in the course of the           
day, and when we recognize as the chief factor in this process of            
forgetting the psychic resistance against the dream which has                
already done its best to oppose the dream at night, the question             
then arises: What actually has made the dream-formation possible             
against this resistance? Let us consider the most striking case, in          
which the waking life has thrust the dream aside as though it had            
never happened. If we take into consideration the play of the                
psychic forces, we are compelled to assert that the dream would              
never have come into existence had the resistance prevailed at night         
as it did by day. We conclude, then, that the resistance loses some          
part of its force during the night; we know that it has not been             
discontinued, as we have demonstrated its share in the formation of          
dreams- namely, the work of distortion. We have therefore to                 
consider the possibility that at night the resistance is merely              
diminished, and that dream-formation becomes possible because of             
this slackening of the resistance; and we shall readily understand           
that as it regains its full power on waking it immediately thrusts           
aside what it was forced to admit while it was feeble. Descriptive           
psychology teaches us that the chief determinant of dream-formation is       
the dormant state of the psyche; and we may now add the following            
explanation: The state of sleep makes dream-formation possible by            
reducing the endopsychic censorship.                                         
  We are certainly tempted to look upon this as the only possible            
conclusion to be drawn from the facts of dream-forgetting, and to            
develop from this conclusion further deductions as to the                    
comparative energy operative in the sleeping and waking states. But we       
shall stop here for the present. When we have penetrated a little            
farther into the psychology of dreams we shall find that the origin of       
dream-formation may be differently conceived. The resistance which           
tends to prevent the dream-thoughts from becoming conscious may              
perhaps be evaded without suffering reduction. It is also plausible          
that both the factors which favour dream-formation, the reduction as         
well as the evasion of the resistance, may be simultaneously made            
possible by the sleeping state. But we shall pause here, and resume          
the subject a little later.                                                  
  We must now consider another series of objections against our              
procedure in dream-interpretation. For we proceed by dropping all            
the directing ideas which at other times control reflection, directing       
our attention to a single element of the dream, noting the involuntary       
thoughts that associate themselves with this element. We then take           
up the next component of the dream-content, and repeat the operation         
with this; and, regardless of the direction taken by the thoughts,           
we allow ourselves to be led onwards by them, rambling from one              
subject to another. At the same time, we harbour the confident hope          
that we may in the end, and without intervention on our part, come           
upon the dream-thoughts from which the dream originated. To this the         
critic may make the following objection: That we arrive somewhere if         
we start from a single element of the dream is not remarkable.               
Something can be associatively connected with every idea. The only           
thing that is remarkable is that one should succeed in hitting upon          
the dream-thoughts in this arbitrary and aimless excursion. It is            
probably a self-deception; the investigator follows the chain of             
associations from the one element which is taken up until he finds the       
chain breaking off, whereupon he takes up a second element; it is thus       
only natural that the originally unconfined associations should now          
become narrowed down. He has the former chain of associations still in       
mind, and will therefore in the analysis of the second dream-idea            
hit all the more readily upon single associations which have something       
in common with the associations of the first chain. He then imagines         
that he has found a thought which represents a point of junction             
between two of the dream-elements. As he allows himself all possible         
freedom of thought-connection, excepting only the transitions from one       
idea to another which occur in normal thinking, it is not difficult          
for him finally to concoct out of a series of intermediary thoughts,         
something which he calls the dream-thoughts; and without any                 
guarantee, since they are otherwise unknown, he palms these off as the       
psychic equivalent of the dream. But all this is a purely arbitrary          
procedure, an ingenious-looking exploitation of chance, and anyone who       
will go to this useless trouble can in this way work out any desired         
interpretation for any dream whatever.                                       
  If such objections are really advanced against us, we may in defence       
refer to the impression produced by our dream-interpretations, the           
surprising connections with other dream-elements which appear while we       
are following up the individual ideas, and the improbability that            
anything which so perfectly covers and explains the dream as do our          
dream-interpretations could be achieved otherwise than by following          
previously established psychic connections. We might also point to the       
fact that the procedure in dream-interpretation is identical with            
the procedure followed in the resolution of hysterical symptoms, where       
 
the correctness of the method is attested by the emergence and               
disappearance of the symptoms- that is, where the interpretation of          
the text is confirmed by the interpolated illustrations. But we have         
no reason to avoid this problem- namely, how one can arrive at a             
pre-existent aim by following an arbitrarily and aimlessly                   
maundering chain of thoughts- since we shall be able not to solve            
the problem, it is true, but to get rid of it entirely.                      
  For it is demonstrably incorrect to state that we abandon                  
ourselves to an aimless excursion of thought when, as in the                 
interpretation of dreams, we renounce reflection and allow the               
involuntary ideas to come to the surface. It can be shown that we            
are able to reject only those directing ideas which are known to us,         
and that with the cessation of these the unknown- or, as we                  
inexactly say, unconscious- directing ideas immediately exert their          
influence, and henceforth determine the flow of the involuntary ideas.       
Thinking without directing ideas cannot be ensured by any influence we       
ourselves exert on our own psychic life; neither do I know of any            
state of psychic derangement in which such a mode of thought                 
establishes itself. * The psychiatrists have here far too                    
prematurely relinquished the idea of the solidity of the psychic             
structure. I know that an unregulated stream of thoughts, devoid of          
directing ideas, can occur as little in the realm of hysteria and            
paranoia as in the formation or solution of dreams. Perhaps it does          
not occur at all in the endogenous psychic affections, and,                  
according to the ingenious hypothesis of Lauret, even the deliria            
observed in confused psychic states have meaning and are                     
incomprehensible to us only because of omissions. I have had the             
same conviction whenever I have had an opportunity of observing such         
states. The deliria are the work of a censorship which no longer makes       
any effort to conceal its sway, which, instead of lending its                
support to a revision that is no longer obnoxious to it, cancels             
regardlessly anything to which it objects, thus causing the remnant to       
appear disconnected. This censorship proceeds like the Russian               
censorship on the frontier, which allows only those foreign journals         
which have had certain passages blacked out to fall into the bands           
of the readers to be protected.                                              
-                                                                            
  * Only recently has my attention been called to the fact that Ed.          
von Hartmann took the same view with regard to this psychologically          
important point: Incidental to the discussion of the role of the             
unconscious in artistic creation (Philos. d. Unbew., Vol. i, Sect. B.,       
Chap. V) Eduard von Hartmann clearly enunciated the law of association       
of ideas which is directed by unconscious directing ideas, without           
however realizing the scope of this law. With him it was a question of       
demonstrating that "every combination of a sensuous idea when it is          
not left entirely to chance, but is directed to a definite end, is           
in need of help from the unconscious," and that the conscious interest       
in any particular thought-association is a stimulus for the                  
unconscious to discover from among the numberless possible ideas the         
one which corresponds to the directing idea. "It is the unconscious          
that selects, and appropriately, in accordance with the aims of the          
interest: and this holds true for the associations in abstract               
thinking (as sensible representations and artistic combinations as           
well as for flashes of wit)." Hence, a limiting of the association           
of ideas to ideas that evoke and are evoked in the sense of pure             
association-psychology is untenable. Such a restriction "would be            
justified only if there were states in human life in which man was           
free not only from any conscious purpose, but also from the domination       
or cooperation of any unconscious interest, any passing mood. But such       
a state hardly ever comes to pass, for even if one leaves one's              
train of thought seemingly altogether to chance, or if one                   
surrenders oneself entirely to the involuntary dreams of phantasy, yet       
always other leading interests, dominant feelings and moods prevail at       
one time rather than another, and these will always exert an influence       
on the association of ideas." (Philos. d. Unbew., IIe, Aufl. i.              
246). In semi-conscious dreams there always appear only such ideas           
as correspond to the (unconscious) momentary main interest. By               
rendering prominent the feelings and moods over the free                     
thought-series, the methodical procedure of psycho-analysis is               
thoroughly justified even from the standpoint of Hartmann's Psychology       
(N. E. Pohorilles, Internat. Zeitschrift. f. Ps. A., I, [1913], p.           
605). Du Prel concludes from the fact that a name which we vainly            
try to recall suddenly occurs to the mind that there is an unconscious       
but none the less purposeful thinking, whose result then appears in          
consciousness (Philos. d. Mystik, p. 107).                                   
-                                                                            
  The free play of ideas following any chain of associations may             
perhaps occur in cases of destructive organic affections of the brain.       
What, however, is taken to be such in the psychoneuroses may always be       
explained as the influence of the censorship on a series of thoughts         
which have been pushed into the foreground by the concealed                  
directing ideas. * It has been considered an unmistakable sign of free       
association unencumbered by directing ideas if the emerging ideas            
(or images) appear to be connected by means of the so-called                 
superficial associations- that is, by assonance, verbal ambiguity, and       
temporal coincidence, without inner relationship of meaning; in              
other words, if they are connected by all those associations which           
we allow ourselves to exploit in wit and playing upon words. This            
distinguishing mark holds good with associations which lead us from          
the elements of the dream-content to the intermediary thoughts, and          
from these to the dream-thoughts proper; in many analyses of dreams we       
have found surprising examples of this. In these no connection was too       
loose and no witticism too objectionable to serve as a bridge from one       
thought to another. But the correct understanding of such surprising         
tolerance is not far to seek. Whenever one psychic element is                
connected with another by an obnoxious and superficial association,          
there exists also a correct and more profound connection between the         
two, which succumbs to the resistance of the censorship.                     
-                                                                            
  * Jung has brilliantly corroborated this statement by analyses of          
dementia praecox. (Cf. The Psychology of Dementia Praecox,                   
translated by A. A. Brill. Monograph Series, [Journal of Nervous and         
Mental Diseases Publishing Co., New York].)                                  
-                                                                            
  The correct explanation for the predominance of the superficial            
associations is the pressure of the censorship, and not the                  
suppression of the directing ideas. Whenever the censorship renders          
the normal connective paths impassable, the superficial associations         
will replace the deeper ones in the representation. It is as though in       
a mountainous region a general interruption of traffic, for example an       
inundation, should render the broad highways impassable: traffic would       
then have to be maintained by steep and inconvenient tracks used at          
other times only by the hunter.                                              
  We can here distinguish two cases which, however, are essentially          
one. In the first case, the censorship is directed only against the          
connection of two thoughts which, being detached from one another,           
escape its opposition. The two thoughts then enter successively into         
consciousness; their connection remains concealed; but in its place          
there occurs to us a superficial connection between the two which            
would not otherwise have occurred to us, and which as a rule                 
connects with another angle of the conceptual complex instead of             
that from which the suppressed but essential connection proceeds.            
Or, in the second case, both thoughts, owing to their content, succumb       
to the censorship; both then appear not in their correct form but in a       
modified, substituted form; and both substituted thoughts are so             
selected as to represent, by a superficial association, the                  
essential relation which existed between those that they have                
replaced. Under the pressure of the censorship, the displacement of          
a normal and vital association by one superficial and apparently             
absurd has thus occurred in both cases.                                      
  Because we know of these displacements, we unhesitatingly rely             
upon even the superficial associations which occur in the course of          
dream-interpretation. *                                                      
-                                                                            
  * The same considerations naturally hold good of the case in which         
superficial associations are exposed in the dream-content, as, for           
example, in both the dreams reported by Maury (p. 50, pelerinage-            
pelletier- pelle, kilometer- kilograms- gilolo, Lobelia- Lopez-              
Lotto). I know from my work with neurotics what kind of reminiscence         
is prone to represent itself in this manner. It is the consultation of       
encyclopedias by which most people have satisfied their need of an           
explanation of the sexual mystery when obsessed by the curiosity of          
puberty.                                                                     
-                                                                            
  The psycho-analysis of neurotics makes abundant use of the two             
principles: that with the abandonment of the conscious directing ideas       
the control over the flow of ideas is transferred to the concealed           
directing ideas; and that superficial associations are only a                
displacement-substitute for suppressed and more profound ones. Indeed,       
psycho-analysis makes these two principles the foundation-stones of          
its technique. When I request a patient to dismiss all reflection, and       
to report to me whatever comes into his mind, I firmly cling to the          
assumption that he will not be able to drop the directing idea of            
the treatment, and I feel justified in concluding that what he               
reports, even though it may seem to be quite ingenuous and                   
arbitrary, has some connection with his morbid state. Another                
directing idea of which the patient has no suspicion is my own               
personality. The full appreciation, as well as the detailed proof of         
both these explanations, belongs to the description of the                   
psycho-analytic technique as a therapeutic method. We have here              
reached one of the junctions, so to speak, at which we purposely             
drop the subject of dream-interpretation. *                                  
-                                                                            
  * The above statements, which when written sounded very                    
improbable, have since been corroborated and applied experimentally by       
Jung and his pupils in the Diagnostiche Assoziationsstudien.                 
-                                                                            
  Of all the objections raised, only one is justified and still              
remains to be met; namely, that we ought not to ascribe all the              
associations of the interpretation-work to the nocturnal dream-work.         
By interpretation in the waking state we are actually opening a path         
running back from the dream-elements to the dream-thoughts. The              
dream-work has followed the contrary direction, and it is not at all         
probable that these paths are equally passable in opposite directions.       
On the contrary, it appears that during the day, by means of new             
thought-connections, we sink shafts that strike the intermediary             
thoughts and the dream-thoughts now in this place, now in that. We can       
see how the recent thought-material of the day forces its way into the       
interpretation-series, and how the additional resistance which has           
appeared since the night probably compels it to make new and further         
detours. But the number and form of the collaterals which we thus            
contrive during the day are, psychologically speaking, indifferent, so       
long as they point the way to the dream-thoughts which we are seeking.       
                                                                             
VII|B                                                                        
                            B. Regression                                    
-                                                                            
  Now that we have defended ourselves against the objections raised,         
or have at least indicated our weapons of defence, we must no longer         
delay entering upon the psychological investigations for which we have       
so long been preparing. Let us summarize the main results of our             
recent investigations: The dream is a psychic act full of import;            
its motive power is invariably a wish craving fulfilment; the fact           
that it is unrecognizable as a wish, and its many peculiarities and          
absurdities, are due to the influence of the psychic censorship to           
which it has been subjected during its formation. Besides the                
necessity of evading the censorship, the following factors have played       
a part in its formation: first, a need for condensing the psychic            
material; second, regard for representability in sensory images; and         
third (though not constantly), regard for a rational and                     
intelligible exterior of the dream-structure. From each of these             
propositions a path leads onward to psychological postulates and             
assumptions. Thus, the reciprocal relation of the wish-motives, and          
the four conditions. as well as the mutual relations of these                
conditions, must now be investigated; the dream must be inserted in          
the context of the psychic life.                                             
  At the beginning of this section we cited a certain dream in order         
that it might remind us of the problems that are still unsolved. The         
interpretation of this dream (of the burning child) presented no             
difficulties, although in the analytical sense it was not given in           
full. We asked ourselves why, after all, it was necessary that the           
father should dream instead of waking, and we recognized the wish to         
represent the child as living as a motive of the dream. That there was       
yet another wish operative in the dream we shall be able to show after       
further discussion. For the present, however, we may say that for            
the sake of the wish-fulfilment the thought-process of sleep was             
transformed into a dream.                                                    
  If the wish-fulfilment is cancelled out, only one characteristic           
remains which distinguishes the two kinds of psychic events. The             
dream-thought would have been: "I see a glimmer coming from the room         
in which the body is lying. Perhaps a candle has fallen over, and            
the child is burning!" The dream reproduces the result of this               
reflection unchanged, but represents it in a situation which exists in       
the present and is perceptible by the senses like an experience of the       
waking state. This, however, is the most common and the most                 
striking psychological characteristic of the dream; a thought, usually       
the one wished for, is objectified in the dream, and represented as          
a scene, or- as we think- experienced.                                       
  But how are we now to explain this characteristic peculiarity of the       
dream-work, or- to put it more modestly- how are we to bring it into         
relation with the psychic processes?                                         
  On closer examination, it is plainly evident that the manifest             
form of the dream is marked by two characteristics which are almost          
independent of each other. One is its representation as a present            
situation with the omission of perhaps; the other is the translation         
of the thought into visual images and speech.                                
  The transformation to which the dream-thoughts are subjected because       
the expectation is put into the present tense is, perhaps, in this           
particular dream not so very striking. This is probably due to the           
special and really subsidiary role of the wish-fulfilment in this            
dream. Let us take another dream, in which the dream-wish does not           
break away from the continuation of the waking thoughts in sleep;            
for example, the dream of Irma's injection. Here the dream-thought           
achieving representation is in the conditional: "If only Otto could be       
blamed for Irma's illness!" The dream suppresses the conditional,            
and replaces it by a simple present tense: "Yes, Otto is to blame            
for Irma's illness." This, then, is the first of the transformations         
which even the undistorted dream imposes on the dream-thoughts. But we       
will not linger over this first peculiarity of the dream. We dispose         
of it by a reference to the conscious phantasy, the day-dream, which         
behaves in a similar fashion with its conceptual content. When               
Daudet's M. Joyeuse wanders unemployed through the streets of Paris          
while his daughter is led to believe that he has a post and is sitting       
in his office, he dreams, in the present tense, of circumstances             
that might help him to obtain a recommendation and employment. The           
dream, then, employs the present tense in the same manner and with the       
same right as the day-dream. The present is the tense in which the           
wish is represented as fulfilled.                                            
  The second quality peculiar to the dream alone, as distinguished           
from the day-dream, is that the conceptual content is not thought, but       
is transformed into visual images, to which we give credence, and            
which we believe that we experience. Let us add. however, that not all       
dreams show this transformation of ideas into visual images. There are       
dreams which consist solely of thoughts, but we cannot on that account       
deny that they are substantially dreams. My dream Autodidasker- the          
day-phantasy about Professor N is of this character; it is almost as         
free of visual elements as though I had thought its content during the       
day. Moreover, every long dream contains elements which have not             
undergone this transformation into the visual, and which are simply          
thought or known as we are wont to think or know in our waking               
state. And we must here reflect that this transformation of ideas into       
visual images does not occur in dreams alone, but also in                    
hallucinations and visions, which may appear spontaneously in                
health, or as symptoms in the psychoneuroses. In brief, the relation         
which we are here investigating is by no means an exclusive one; the         
fact remains, however, that this characteristic of the dream, whenever       
it occurs, seems to be its most noteworthy characteristic, so that           
we cannot think of the dream-life without it. To understand it,              
however, requires a very exhaustive discussion.                              
  Among all the observations relating to the theory of dreams to be          
found in the literature of the subject, I should like to lay stress          
upon one as being particularly worthy of mention. The famous G. T.           
H. Fechner makes the conjecture, * in a discussion as to the nature of       
the dreams, that the dream is staged elsewhere than in the waking            
ideation. No other assumption enables us to comprehend the special           
peculiarities of the dream-life.                                             
-                                                                            
  * Psychophysik, Part. II, p. 520.                                          
-                                                                            
  The idea which is thus put before us is one of psychic locality.           
We shall wholly ignore the fact that the psychic apparatus concerned         
is known to us also as an anatomical preparation, and we shall               
carefully avoid the temptation to determine the psychic locality in          
any anatomical sense. We shall remain on psychological ground, and           
we shall do no more than accept the invitation to think of the               
instrument which serves the psychic activities much as we think of a         
compound microscope, a photographic camera, or other apparatus. The          
psychic locality, then, corresponds to a place within such an                
apparatus in which one of the preliminary phases of the image comes          
into existence. As is well known, there are in the microscope and            
the telescope such ideal localities or planes, in which no tangible          
portion of the apparatus is located. I think it superfluous to               
apologize for the imperfections of this and all similar figures. These       
comparisons are designed only to assist us in our attempt to make            
intelligible the complication of the psychic performance by dissecting       
it and referring the individual performances to the individual               
components of the apparatus. So far as I am aware, no attempt has            
yet been made to divine the construction of the psychic instrument           
by means of such dissection. I see no harm in such an attempt; I think       
that we should give free rein to our conjectures, provided we keep our       
heads and do not mistake the scaffolding for the building. Since for         
the first approach to any unknown subject we need the help only of           
auxiliary ideas, we shall prefer the crudest and most tangible               
hypothesis to all others.                                                    
  Accordingly, we conceive the psychic apparatus as a compound               
instrument, the component parts of which we shall call instances,            
or, for the sake of clearness, systems. We shall then anticipate             
that these systems may perhaps maintain a constant spatial orientation       
to one another, very much as do the different and successive systems         
of lenses of a telescope. Strictly speaking, there is no need to             
assume an actual spatial arrangement of the psychic system. It will be       
enough for our purpose if a definite sequence is established, so             
that in certain psychic events the system will be traversed by the           
excitation in a definite temporal order. This order may be different         
in the case of other processes; such a possibility is left open. For         
the sake of brevity, we shall henceforth speak of the component              
parts of the apparatus as Psi-systems.                                       
  The first thing that strikes us is the fact that the apparatus             
composed of Psi-systems has a direction. All our psychic activities          
proceed from (inner or outer) stimuli and terminate in innervations.         
We thus ascribe to the apparatus a sensory and a motor end; at the           
sensory end we find a system which receives the perceptions, ind at          
the motor end another which opens the sluices of motility. The psychic       
process generally runs from the perceptive end to the motor end. The         
most general scheme of the psychic apparatus has therefore the               
following appearance as shown in Fig. 1. (See illustration.)                 
But                                                                          
this is only in compliance with the requirement, long familiar to            
us, that the psychic apparatus must be constructed like a reflex             
apparatus. The reflex act remains the type of every psychic activity         
as well.                                                                     
  We now have reason to admit a first differentiation at the sensory         
end. The percepts that come to us leave in our psychic apparatus a           
trace, which we may call a memory-trace. The function related to             
this memory-trace we call the memory. If we hold seriously to our            
resolution to connect the psychic processes into systems, the                
memory-trace can consist only of lasting changes in the elements of          
the systems. But, as has already been shown elsewhere, obvious               
difficulties arise when one and the same system is faithfully to             
preserve changes in its elements and still to remain fresh and               
receptive in respect of new occasions of change. In accordance with          
the principle which is directing our attempt, we shall therefore             
ascribe these two functions to two different systems. We assume that         
an initial system of this apparatus receives the stimuli of perception       
but retains nothing of them- that is, it has no memory; and that             
behind this there lies a second system, which transforms the momentary       
excitation of the first into lasting traces. The following would             
then be the diagram of our psychic apparatus: (See                           
illustration.)                                                               
  We know that of the percepts which act upon the P-system, we               
retain permanently something else as well as the content itself. Our         
percepts prove also to be connected with one another in the memory,          
and this is especially so if they originally occurred                        
simultaneously. We call this the fact of association. It is now              
clear that, if the P-system is entirely lacking in memory, it                
certainly cannot preserve traces for the associations; the                   
individual P-elements would be intolerably hindered in their                 
functioning if a residue of a former connection should make its              
influence felt against a new perception. Hence we must rather assume         
that the memory-system is the basis of association. The fact of              
association, then, consists in this- that in consequence of a                
lessening of resistance and a smoothing of the ways from one of the          
mem-elements, the excitation transmits itself to a second rather             
than to a third mem-element.                                                 
  On further investigation we find it necessary to assume not one            
but many such mem-systems, in which the same excitation transmitted by       
the P-elements undergoes a diversified fixation. The first of these          
mem-systems will in any case contain the fixation of the association         
through simultaneity, while in those lying farther away the same             
material of excitation will be arranged according to other forms of          
combination; so that relationships of similarity, etc., might                
perhaps be represented by these later systems. It would, of course, be       
idle to attempt to express in words the psychic significance of such a       
system. Its characteristic would lie in the intimacy of its                  
relations to elements of raw material of memory- that is (if we wish         
to hint at a more comprehensive theory) in the gradations of the             
conductive resistance on the way to these elements.                          
  An observation of a general nature, which may possibly point to            
something of importance, may here be interpolated. The P-system, which       
possesses no capacity for preserving changes, and hence no memory,           
furnishes to consciousness the complexity and variety of the sensory         
qualities. Our memories, on the other hand, are unconscious in               
themselves; those that are most deeply impressed form no exception.          
They can be made conscious, but there is no doubt that they unfold all       
their activities in the unconscious state. What we term our                  
character is based, indeed, on the memory-traces of our impressions,         
and it is precisely those impressions that have affected us most             
strongly, those of our early youth, which hardly ever become                 
conscious. But when memories become conscious again they show no             
sensory quality, or a very negligible one in comparison with the             
perceptions. If, now, it can be confirmed that for consciousness             
memory and quality are mutually exclusive in the Psi-systems, we             
have gained a most promising insight into the determinations of the          
neuron excitations. *                                                        
-                                                                            
  * Since writing this, I have thought that consciousness occurs             
actually in the locality of the memory-trace.                                
-                                                                            
  What we have so far assumed concerning the composition of the              
psychic apparatus at the sensible end has been assumed regardless of         
dreams and of the psychological explanations which we have hitherto          
derived from them. Dreams, however, will serve as a source of evidence       
for our knowledge of another part of the apparatus. We have seen             
that it was impossible to explain dream-formation unless we ventured         
to assume two psychic instances, one of which subjected the activities       
of the other to criticism, the result of which was exclusion from            
consciousness.                                                               
  We have concluded that the criticizing instance maintains closer           
relations with the consciousness than the instance criticized. It            
stands between the latter and the consciousness like a screen.               
Further, we have found that there is reason to identify the                  
criticizing instance with that which directs our waking life and             
determines our voluntary conscious activities. If, in accordance             
with our assumptions, we now replace these instances by systems, the         
criticizing system will therefore be moved to the motor end. We now          
enter both systems in our diagram, expressing, by the names given            
them, their relation to consciousness. (See illustration.)                   
  The last of the systems at the motor end we call the preconscious          
(Pcs.) to denote that the exciting processes in this system can              
reach consciousness without any further detention, provided certain          
other conditions are fulfilled, e.g., the attainment of a definite           
degree of intensity, a certain apportionment of that function which we       
must call attention, etc. This is at the same time the system which          
holds the keys of voluntary motility. The system behind it we call the       
unconscious (Ucs), because it has no access to consciousness except          
through the preconscious, in the passage through which the                   
excitation-process must submit to certain changes. *                         
-                                                                            
  * The further elaboration of this linear diagram will have to reckon       
with the assumption that the system following the Pcs represents the         
one to which we must attribute consciousness (Cs), so that P = Cs.           
-                                                                            
  In which of these systems, then, do we localize the impetus to             
dream-formation? For the sake of simplicity, let us say in the               
system Ucs. We shall find, it is true, in subsequent discussions, that       
this is not altogether correct; that dream-formation is obliged to           
make connection with dream-thoughts which belong to the system of            
the preconscious. But we shall learn elsewhere, when we come to deal         
with the dream-wish, that the motive-power of the dream is furnished         
by the Ucs, and on account of this factor we shall assume the                
unconscious system as the starting-point for dream-formation. This           
dream-excitation, like all the other thought-structures, will now            
strive to continue itself in the Pcs, and thence to gain admission           
to the consciousness.                                                        
  Experience teaches us that the path leading through the preconscious       
to consciousness is closed to the dream-thoughts during the day by the       
resisting censorship. At night they gain admission to consciousness;         
the question arises: In what way and because of what changes? If             
this admission were rendered possible to the dream-thoughts by the           
weakening, during the night, of the resistance watching on the               
boundary between the unconscious and the preconscious, we should             
then have dreams in the material of our ideas, which would not display       
the hallucinatory character that interests us at present.                    
  The weakening of the censorship between the two systems, Ucs and           
Pcs, can explain to us only such dreams as the Autodidasker dream            
but not dreams like that of the burning child, which- as will be             
remembered- we stated as a problem at the outset in our present              
investigations.                                                              
  What takes place in the hallucinatory dream we can describe in no          
other way than by saying that the excitation follows a retrogressive         
course. It communicates itself not to the motor end of the                   
apparatus, but to the sensory end, and finally reaches the system of         
perception. If we call the direction which the psychic process follows       
from the unconscious into the waking state progressive, we may then          
speak of the dream as having a regressive character. *                       
-                                                                            
  * The first indication of the element of regression is already             
encountered in the writings of Albertus Magnus. According to him the         
imaginatio constructs the dream out of the tangible objects which it         
has retained. The process is the converse of that operating in the           
waking state. Hobbes states (Leviathan, ch. 2): "In sum our dreams are       
the reverse of our imagination, the motion, when we are awake,               
beginning at one end, and when we dream at another" (quoted by               
Havelock Ellis, loc. cit., p. 112).                                          
-                                                                            
  This regression is therefore assuredly one of the most important           
psychological peculiarities of the dream-process; but we must not            
forget that it is not characteristic of the dream alone. Intentional         
recollection and other component processes of our normal thinking            
likewise necessitate a retrogression in the psychic apparatus from           
some complex act of ideation to the raw material of the                      
memory-traces which underlie it. But during the waking state this            
turning backwards does not reach beyond the memory-images; it is             
incapable of producing the hallucinatory revival of the perceptual           
images. Why is it otherwise in dreams? When we spoke of the                  
condensation-work of the dream we could not avoid the assumption             
that by the dream-work the intensities adhering to the ideas are             
completely transferred from one to another. It is probably this              
modification of the usual psychic process which makes possible the           
cathexis * of the system of P to its full sensory vividness in the           
reverse direction to thinking.                                               
-                                                                            
  * From the Greek Kathexo, to occupy, used here in place of the             
author's term Besetzung, to signify a charge or investment of energy.-       
TR.                                                                          
-                                                                            
  I hope that we are not deluding ourselves as regards the                   
importance of this present discussion. We have done nothing more             
than give a name to an inexplicable phenomenon. We call it                   
regression if the idea in the dream is changed back into the visual          
image from which it once originated. But even this step requires             
justification. Why this definition if it does not teach us anything          
new? Well, I believe that the word regression is of service to us,           
inasmuch as it connects a fact familiar to us with the scheme of the         
psychic apparatus endowed with direction. At this point, and for the         
first time, we shall profit by the fact that we have constructed             
such a scheme. For with the help of this scheme we shall perceive,           
without further reflection, another peculiarity of dream-formation. If       
we look upon the dream as a process of regression within the                 
hypothetical psychic apparatus, we have at once an explanation of            
the empirically proven fact that all thought-relations of the                
dream-thoughts are either lost in the dream-work or have difficulty in       
achieving expression. According to our scheme, these thought-relations       
are contained not in the first mem-systems, but in those lying farther       
to the front, and in the regression to the perceptual images they must       
forfeit expression. In regression, the structure of the dream-thoughts       
breaks up into its raw material.                                             
  But what change renders possible this regression which is impossible       
during the day? Let us here be content with an assumption. There             
must evidently be changes in the cathexis of the individual systems,         
causing the latter to become more accessible or inaccessible to the          
discharge of the excitation; but in any such apparatus the same effect       
upon the course of the excitation might be produced by more than one         
kind of change. We naturally think of the. sleeping state, and of            
the many cathectic changes which this evokes at the sensory end of the       
apparatus. During the day there is a continuous stream flowing from          
the Psi-system of the P toward the motility end; this current ceases         
at night, and can no longer block the flow of the current of                 
excitation in the opposite direction. This would appear to be that           
seclusion from the outer world which, according to the theory of             
some writers, is supposed to explain the psychological character of          
the dream. In the explanation of the regression of the dream we shall,       
however, have to take into account those other regressions which occur       
during morbid waking states. In these other forms of regression the          
explanation just given plainly leaves us in the lurch. Regression            
occurs in spite of the uninterrupted sensory current in a                    
progressive direction.                                                       
  The hallucinations of hysteria and paranoia, as well as the                
visions of mentally normal persons, I would explain as                       
corresponding, in fact, to regressions, i.e., to thoughts                    
transformed into images; and would assert that only such thoughts            
undergo this transformation as are in intimate connection with               
suppressed memories, or with memories which have remained unconscious.       
As an example, I will cite the case of one of my youngest hysterical         
patients- a boy of twelve, who was prevented from falling asleep by          
"green faces with red eyes," which terrified him. The source of this         
manifestation was the suppressed, but once conscious memory of a boy         
whom he had often seen four years earlier, and who offered a warning         
example of many bad habits, including masturbation, for which he was         
now reproaching himself. At that time his mother had noticed that            
the complexion of this ill-mannered boy was greenish and that he had         
red (i.e., red-rimmed) eyes. Hence his terrifying vision, which merely       
determined his recollection of another saying of his mother's, to            
the effect that such boys become demented, are unable to learn               
anything at school, and are doomed to an early death. A part of this         
prediction came true in the case of my little patient; he could not          
get on at school, and, as appeared from his involuntary                      
associations, he was in terrible dread of the remainder of the               
prophecy. However, after a brief period of successful treatment his          
sleep was restored, his anxiety removed, and he finished his                 
scholastic year with an excellent record.                                    
  Here I may add the interpretation of a vision described to me by           
an hysterical woman of forty, as having occurred when she was in             
normal health. One morning she opened her eyes and saw her brother           
in the room, although she knew him to be confined in an insane asylum.       
Her little son was asleep by her side. Lest the child should be              
frightened on seeing his uncle, and fall into convulsions, she               
pulled the sheet over his face. This done, the phantom disappeared.          
This apparition was the revision of one of her childish memories,            
which, although conscious, was most intimately connected with all            
the unconscious material in her mind. Her nurserymaid had told her           
that her mother, who had died young (my patient was then only eighteen       
months old), had suffered from epileptic or hysterical convulsions,          
which dated back to a fright caused by her brother (the patient's            
uncle) who appeared to her disguised as a spectre with a sheet over          
his head. The vision contains the same elements as the reminiscence,         
viz., the appearance of the brother, the sheet, the fright, and its          
effect. These elements, however, are arranged in a fresh context,            
and are transferred to other persons. The obvious motive of the              
vision, and the thought which it replaced, was her solicitude lest her       
little son, who bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, should share       
the latter's fate.                                                           
  Both examples here cited are not entirely unrelated to the state           
of sleep, and may for that reason be unfitted to afford the evidence         
for the sake of which I have cited them. I will, therefore, refer to         
my analysis of an hallucinatory paranoic woman patient * and to the          
results of my hitherto unpublished studies on the psychology of the          
psychoneuroses, in order to emphasize the fact that in these cases           
of regressive thought-transformation one must not overlook the               
influence of a suppressed memory, or one that has remained                   
unconscious, this being usually of an infantile character. This memory       
draws into the regression, as it were, the thoughts with which it is         
connected, and which are kept from expression by the censorship-             
that is, into that form of representation in which the memory itself         
is psychically existent. And here I may add, as a result of my studies       
of hysteria, that if one succeeds in bringing to consciousness               
infantile scenes (whether they are recollections or phantasies) they         
appear as hallucinations, and are divested of this character only when       
they are communicated. It is known also that even in persons whose           
memories are not otherwise visual, the earliest infantile memories           
remain vividly visual until late in life.                                    
-                                                                            
  * Selected Papers on Hysteria, "Further Observations on the                
Defence-Neuro-Psychoses," p. 97 above.                                       
-                                                                            
  If, now, we bear in mind the part played in the dream-thoughts by          
the infantile experiences, or by the phantasies based upon them, and         
recollect how often fragments of these re-emerge in the dream-content,       
and how even the dream-wishes often proceed from them, we cannot             
deny the probability that in dreams, too, the transformation of              
thoughts into visual images may be the result of the attraction              
exercised by the visually represented memory, striving for                   
resuscitation, upon the thoughts severed from the consciousness and          
struggling for expression. Pursuing this conception. we may further          
describe the dream as the substitute for the infantile scene                 
modified by transference to recent material. The infantile scene             
cannot enforce its own revival, and must therefore be satisfied to           
return as a dream.                                                           
  This reference to the significance of the infantile scenes (or of          
their phantastic repetitions) as in a certain degree furnishing the          
pattern for the dream-content renders superfluous the assumption             
made by Scherner and his pupils concerning inner sources of stimuli.         
Scherner assumes a state of visual excitation, of internal                   
excitation in the organ of sight, when the dreams manifest a special         
vividness or an extraordinary abundance of visual elements. We need          
raise no objection to this assumption; we may perhaps content                
ourselves with assuming such a state of excitation only for the              
psychic perceptive system of the organ of vision; we shall, however,         
insist that this state of excitation is a reanimation by the memory of       
a former actual visual excitation. I cannot, from my own experience,         
give a good example showing such an influence of an infantile                
memory; my own dreams are altogether less rich in perceptual                 
elements than I imagine those of others to be; but in my most                
beautiful and most vivid dream of late years I can easily trace the          
hallucinatory distinctness of the dream-contents to the visual               
qualities of recently received impressions. In chapter VI., H, I             
mentioned a dream in which the dark blue of the water, the brown of          
the smoke issuing from the ship's funnels, and the sombre brown and          
red of the buildings which I saw made a profound and lasting                 
impression upon my mind. This dream, if any, must be attributed to           
visual excitation, but what was it that had brought my organ of vision       
into this excitable state? It was a recent impression which had joined       
itself to a series of former impressions. The colours I beheld were in       
the first place those of the toy blocks with which my children had           
erected a magnificent building for my admiration, on the day preceding       
the dream. There was the sombre red on the large blocks, the blue            
and brown on the small ones. Joined to these were the colour                 
impressions of my last journey in Italy: the beautiful blue of the           
Isonzo and the lagoons, the brown hue of the Alps. The beautiful             
colours seen in the dream were but a repetition of those seen in             
memory.                                                                      
  Let us summarize what we have learned about this peculiarity of            
dreams: their power of recasting their idea-content in visual                
images. We may not have explained this character of the dream-work           
by referring it to the known laws of psychology, but we have singled         
it out as pointing to unknown relations, and have given it the name of       
the regressive character. Wherever such regression has occurred, we          
have regarded it as an effect of the resistance which opposes the            
progress of thought on its normal way to consciousness, and of the           
simultaneous attraction exerted upon it by vivid memories. * The             
regression in dreams is perhaps facilitated by the cessation of the          
progressive stream flowing from the sense-organs during the day; for         
which auxiliary factor there must be some compensation, in the other         
forms of regression, by the strengthening of the other regressive            
motives. We must also bear in mind that in pathological cases of             
regression, just as in dreams, the process of energy-transference must       
be different from that occurring in the regressions of normal                
psychic life, since it renders possible a full hallucinatory                 
cathexis of the perceptive system. What we have described in the             
analysis of the dream-work as regard for representability may be             
referred to the selective attraction of visually remembered scenes           
touched by the dream-thoughts.                                               
-                                                                            
  * In a statement of the theory of repression it should be                  
explained that a thought passes into repression owing to the                 
co-operation of two of the factors which influence it. On the one side       
(the censorship of Cs) it is pushed, and from the other side (the Ucs)       
it is pulled, much as one is helped to the top of the Great Pyramid.         
(Compare the paper Repression, p. 422 below.)                                
-                                                                            
  As to the regression, we may further observe that it plays a no less       
important part in the theory of neurotic symptom-formation than in the       
theory of dreams. We may therefore distinguish a threefold species           
of regression: (a) a topical one, in the sense of the scheme of the          
Psi-systems here exponded; (b) a temporal one, in so far as it is a          
regression to older psychic formations; and (c) a formal one, when           
primitive modes of expression and representation take the place of the       
customary modes. These three forms of regression are, however,               
basically one, and in the majority of cases they coincide, for that          
which is older in point of time is at the same time formally primitive       
and, in the psychic topography, nearer to the perception-end.                
  We cannot leave the theme of regression in dreams without giving           
utterance to an impression which has already and repeatedly forced           
itself upon us, and which will return to us reinforced after a               
deeper study of the psychoneuroses: namely, that dreaming is on the          
whole an act of regression to the earliest relationships of the              
dreamer, a resuscitation of his childhood, of the impulses which             
were then dominant and the modes of expression which were then               
available. Behind this childhood of the individual we are then               
promised an insight into the phylogenetic childhood, into the                
evolution of the human race, of which the development of the                 
individual is only an abridged repetition influenced by the fortuitous       
circumstances of life. We begin to suspect that Friedrich Nietzsche          
was right when he said that in a dream "there persists a primordial          
part of humanity which we can no longer reach by a direct path," and         
we are encouraged to expect, from the analysis of dreams, a                  
knowledge of the archaic inheritance of man, a knowledge of                  
psychical things in him that are innate. It would seem that dreams and       
neuroses have preserved for us more of the psychical antiquities             
than we suspected; so that psycho-analysis may claim a high rank among       
those sciences which endeavour to reconstruct the oldest and darkest         
phases of the beginnings of mankind.                                         
  It is quite possible that we shall not find this first part of our         
psychological evaluation of dreams particularly satisfying. We must,         
however, console ourselves with the thought that we are, after all,          
compelled to build out into the dark. If we have not gone altogether         
astray, we shall surely reach approximately the same place from              
another starting-point, and then, perhaps, we shall be better able           
to find our bearings.                                                        
                                                                             
VII|C                                                                        
                        C. The Wish-Fulfilment                               
-                                                                            
  The dream of the burning child (cited above) affords us a welcome          
opportunity for appreciating the difficulties confronting the theory         
of wish-fulfilment. That a dream should be nothing but a                     
wish-fulfilment must undoubtedly seem strange to us all- and not             
only because of the contradiction offered by the anxiety-dream. Once         
our first analyses had given us the enlightenment that meaning and           
psychic value are concealed behind our dreams, we could hardly have          
expected so unitary a determination of this meaning. According to            
the correct but summary definition of Aristotle, the dream is a              
continuation of thinking in sleep. Now if, during the day, our               
thoughts perform such a diversity of psychic acts- judgments,                
conclusions, the answering of objections, expectations, intentions,          
etc.- why should they be forced at night to confine themselves to            
the production of wishes only? Are there not, on the contrary, many          
dreams that present an altogether different psychic act in dream-form-       
for example, anxious care- and is not the father's unusually                 
transparent dream of the burning child such a dream? From the gleam of       
light that falls upon his eyes while he is asleep the father draws the       
apprehensive conclusion that a candle has fallen over and may be             
burning the body; he transforms this conclusion into a dream by              
embodying it in an obvious situation enacted in the present tense.           
What part is played in this dream by the wish-fulfilment? And how            
can we possibly mistake the predominance of the thought continued from       
the waking state or evoked by the new sensory impression?                    
  All these considerations are justified, and force us to look more          
closely into the role of the wish-fulfilment in dreams, and the              
significance of the waking thoughts continued in sleep.                      
  It is precisely the wish-fulfilment that has already caused us to          
divide all dreams into two groups. We have found dreams which were           
plainly wish-fulfilments; and others in which the wish-fulfilment            
was unrecognizable and was often concealed by every available means.         
In this latter class of dreams we recognized the influence of the            
dream-censorship. The undisguised wish-dreams were found chiefly in          
children; short, frank wish-dreams seemed (I purposely emphasize             
this word) to occur also in adults.                                          
  We may now ask whence in each case does the wish that is realized in       
the dream originate? But to what opposition or to what diversity do we       
relate this whence? I think to the opposition between conscious              
daily life and an unconscious psychic activity which is able to make         
itself perceptible only at night. I thus, find a threefold possibility       
for the origin of a wish. Firstly, it may have been excited during the       
day, and owing to external circumstances may have remained                   
unsatisfied; there is thus left for the night an acknowledged and            
unsatisfied wish. Secondly, it may have emerged during the day, only         
to be rejected; there is thus left for the night an unsatisfied but          
suppressed wish. Thirdly, it may have no relation to daily life, but         
may belong to those wishes which awake only at night out of the              
suppressed material in us. If we turn to our scheme of the psychic           
apparatus, we can localize a wish of the first order in the system           
Pcs. We may assume that a wish of the second order has been forced           
back from the Pcs system into the Ucs system, where alone, if                
anywhere, can it maintain itself; as for the wish-impulse of the third       
order, we believe that it is wholly incapable of leaving the Ucs             
system. Now, have the wishes arising from these different sources            
the same value for the dream, the same power to incite a dream?              
  On surveying the dreams at our disposal with a view to answering           
this question, we are at once moved to add as a fourth source of the         
dream-wish the actual wish-impetus which arises during the night             
(for example, the stimulus of thirst, and sexual desire). It then            
seems to us probable that the source of the dream-wish does not affect       
its capacity to incite a dream. I have in mind the dream of the              
child who continued the voyage that had been interrupted during the          
day, and the other children's dreams cited in the same chapter; they         
are explained by an unfulfilled but unsuppressed wish of the                 
daytime. That wishes suppressed during the day assert themselves in          
dreams is shown by a great many examples. I will mention a very simple       
dream of this kind. A rather sarcastic lady, whose younger friend            
has become engaged to be married, is asked in the daytime by her             
acquaintances whether she knows her friend's fiance, and what she            
thinks of him. She replies with unqualified praise, imposing silence         
on her own judgment, although she would have liked to tell the               
truth, namely, that he is a commonplace fellow- one meets such by            
the dozen (Dutzendmensch). The following night she dreams that the           
same question is put to her, and that she replies with the formula:          
"In case of subsequent orders, it will suffice to mention the                
reference number." Finally, as the result of numerous analyses, we           
learn that the wish in all dreams that have been subject to distortion       
has its origin in the unconscious, and could not become perceptible by       
day. At first sight, then, it seems that in respect of dream-formation       
all wishes are of equal value and equal power.                               
  I cannot prove here that this is not really the true state of              
affairs, but I am strongly inclined to assume a stricter determination       
of the dream-wish. Children's dreams leave us in no doubt that a             
wish unfulfilled during the day may instigate a dream. But we must not       
forget that this is, after all, the wish of a child; that it is a            
wish-impulse of the strength peculiar to childhood. I very much              
doubt whether a wish unfulfilled in the daytime would suffice to             
create a dream in an adult. It would rather seem that, as we learn           
to control our instinctual life by intellection, we more and more            
renounce as unprofitable the formation or retention of such intense          
wishes as are natural to childhood. In this, indeed, there may be            
individual variations; some retain the infantile type of the psychic         
processes longer than others; just as we find such differences in            
the gradual decline of the originally vivid visual imagination. In           
general, however, I am of the opinion that unfulfilled wishes of the         
day are insufficient to produce a dream in adults. I will readily            
admit that the wish-impulses originating in consciousness contribute         
to the instigation of dreams, but they probably do no more. The              
dream would not occur if the preconscious wish were not reinforced           
from another source.                                                         
  That source is the unconscious. I believe that the conscious wish          
becomes effective in exciting a dream only when it succeeds in               
arousing a similar unconscious wish which reinforces it. From the            
indications obtained in the psychoanalysis of the neuroses, I                
believe that these unconscious wishes are always active and ready to         
express themselves whenever they find an opportunity of allying              
themselves with an impulse from consciousness, and transferring              
their own greater intensity to the lesser intensity of the latter. *         
It must, therefore, seem that the conscious wish alone has been              
realized in the dream; but a slight peculiarity in the form of the           
dream will put us on the track of the powerful ally from the                 
unconscious. These ever-active and, as it were, immortal wishes of our       
unconscious recall the legendary Titans who, from time immemorial,           
have been buried under the mountains which were once hurled upon             
them by the victorious gods, and even now quiver from time to time           
at the convulsions of their mighty limbs. These wishes, existing in          
repression, are themselves of infantile origin, as we learn from the         
psychological investigation of the neuroses. Let me, therefore, set          
aside the view previously expressed, that it matters little whence the       
dream-wish originates, and replace it by another, namely: the wish           
manifested in the dream must be an infantile wish. In the adult it           
originates in the Ucs, while in the child, in whom no division and           
censorship exist as yet between the Pcs and Ucs, or in whom these            
are only in process of formation, it is an unfulfilled and unrepressed       
wish from the waking state. I am aware that this conception cannot           
be generally demonstrated, but I maintain that it can often be               
demonstrated even where one would not have suspected it, and that it         
cannot be generally refuted.                                                 
-                                                                            
  * They share this character of indestructibility with all other            
psychic acts that are really unconscious- that is, with psychic acts         
belonging solely to the system Ucs. These paths are opened once and          
for all; they never fall into disease; they conduct the excitation           
process to discharge as often as they are charged again with                 
unconscious excitation. To speak metaphorically, they suffer no              
other form of annihilation than did the shades of the lower regions in       
the Odyssey, who awoke to new life the moment they drank blood. The          
processes depending on the preconscious system are destructible in           
quite another sense. The psychotherapy of the neuroses is based on           
this difference.                                                             
-                                                                            
  In dream-formation, the wish-impulses which are left over from the         
conscious waking life are, therefore, to be relegated to the                 
background. I cannot admit that they play any part except that               
attributed to the material of actual sensations during sleep in              
relation to the dream-content. If I now take into account those              
other psychic instigations left over from the waking life of the             
day, which are not wishes, I shall merely be adhering to the course          
mapped out for me by this line of thought. We may succeed in                 
provisionally disposing of the energetic cathexis of our waking              
thoughts by deciding to go to sleep. He is a good sleeper who can do         
this; Napoleon I is reputed to have been a model of this kind. But           
we do not always succeed in doing it, or in doing it completely.             
Unsolved problems, harassing cares, overwhelming impressions, continue       
the activity of our thought even during sleep, maintaining psychic           
processes in the system which we have termed the preconscious. The           
thought-impulses continued into sleep may be divided into the                
following groups:                                                            
-                                                                            
  1. Those which have not been completed during the day, owing to some       
accidental cause.                                                            
  2. Those which have been left uncompleted because our mental               
powers have failed us, i.e., unsolved problems.                              
  3. Those which have been turned back and suppressed during the             
day. This is reinforced by a powerful fourth group:                          
  4. Those which have been excited in our Ucs during the day by the          
workings of the Pcs; and finally we may add a fifth, consisting of:          
  5. The indifferent impressions of the day, which have therefore been       
left unsettled.                                                              
-                                                                            
  We need not underrate the psychic intensities introduced into              
sleep by these residues of the day's waking life, especially those           
emanating from the group of the unsolved issues. It is certain that          
these excitations continue to strive for expression during the               
night, and we may assume with equal certainty that the state of              
sleep renders impossible the usual continuance of the process of             
excitation in the preconscious and its termination in becoming               
conscious. In so far as we can become conscious of our mental                
processes in the ordinary way, even during the night, to that extent         
we are simply not asleep. I cannot say what change is produced in            
the Pcs system by the state of sleep, * but there is no doubt that the       
psychological characteristics of sleep are to be sought mainly in            
the cathectic changes occurring just in this system, which                   
dominates, moreover, the approach to motility, paralysed during sleep.       
On the other hand, I have found nothing in the psychology of dreams to       
warrant the assumption that sleep produces any but secondary changes         
in the conditions of the Ucs system. Hence, for the nocturnal                
excitations in the Pcs there remains no other path than that taken           
by the wish-excitations from the Ucs; they must seek reinforcement           
from the Ucs, and follow the detours of the unconscious excitations.         
But what is the relation of the preconscious day-residues to the             
dream? There is no doubt that they penetrate abundantly into the             
dream; that they utilize the dream-content to obtrude themselves             
upon consciousness even during the night; indeed, they sometimes             
even dominate the dream-content, and impel it to continue the work           
of the day; it is also certain that the day-residues may just as             
well have any other character as that of wishes. But it is highly            
instructive, and for the theory of wish-fulfilment of quite decisive         
importance, to see what conditions they must comply with in order to         
be received into the dream.                                                  
-                                                                            
  * I have endeavoured to penetrate farther into the relations of            
the sleeping state and the conditions of hallucination in my essay,          
"Metapsychological Supplement to the Theory of Dreams," Collected            
Papers, IV, p. 137.                                                          
-                                                                            
  Let us pick out one of the dreams cited above, e.g., the dream in          
which my friend Otto seems to show the symptoms of Basedow's disease         
(chapter V., D). Otto's appearance gave me some concern during the           
day, and this worry, like everything else relating to him, greatly           
affected me. I may assume that this concern followed me into sleep.          
I was probably bent on finding out what was the matter with him.             
During the night my concern found expression in the dream which I have       
recorded. Not only was its content senseless, but it failed to show          
any wish-fulfilment. But I began to search for the source of this            
incongruous expression of the solicitude felt during the day, and            
analysis revealed a connection. I identified my friend Otto with a           
certain Baron L and myself with a Professor R. There was only one            
explanation of my being impelled to select just this substitute for          
the day-thought. I must always have been ready in the Ucs to                 
identify myself with Professor R, as this meant the realization of one       
of the immortal infantile wishes, viz., the wish to become great.            
Repulsive ideas respecting my friend, ideas that would certainly             
have been repudiated in a waking state, took advantage of the                
opportunity to creep into the dream; but the worry of the day had            
likewise found some sort of expression by means of a substitute in the       
dream-content. The day-thought, which was in itself not a wish, but on       
the contrary a worry, had in some way to find a connection with some         
infantile wish, now unconscious and suppressed, which then allowed it-       
duly dressed up- to arise for consciousness. The more domineering            
the worry the more forced could be the connection to be established;         
between the content of the wish and that of the worry there need be no       
connection, nor was there one in our example.                                
  It would perhaps be appropriate, in dealing with this problem, to          
inquire how a dream behaves when material is offered to it in the            
dream-thoughts which flatly opposes a wish-fulfilment; such as               
justified worries, painful reflections and distressing realizations.         
The many possible results may be classified as follows: (a) The              
dream-work succeeds in replacing all painful ideas by contrary               
ideas. and suppressing the painful affect belonging to them. This,           
then, results in a pure and simple satisfaction-dream, a palpable            
wish-fulfilment, concerning which there is nothing more to be said.          
(b) The painful ideas find their way into the manifest                       
dream-content, more or less modified, but nevertheless quite                 
recognizable. This is the case which raises doughts about the                
wish-theory of dreams, and thus calls for further investigation.             
Such dreams with a painful content may either be indifferent in              
feeling, or they may convey the whole painful affect, which the              
ideas contained in them seem to justify, or they may even lead to            
the development of anxiety to the point of waking.                           
  Analysis then shows that even these painful dreams are                     
wish-fulfilments. An unconscious and repressed wish, whose                   
fulfilment could only be felt as painful by the dreamer's ego, has           
seized the opportunity offered by the continued cathexis of painful          
day-residues, has lent them its support, and has thus made them              
capable of being dreamed. But whereas in case (a) the unconscious wish       
coincided with the conscious one, in case (b) the discord between            
the unconscious and the conscious- the repressed material and the ego-       
is revealed, and the situation in the fairy-tale, of the three               
wishes which the fairy offers to the married couple, is realized             
(see p. 534 below). The gratification in respect of the fulfilment           
of the repressed wish may prove to be so great that it balances the          
painful affects adhering to the day-residues; the dream is then              
indifferent in its affective tone, although it is on the one hand            
the fulfilment of a wish, and on the other the fulfilment of a fear.         
Or it may happen that the sleeper's ego plays an even more extensive         
part in the dream-formation, that it reacts with violent resentment to       
the accomplished satisfaction of the repressed wish, and even goes           
so far as to make an end of the dream by means of anxiety. It is             
thus not difficult to recognize that dreams of pain and anxiety are,         
in accordance with our theory, just as much wish-fulfilments as are          
the straightforward dreams of gratification.                                 
  Painful dreams may also be punishment dreams. It must be admitted          
that the recognition of these dreams adds something that is, in a            
certain sense, new to the theory of dreams. What is fulfilled by             
them is once more an unconscious wish- the wish for the punishment           
of the dreamer for a repressed, prohibited wish-impulse. To this             
extent, these dreams comply with the requirement here laid down:             
that the motive-power behind the dream-formation must be furnished           
by a wish belonging to the unconscious. But a finer psychological            
dissection allows us to recognize the difference between this and            
the other wish-dreams. In the dreams of group (b) the unconscious            
dream-forming wish belonged to the repressed material. In the                
punishment-dreams it is likewise an unconscious wish, but one which we       
must attribute not to the repressed material but to the ego.                 
  Punishment-dreams point, therefore, to the possibility of a still          
more extensive participation of the ego in dream-formation. The              
mechanism of dream-formation becomes indeed in every way more                
transparent if in place of the antithesis conscious and unconscious,         
we put the antithesis: ego and repressed. This, however, cannot be           
done without taking into account what happens in the psychoneuroses,         
and for this reason it has not been done in this book. Here I need           
only remark that the occurrence of punishment-dreams is not                  
generally subject to the presence of painful day-residues. They              
originate, indeed, most readily if the contrary is true, if the              
thoughts which are day-residues are of a gratifying nature, but              
express illicit gratifications. Of these thoughts nothing, then, finds       
its way into the manifest dream except their contrary, just as was the       
case in the dreams of group (a). Thus it would be the essential              
characteristic of punishment-dreams that in them it is not the               
unconscious wish from the repressed material (from the system Ucs)           
that is responsible for dream-formation but the punitive wish reacting       
against it, a wish pertaining to the ego, even though it is                  
unconscious (i.e., preconscious). *                                          
-                                                                            
  * Here one may consider the idea of the super-ego which was later          
recognized by psycho-analysis.                                               
-                                                                            
  I will elucidate some of the foregoing observations by means of a          
dream of my own, and above all I will try to show how the dream-work         
deals with a day-residue involving painful expectation:                      
  Indistinct beginning. I tell my wife I have some news for her,             
something very special. She becomes frightened, and does not wish to         
hear it. I assure her that on the contrary it is something which             
will please her greatly, and I begin to tell her that our son's              
Officers' Corps has sent a sum of money (5,000 k.?)... something about       
honourable mention... distribution... at the same time I have gone           
with her into a sitting room, like a store-room, in order to fetch           
something from it. Suddenly I see my son appear; he is not in                
uniform but rather in a tight-fitting sports suit (like a seal?)             
with a small cap. He climbs on to a basket which stands to one side          
near a chest, in order to put something on this chest. I address             
him; no answer. It seems to me that his face or forehead is                  
bandaged, he arranges something in his mouth, pushing something into         
it. Also his hair shows a glint of grey. I reflect: Can he be so             
exhausted? And has he false teeth? Before I can address him again I          
awake without anxiety, but with palpitations. My clock points to             
2.30 a.m.                                                                    
  To give a full analysis is once more impossible. I shall therefore         
confine myself to emphasizing some decisive points. Painful                  
expectations of the day had given occasion for this dream; once              
again there had been no news for over a week from my son, who was            
fighting at the Front. It is easy to see that in the dream-content the       
conviction that he has been killed or wounded finds expression. At the       
beginning of the dream one can observe an energetic effort to                
replace the painful thoughts by their contrary. I have to impart             
something very pleasing, something about sending money, honourable           
mention, and distribution. (The sum of money originates in a                 
gratifying incident of my medical practice; it is therefore trying           
to lead the dream away altogether from its theme.) But this effort           
fails. The boy's mother has a presentiment of something terrible and         
does not wish to listen. The disguises are too thin; the reference           
to the material to be suppressed shows through everywhere. If my son         
is killed, then his comrades will send back his property; I shall have       
to distribute whatever he has left among his sisters, brothers and           
other people. Honourable mention is frequently awarded to an officer         
after he has died the "hero's death." The dream thus strives to give         
direct expression to what it at first wished to deny, whilst at the          
same time the wish-fulfilling tendency reveals itself by distortion.         
(The change of locality in the dream is no doubt to be understood as         
threshold symbolism, in line with Silberer's view.) We have indeed           
no idea what lends it the requisite motive-power. But my son does            
not appear as failing (on the field of battle) but climbing.- He             
was, in fact, a daring mountaineer.- He is not in uniform, but in a          
sports suit; that is, the place of the fatality now dreaded has been         
taken by an accident which happened to him at one time when he was           
ski-running, when he fell and fractured his thigh. But the nature of         
his costume, which makes him look like a seal, recalls immediately a         
younger person, our comical little grandson; the grey hair recalls his       
father, our son-in-law, who has had a bad time in the War. What does         
this signify? But let us leave this: the locality, a pantry, the             
chest, from which he wants to take something (in the dream, to put           
something on it), are unmistakable allusions to an accident of my own,       
brought upon myself when I was between two and three years of age. I         
climbed on a foot-stool in the pantry, in order to get something             
nice which was on a chest or table. The footstool tumbled over and its       
edge struck me behind the lower jaw. I might very well have knocked          
all my teeth out. At this point, an admonition presents itself: it           
serves you right- like a hostile impulse against the valiant                 
warrior. A profounder analysis enables me to detect the hidden               
impulse, which would be able to find satisfaction in the dreaded             
mishap to my son. It is the envy of youth which the elderly man              
believes that he has thoroughly stifled in actual life. There is no          
mistaking the fact that it was the very intensity of the painful             
apprehension lest such a misfortune should really happen that searched       
out for its alleviation such a repressed wish-fulfilment.                    
  I can now clearly define what the unconscious wish means for the           
dream. I will admit that there is a whole class of dreams in which the       
incitement originates mainly or even exclusively from the residues           
of the day; and returning to the dream about my friend Otto, I believe       
that even my desire to become at last a professor extraordinarius            
would have allowed me to sleep in peace that night, had not the              
day's concern for my friend's health continued active. But this              
worry alone would not have produced a dream; the motive-power needed         
by the dream had to be contributed by a wish, and it was the                 
business of my concern to find such a wish for itself, as the motive         
power of the dream. To put it figuratively, it is quite possible             
that a day-thought plays the part of the entrepreneur in the dream;          
but the entrepreneur, who, as we say, has the idea, and feels impelled       
to realize it, can do nothing without capital; he needs a capitalist         
who will defray the expense, and this capitalist, who contributes            
the psychic expenditure for the dream, is invariably and indisputably,       
whatever the nature of the waking thoughts, a wish from the                  
unconscious.                                                                 
  In other cases the capitalist himself is the entrepreneur; this,           
indeed, seems to be the more usual case. An unconscious wish is              
excited by the day's work, and this now creates the dream. And the           
dream-processes provide a parallel for all the other possibilities           
of the economic relationship here used as an illustration. Thus the          
entrepreneur may himself contribute a little of the capital, or              
several entrepreneurs may seek the aid of the same capitalist, or            
several capitalists may jointly supply the capital required by the           
entrepreneurs. Thus there are dreams sustained by more than one              
dream-wish, and many similar variations, which may be readily                
imagined, and which are of no further interest to us. What is still          
lacking to our discussion of the dream-wish we shall only be able to         
complete later on.                                                           
  The tertium comparationis in the analogies here employed, the              
quantitative element of which an allotted amount is placed at the free       
disposal of the dream, admits of a still closer application to the           
elucidation of the dream-structure. As shown in chapter VI., B., we          
can recognize in most dreams a centre supplied with a special                
sensory intensity. This is, as a rule, the direct representation of          
the wish-fulfilment; for, if we reverse the displacements of the             
dream-work, we find that the psychic intensity of the elements in            
the dream-thoughts is replaced by the sensory intensity of the               
elements in the dream-content. The elements in the neighbourhood of          
the wish-fulfilment have often nothing to do with its meaning, but           
prove to be the offshoots of painful thoughts which are opposed to the       
wish. But owing to their connection with the central element, often          
artificially established, they secure so large a share of its                
intensity as to become capable of representation. Thus, the                  
representative energy of the wish-fulfilment diffuses itself over a          
certain sphere of association, within which all elements are raised to       
representation, including even those that are in themselves without          
resources. In dreams containing several dynamic wishes we can easily         
separate and delimit the spheres of the individual wish-fulfilments,         
and we shall find that the gaps in the dream are often of the nature         
of boundary-zones.                                                           
  Although the foregoing remarks have restricted the significance of         
the day-residues for the dream, they are none the less deserving of          
some further attention. For they must be a necessary ingredient in           
dream-formation, inasmuch as experience reveals the surprising fact          
that every dream shows in its content a connection with a recent             
waking impression, often of the most indifferent kind. So far we             
have failed to understand the necessity for this addition to the             
dream-mixture (chapter V., A.). This necessity becomes apparent only         
when we bear in mind the part played by the unconscious wish, and seek       
further information in the psychology of the neuroses. We shall then         
learn that an unconscious idea, as such, is quite incapable of               
entering into the preconscious, and that it can exert an influence           
there only by establishing touch with a harmless idea already                
belonging to the preconscious, to which it transfers its intensity,          
and by which it allows itself to be screened. This is the fact of            
transference, which furnishes the explanation of so many surprising          
occurrences in the psychic life of neurotics. The transference may           
leave the idea from the preconscious unaltered, though the latter will       
thus acquire an unmerited intensity, or it may force upon this some          
modification derived from the content of the transferred idea. I trust       
the reader will pardon my fondness for comparisons with daily life,          
but I feel tempted to say that the situation for the repressed idea is       
like that of the American dentist in Austria, who may not carry on his       
practice unless he can get a duly installed doctor of medicine to            
serve him as a signboard and legal "cover." Further, just as it is not       
exactly the busiest physicians who form such alliances with dental           
practitioners, so in the psychic life the choice as regards covers for       
repressed ideas does not fall upon such preconscious or conscious            
ideas as have themselves attracted enough of the attention active in         
the preconscious. The unconscious prefers to entangle with its               
connections either those impressions and ideas of the preconscious           
which have remained unnoticed as being indifferent or those which have       
immediately had attention withdrawn from them again (by rejection). it       
is a well-known proposition of the theory of associations, confirmed         
by all experience, that ideas which have formed a very intimate              
connection in one direction assume a negative type of attitude towards       
whole groups of new connections. I have even attempted at one time           
to base a theory of hysterical paralysis on this principle.                  
  If we assume that the same need of transference on the part of the         
repressed ideas, of which we have become aware through the analysis of       
the neurosis, makes itself felt in dreams also, we can at once explain       
two of the problems of the dream: namely, that every dream-analysis          
reveals an interweaving of a recent impression, and that this recent         
element is often of the most indifferent character. We may add what we       
have already learned elsewhere, that the reason why these recent and         
indifferent elements so frequently find their way into the                   
dream-content as substitutes for the very oldest elements of the             
dream-thoughts is that they have the least to fear from the                  
resisting censorship. But while this freedom from censorship                 
explains only the preference shown to the trivial elements, the              
constant presence of recent elements points to the necessity for             
transference. Both groups of impressions satisfy the demand of the           
repressed ideas for material still free from associations, the               
indifferent ones because they have offered no occasion for extensive         
associations, and the recent ones because they have not had sufficient       
time to form such associations.                                              
  We thus see that the day-residues, among which we may now include          
the indifferent impressions, not only borrow something from the Ucs          
when they secure a share in dream-formation- namely, the                     
motive-power at the disposal of the repressed wish- but they also            
offer to the unconscious something that is indispensable to it,              
namely, the points of attachment necessary for transference. If we           
wished to penetrate more deeply into the psychic processes, we               
should have to throw a clearer light on the play of excitations              
between the preconscious and the unconscious, and indeed the study           
of the psychoneuroses would impel us to do so; but dreams, as it             
happens, give us no help in this respect.                                    
  Just one further remark as to the day-residues. There is no doubt          
that it is really these that disturb our sleep, and not our dreams           
which, on the contrary, strive to guard our sleep. But we shall return       
to this point later.                                                         
  So far we have discussed the dream-wish; we have traced it back to         
the sphere of the Ucs, and have analysed its relation to the                 
day-residues, which, in their turn, may be either wishes, or psychic         
impulses of any other kind, or simply recent impressions. We have thus       
found room for the claims that can be made for the dream-forming             
significance of our waking mental activity in all its                        
multifariousness. It might even prove possible to explain, on the            
basis of our train of thought, those extreme cases in which the dream,       
continuing the work of the day, brings to a happy issue an unsolved          
problem of waking life. We merely lack a suitable example to                 
analyse, in order to uncover the infantile or repressed source of            
wishes, the tapping of which has so successfully reinforced the              
efforts of the preconscious activity. But we are not a step nearer           
to answering the question: Why is it that the unconscious can                
furnish in sleep nothing more than the motive-power for a                    
wish-fulfilment? The answer to this question must elucidate the              
psychic nature of the state of wishing: and it will be given with            
the aid of the notion of the psychic apparatus.                              
  We do not doubt that this apparatus, too, has only arrived at its          
present perfection by a long process of evolution. Let us attempt to         
restore it as it existed in an earlier stage of capacity. From               
postulates to be confirmed in other ways, we know that at first the          
apparatus strove to keep itself as free from stimulation as                  
possible, and therefore, in its early structure, adopted the                 
arrangement of a reflex apparatus, which enabled it promptly to              
discharge by the motor paths any sensory excitation reaching it from         
without. But this simple function was disturbed by the exigencies of         
life, to which the apparatus owes the impetus toward further                 
development. The exigencies of life first confronted it in the form of       
the great physical needs. The excitation aroused by the inner need           
seeks an outlet in motility, which we may describe as internal               
change or expression of the emotions. The hungry child cries or              
struggles helplessly. But its situation remains unchanged; for the           
excitation proceeding from the inner need has not the character of a         
momentary impact, but of a continuing pressure. A change can occur           
only if, in some way (in the case of the child by external                   
assistance), there is an experience of satisfaction, which puts an end       
to the internal excitation. An essential constituent of this                 
experience is the appearance of a certain percept (of food in our            
example), the memory-image of which is henceforth associated with            
the memory-trace of the excitation arising from the need. Thanks to          
the established connection, there results, at the next occurrence of         
this need, a psychic impulse which seeks to revive the memory-image of       
the former percept, and to re-evoke the former percept itself; that          
is, it actually seeks to re-establish the situation of the first             
satisfaction. Such an impulse is what we call a wish; the reappearance       
of the perception constitutes the wish-fulfilment, and the full              
cathexis of the perception, by the excitation springing from the need,       
constitutes the shortest path to the wish-fulfilment. We may assume          
a primitive state of the psychic apparatus in which this path is             
actually followed, i.e., in which the wish ends in hallucination. This       
first psychic activity therefore aims at an identity of perception:          
that is, at a repetition of that perception which is connected with          
the satisfaction of the need.                                                
  This primitive mental activity must have been modified by bitter           
practical experience into a secondary and more appropriate activity.         
The establishment of identity of perception by the short regressive          
path within the apparatus does not produce the same result in                
another respect as follows upon cathexis of the same perception coming       
from without. The satisfaction does not occur, and the need continues.       
In order to make the internal cathexis equivalent to the external one,       
the former would have to be continuously sustained, just as actually         
happens in the hallucinatory psychoses and in hunger-phantasies, which       
exhaust their performance in maintaining their hold on the object            
desired. In order to attain to more appropriate use of the psychic           
energy, it becomes necessary to suspend the full regression, so that         
it does not proceed beyond the memory-image, and thence can seek other       
paths, leading ultimately to the production of the desired identity          
from the side of the outer world. * This inhibition, as well as the          
subsequent deflection of the excitation, becomes the task of a               
second system, which controls voluntary motility, i.e., a system whose       
activity first leads on to the use of motility for purposes remembered       
in advance. But all this complicated mental activity, which works            
its way from the memory-image to the production of identity of               
perception via the outer world, merely represents a roundabout way           
to wish-fulfilment made necessary by experience. *(2) Thinking is            
indeed nothing but a substitute for the hallucinatory wish; and if the       
dream is called a wish-fulfilment, this becomes something                    
self-evident, since nothing but a wish can impel our psychic apparatus       
to activity. The dream, which fulfils its wishes by following the            
short regressive path, has thereby simply preserved for us a                 
specimen of the primary method of operation of the psychic                   
apparatus, which has been abandoned as inappropriate. What once              
prevailed in the waking state, when our psychic life was still young         
and inefficient, seems to have been banished into our nocturnal              
life; just as we still find in the nursery those discarded primitive         
weapons of adult humanity, the bow and arrow. Dreaming is a fragment         
of the superseded psychic life of the child. In the psychoses, those         
modes of operation of the psychic apparatus which are normally               
suppressed in the waking state reassert themselves, and thereupon            
betray their inability to satisfy our demands in the outer world. *(3)       
-                                                                            
  * In other words: the introduction of a test of reality is                 
recognized as necessary.                                                     
  *(2) Le Lorrain justly extols the wish-fulfilments of dreams:              
"Sans fatigue serieuse, sans etre oblige de recourir a cette lutte           
opiniatre et longue qui use et corrode les jouissances poursuivies."         
[Without serious fatigue, without being obliged to have recourse to          
that long and stubborn struggle which exhausts and wears away                
pleasures sought.]                                                           
  *(3) I have further elaborated this train of thought elsewhere,            
where I have distinguished the two principles involved as the                
pleasure-principle and the reality-principle. Formulations regarding         
the Two Principles in Mental Functioning, in Collected Papers, Vol.          
iv. p. 13.                                                                   
-                                                                            
  The unconscious wish-impulses evidently strive to assert                   
themselves even during the day, and the fact of transference, as             
well as the psychoses, tells us that they endeavour to force their way       
through the preconscious system to consciousness and the command of          
motility. Thus, in the censorship between Ucs and Pcs, which the dream       
forces us to assume, we must recognize and respect the guardian of our       
psychic health. But is it not carelessness on the part of this               
guardian to diminish his vigilance at night, and to allow the                
suppressed impulses of the Ucs to achieve expression, thus again             
making possible the process of hallucinatory regression? I think             
not, for when the critical guardian goes to rest- and we have proof          
that his slumber is not profound- he takes care to close the gate to         
motility. No matter what impulses from the usually inhibited Ucs may         
bustle about the stage, there is no need to interfere with them;             
they remain harmless, because they are not in a position to set in           
motion the motor apparatus which alone can operate to produce any            
change in the outer world. Sleep guarantees the security of the              
fortress which has to be guarded. The state of affairs is less               
harmless when a displacement of energies is produced, not by the             
decline at night in the energy put forth by the critical censorship,         
but by the pathological enfeeblement of the latter, or the                   
pathological reinforcement of the unconscious excitations, and this          
while the preconscious is cathected and the gates of motility are            
open. The guardian is then overpowered; the unconscious excitations          
subdue the Pcs, and from the Pcs they dominate our speech and                
action, or they enforce hallucinatory regressions, thus directing an         
apparatus not designed for them by virtue of the attraction exerted by       
perceptions on the distribution of our psychic energy. We call this          
condition psychosis.                                                         
  We now find ourselves in the most favourable position for continuing       
the construction of our psychological scaffolding, which we left after       
inserting the two systems, Ucs and Pcs. However, we still have               
reason to give further consideration to the wish as the sole psychic         
motive-power in the dream. We have accepted the explanation that the         
reason why the dream is in every case a wish-fulfilment is that it           
is a function of the system Ucs, which knows no other aim than               
wish-fulfilment, and which has at its disposal no forces other than          
the wish-impulses. Now if we want to continue for a single moment            
longer to maintain our right to develop such far-reaching                    
psychological speculations from the facts of dream-interpretation,           
we are in duty bound to show that they insert the dream into a context       
which can also embrace other psychic structures. If there exists a           
system of the Ucs- or something sufficiently analogous for the               
purposes of our discussion- the dream cannot be its sole                     
manifestation; every dream may be a wish-fulfilment, but there must be       
other forms of abnormal wish-fulfilment as well as dreams. And in fact       
the theory of all psychoneurotic symptoms culminates in the one              
proposition that they, too, must be conceived as wish-fulfilments of         
the unconscious. * Our explanation makes the dream only the first            
member of a series of the greatest importance for the psychiatrist,          
the understanding of which means the solution of the purely                  
psychological part of the psychiatric problem. *(2) But in other             
members of this group of wish-fulfilments- for example, in the               
hysterical symptoms- I know of one essential characteristic which I          
have so far failed to find in the dream. Thus, from the investigations       
often alluded to in this treatise, I know that the formation of an           
hysterical symptom needs a junction of both the currents of our              
psychic life. The symptom is not merely the expression of a realized         
unconscious wish; the latter must be joined by another wish from the         
preconscious, which is fulfilled by the same symptom; so that the            
symptom is at least doubly determined, once by each of the conflicting       
systems. Just as in dreams, there is no limit to further                     
over-determination. The determination which does not derive from the         
Ucs is, as far as I can see, invariably a thought-stream of reaction         
against the unconscious wish; for example, a self-punishment. Hence          
I can say, quite generally, that an hysterical symptom originates only       
where two contrary wish-fulfilments, having their source in different        
psychic systems, are able to meet in a single expression. *(3)               
Examples would help us but little here, as nothing but a complete            
unveiling of the complications in question can carry conviction. I           
will therefore content myself with the bare assertion, and will cite         
one example, not because it proves anything, but simply as an                
illustration. The hysterical vomiting of a female patient proved, on         
the one hand, to be the fulfilment of an unconscious phantasy from           
the years of puberty- namely, the wish that she might be continually         
pregnant, and have a multitude of children; and this was                     
subsequently supplemented by the wish that she might have them by as         
many fathers as possible. Against this immoderate wish there arose a         
powerful defensive reaction. But as by the vomiting the patient              
might have spoilt her figure and her beauty, so that she would no            
longer find favour in any man's eyes, the symptom was also in                
keeping with the punitive trend of thought, and so, being admissible         
on both sides, it was allowed to become a reality. This is the same          
way of acceding to a wish-fulfilment as the queen of the Parthians was       
pleased to adopt in the case of the triumvir Crassus. Believing that         
he had undertaken his campaign out of greed for gold, she caused             
molten gold to be poured into the throat of the corpse. "Here thou           
hast what thou hast longed for!"                                             
-                                                                            
  * Expressed more exactly: One portion of the symptom corresponds           
to the unconscious wish-fulfilment, while the other corresponds to the       
reaction-formation opposed to it.                                            
  *(2) Hughlings Jackson has expressed himself as follows: "Find out         
all about dreams, and you will have found out all about insanity."           
  *(3) Cf. my latest formulation (in Zeitschrift fur                         
Sexual-wissenschaft, Bd. I) of the origin of hysterical symptoms in          
the treatise on "Hysterical Phantasies and their Relation to                 
Bisexuality," Collected Papers, II, p. 51. This forms chapter X of           
Selected Papers on Hysteria, p. 115 above.                                   
-                                                                            
  Of the dream we know as yet only that it expresses a wish-fulfilment       
of the unconscious; and apparently the dominant preconscious system          
permits this fulfilment when it has compelled the wish to undergo            
certain distortions. We are, moreover, not in fact in a position to          
demonstrate regularly the presence of a train of thought opposed to          
the dream-wish, which is realized in the dream as well as its                
antagonist. Only now and then have we found in dream-analyses signs of       
reaction-products as, for instance, my affection for my friend R in          
the dream of my uncle (chapter IV.). But the contribution from the           
preconscious which is missing here may be found in another place.            
The dream can provide expression for a wish from the Ucs by means of         
all sorts of distortions, once the dominant system has withdrawn             
itself into the wish to sleep, and has realized this wish by producing       
the changes of cathexis within the psychic apparatus which are               
within its power; thereupon holding on to the wish in question for the       
whole duration of sleep. *                                                   
-                                                                            
  * This idea has been borrowed from the theory of sleep of                  
Liebault, who revived hypnotic research in modern times (Du Sommeil          
provoque, etc., Paris [1889]).                                               
-                                                                            
  Now this persistent wish to sleep on the part of the preconscious          
has a quite general facilitating effect on the formation of dreams.          
Let us recall the dream of the father who, by the gleam of light             
from the death-chamber, was led to conclude that his child's body            
might have caught fire. We have shown that one of the psychic forces         
decisive in causing the father to draw this conclusion in the dream          
instead of allowing himself to be awakened by the gleam of light was         
the wish to prolong the life of the child seen in the dream by one           
moment. Other wishes originating in the repressed have probably              
escaped us, for we are unable to analyse this dream. But as a second         
source of motive-power in this dream we may add the father's desire to       
sleep, for, like the life of the child, the father's sleep is                
prolonged for a moment by the dream. The underlying motive is: "Let          
the dream go on, or I must wake up." As in this dream, so in all             
others, the wish to sleep lends its support to the unconscious wish.         
In chapter III. we cited dreams which were manifestly dreams of              
convenience. But in truth all dreams may claim this designation. The         
efficacy of the wish to go on sleeping is most easily recognized in          
the awakening dreams, which so elaborate the external sensory stimulus       
that it becomes compatible with the continuance of sleep; they weave         
it into a dream in order to rob it of any claims it might make as a          
reminder of the outer world. But this wish to go on sleeping must also       
play its part in permitting all other dreams, which can only act as          
disturbers of the state of sleep from within. "Don't worry; sleep            
on; it's only a dream," is in many cases the suggestion of the Pcs           
to consciousness when the dream gets too bad; and this describes in          
a quite general way the attitude of our dominant psychic activity            
towards dreaming, even though the thought remains unuttered. I must          
draw the conclusion that throughout the whole of our sleep we are just       
as certain that we are dreaming as we are certain that we are                
sleeping. It is imperative to disregard the objection that our               
consciousness is never directed to the latter knowledge, and that it         
is directed to the former knowledge only on special occasions, when          
the censorship feels, as it were, taken by surprise. On the                  
contrary, there are persons in whom the retention at night of the            
knowledge that they are sleeping and dreaming becomes quite                  
manifest, and who are thus apparently endowed with the conscious             
faculty of guiding their dream-life. Such a dreamer, for example, is         
dissatisfied with the turn taken by a dream; he breaks it off                
without waking, and begins it afresh, in order to continue it along          
different lines, just like a popular author who, upon request, gives a       
happier ending to his play. Or on another occasion, when the dream           
places him in a sexually exciting situation, he thinks in his sleep:         
"I don't want to continue this dream and exhaust myself by an                
emission; I would rather save it for a real situation."                      
  The Marquis Hervey (Vaschide) declared that he had gained such power       
over his dreams that he could accelerate their course at will, and           
turn them in any direction he wished. It seems that in him the wish to       
sleep had accorded a place to another, a preconscious wish, the wish         
to observe his dreams and to derive pleasure from them. Sleep is             
just as compatible with such a wish-resolve as it is with some proviso       
as a condition of waking up (wet-nurse's sleep), We know, too, that in       
all persons an interest in dreams greatly increases the number of            
dreams remembered after waking.                                              
  Concerning other observations as to the guidance of dreams, Ferenczi       
states: "The dream takes the thought that happens to occupy our              
psychic life at the moment, and elaborates it from all sides. It             
lets any given dream-picture drop when there is a danger that the            
wish-fulfilment will miscarry, and attempts a new kind of solution,          
until it finally succeeds in creating a wish-fulfilment that satisfies       
in one compromise both instances of the psychic life."                       
                                                                             
VII|D                                                                        
         D. Waking Caused by Dreams. The Function of Dreams.                 
                          The Anxiety Dream                                  
-                                                                            
  Now that we know that throughout the night the preconscious is             
orientated to the wish to sleep, we can follow the dream-process             
with proper understanding. But let us first summarize what we                
already know about this process. We have seen that day-residues are          
left over from the waking activity of the mind, residues from which it       
has not been possible to withdraw all cathexis. Either one of the            
unconscious wishes has been aroused through the waking activity during       
the day or it so happens that the two coincide; we have already              
discussed the multifarious possibilities. Either already during the          
day or only on the establishment of the state of sleep the unconscious       
wish has made its way to the day-residues, and has effected a                
transference to them. Thus there arises a wish transferred to recent         
material; or the suppressed recent wish is revived by a                      
reinforcement from the unconscious. This wish now endeavours to make         
its way to consciousness along the normal path of the thought                
processes, through the preconscious, to which indeed it belongs by           
virtue of one of its constituent elements. It is, however,                   
confronted by the censorship which still subsists, and to whose              
influence it soon succumbs. It now takes on the distortion for which         
the way has already been paved by the transference to recent material.       
So far it is on the way to becoming something resembling an obsession,       
a delusion, or the like, i.e., a thought reinforced by a transference,       
and distorted in expression owing to the censorship. But its further         
progress is now checked by the state of sleep of the preconscious;           
this system has presumably protected itself against invasion by              
diminishing its excitations. The dream-process, therefore, takes the         
regressive course, which is just opened up by the peculiarity of the         
sleeping state, and in so doing follows the attraction exerted on it         
by memory-groups, which are, in part only, themselves present as             
visual cathexis, not as translations into the symbols of the later           
systems. On its way to regression it acquires representability. The          
subject of compression will be discussed later. The dream-process            
has by this time covered the second part of its contorted course.            
The first part threads its way progressively from the unconscious            
scenes or phantasies to the preconscious, while the second part              
struggles back from the boundary of the censorship to the tract of the       
perceptions. But when the dream-process becomes a                            
perception-content, it has, so to speak, eluded the obstacle set up in       
the Pcs by the censorship and the sleeping state. It succeeds in             
drawing attention to itself, and in being remarked by consciousness.         
For consciousness, which for us means a sense-organ for the                  
apprehension of psychic qualities, can be excited in waking life             
from two sources: firstly, from the periphery of the whole                   
apparatus, the perceptive system; and secondly, from the excitations         
of pleasure and pain which emerge as the sole psychic qualities              
yielded by the transpositions of energy in the interior of the               
apparatus. All other processes in the Psi-systems, even those in the         
preconscious, are devoid of all psychic quality, and are therefore not       
objects of consciousness, inasmuch as they do not provide either             
pleasure or pain for its perception. We shall have to assume that            
these releases of pleasure and pain automatically regulate the               
course of the cathectic processes. But in order to make possible             
more delicate performances, it subsequently proved necessary to render       
the flow of ideas more independent of pain-signals. To accomplish            
this, the Pcs system needed qualities of its own which could attract         
consciousness, and most probably received them through the                   
connection of the preconscious processes with the memory-system of           
speech-symbols, which was not devoid of quality. Through the qualities       
of this system, consciousness, hitherto only a sense-organ for               
perceptions, now becomes also a sense-organ for a part of our                
thought-processes. There are now, as it were, two sensory surfaces,          
one turned toward perception and the other toward the preconscious           
thought-processes.                                                           
  I must assume that the sensory surface of consciousness which is           
turned to the preconscious is rendered far more unexcitable by sleep         
than the surface turned toward the P-system. The giving up of interest       
in the nocturnal thought-process is, of course, an appropriate               
procedure. Nothing is to happen in thought; the preconscious wants           
to sleep. But once the dream becomes perception, it is capable of            
exciting consciousness through the qualities now gained. The sensory         
excitation performs what is in fact its function; namely, it directs a       
part of the cathectic energy available in the Pcs to the exciting            
cause in the form of attention. We must therefore admit that the dream       
always has a waking effect- that is, it calls into activity part of          
the quiescent energy of the Pcs. Under the influence of this energy,         
it now undergoes the process which we have described as secondary            
elaboration with a view to coherence and comprehensibility. This means       
that the dream is treated by this energy like any other                      
perception-content; it is subjected to the same anticipatory ideas           
as far, at least, as the material allows. As far as this third part of       
the dream-process has any direction, this is once more progressive.          
  To avoid misunderstanding, it will not be amiss to say a few words         
as to the temporal characteristics of these dream-processes. In a very       
interesting discussion, evidently suggested by Maury's puzzling              
guillotine dream, Goblot tries to demonstrate that a dream takes up no       
other time than the transition period between sleeping and waking. The       
process of waking up requires time; during this time the dream occurs.       
It is supposed that the final picture of the dream is so vivid that it       
forces the dreamer to wake; in reality it is so vivid only because           
when it appears the dreamer is already very near waking. "Un reve,           
c'est un reveil qui commence." *                                             
-                                                                            
  * A dream is the beginning of wakening.                                    
-                                                                            
  It has already been pointed out by Dugas that Goblot, in order to          
generalize his theory, was forced to ignore a great many facts.              
There are also dreams from which we do not awaken; for example, many         
dreams in which we dream that we dream. From our knowledge of the            
dream-work, we can by no means admit that it extends only over the           
period of waking. On the contrary, we must consider it probable that         
the first part of the dream-work is already begun during the day, when       
we are still under the domination of the preconscious. The second            
phase of the dream-work, viz., the alteration by the censorship, the         
attraction exercised by unconscious scenes, and the penetration to           
perception, continues probably all through the night, and                    
accordingly we may always be correct when we report a feeling that           
we have been dreaming all night, even although we cannot say what we         
have dreamed. I do not however, think that it is necessary to assume         
that up to the time of becoming conscious the dream-processes really         
follow the temporal sequence which we have described; viz., that there       
is first the transferred dream-wish, then the process of distortion          
due to the censorship, and then the change of direction to regression,       
etc. We were obliged to construct such a sequence for the sake of            
description; in reality, however, it is probably rather a question           
of simultaneously trying this path and that, and of the excitation           
fluctuating to and fro, until finally, because it has attained the           
most apposite concentration, one particular grouping remains in the          
field. Certain personal experiences even incline me to believe that          
the dream-work often requires more than one day and one night to             
produce its result, in which case the extraordinary art manifested           
in the construction of the dream is shorn of its miraculous character.       
In my opinion, even the regard for the comprehensibility of the              
dream as a perceptual event may exert its influence before the dream         
attracts consciousness to itself. From this point, however, the              
process is accelerated, since the dream is henceforth subjected to the       
same treatment as any other perception. It is like fire works, which         
require hours for their preparation and then flare up in a moment.           
  Through the dream-work, the dream-process now either gains                 
sufficient intensity to attract consciousness to itself and to               
arouse the preconscious (quite independently of the time or profundity       
of sleep), or its intensity is insufficient, and it must wait in             
readiness until attion, becoming more alert immediately before waking,       
meets it half-way. Most dreams seem to operate with relatively               
slight psychic intensities, for they wait for the process of waking.         
This, then, explains the fact that as a rule we perceive something           
dreamed if we are suddenly roused from a deep sleep. Here, as well           
as in spontaneous waking, our first glance lights upon the                   
perception-content created by the dream-work, while the next falls           
on that provided by the outer world.                                         
  But of greater theoretical interest are those dreams which are             
capable of waking us in the midst of our sleep. We may bear in mind          
the purposefulness which can be demonstrated in all other cases, and         
ask ourselves why the dream, that is, the unconscious wish, is granted       
the power to disturb our sleep, i.e., the fulfilment of the                  
preconscious wish. The explanation is probably to be found in                
certain relations of energy which we do not yet understand. If we            
did so, we should probably find that the freedom given to the dream          
and the expenditure upon it of a certain detached attention                  
represent a saving of energy as against the alternative case of the          
unconscious having to be held in check at night just as it is during         
the day. As experience shows, dreaming, even if it interrupts our            
sleep several times a night, still remains compatible with sleep. We         
wake up for a moment, and immediately fall asleep again. It is like          
driving off a fly in our sleep; we awake ad hoc. When we fall asleep         
again we have removed the cause of disturbance. The familiar                 
examples of the sleep of wet-nurses, etc., show that the fulfilment of       
the wish to sleep is quite compatible with the maintenance of a              
certain amount of attention in a given direction.                            
  But we must here take note of an objection which is based on a             
greater knowledge of the unconscious processes. We have ourselves            
described the unconscious wishes as always active, whilst nevertheless       
asserting that in the daytime they are not strong enough to make             
themselves perceptible. But when the state of sleep supervenes, and          
the unconscious wish has shown its power to form a dream, and with           
it to awaken the preconscious, why does this power lapse after               
cognizance has been taken of the dream? Would it not seem more               
probable that the dream should continually renew itself, like the            
disturbing fly which, when driven away, takes pleasure in returning          
again and again? What justification have we for our assertion that the       
dream removes the disturbance to sleep?                                      
  It is quite true that the unconscious wishes are always active. They       
represent paths which are always practicable, whenever a quantum of          
excitation makes use of them. It is indeed an outstanding                    
peculiarity of the unconscious processes that they are indestructible.       
Nothing can be brought to an end in the unconscious; nothing is past         
or forgotten. This is impressed upon us emphatically in the study of         
the neuroses, and especially of hysteria. The unconscious path of            
thought which leads to the discharge through an attack is forthwith          
passable again when there is a sufficient accumulation of                    
excitation. The mortification suffered thirty years ago operates,            
after having gained access to the unconscious sources of affect,             
during all these thirty years as though it were a recent experience.         
Whenever its memory is touched, it revives, and shows itself to be           
cathected with excitation which procures a motor discharge for               
itself in an attack. It is precisely here that psychotherapy must            
intervene, its task being to ensure that the unconscious processes are       
settled and forgotten. Indeed, the fading of memories and the weak           
affect of impressions which are no longer recent, which we are apt           
to take as self-evident, and to explain as a primary effect of time on       
our psychic memory-residues, are in reality secondary changes                
brought about by laborious work. It is the preconscious that                 
accomplishes this work; and the only course which psychotherapy can          
pursue is to bring the Ucs under the dominion of the Pcs.                    
  There are, therefore, two possible issues for any single unconscious       
excitation-process. Either it is left to itself, in which case it            
ultimately breaks through somewhere and secures, on this one occasion,       
a discharge for its excitation into motility, or it succumbs to the          
influence of the preconscious, and through this its excitation becomes       
bound instead of being discharged. It is the latter case that occurs         
in the dream-process. The cathexis from the Pcs which goes to meet the       
dream once this has attained to perception, because it has been              
drawn thither by the excitation of consciousness, binds the                  
unconscious excitation of the dream and renders it harmless as a             
disturber of sleep. When the dreamer wakes up for a moment, he has           
really chased away the fly that threatened to disturb his sleep. We          
may now begin to suspect that it is really more expedient and                
economical to give way to the unconscious wish, to leave clear its           
path to regression so that and it may form a dream, and then to bind         
and dispose of this dream by means of a small outlay of preconscious         
work, than to hold the unconscious in check throughout the whole             
period of sleep. It was, indeed, to be expected that the dream, even         
if originally it was not a purposeful process, would have seized             
upon some definite function in the play of forces of the psychic life.       
We now see what this function is. The dream has taken over the task of       
bringing the excitation of the Ucs, which had been left free, back           
under the domination of the preconscious; it thus discharges the             
excitation of the Ucs, acts as a safety-valve for the latter, and at         
the same time, by a slight outlay of waking activity, secures the            
sleep of the preconscious. Thus, like the other psychic formations           
of its group, the dream offers itself as a compromise, serving both          
systems simultaneously, by fulfilling the wishes of both, in so far as       
they are mutually compatible. A glance at Robert's "elimination              
theory" will show that we must agree with this author on his main            
point, namely, the determination of the function of dreams, though           
we differ from him in our general presuppositions and in our                 
estimation of the dream-process. *                                           
-                                                                            
  * Is this the only function which we can attribute to dreams? I know       
of no other. A. Maeder, to be sure, has endeavoured to claim for the         
dream yet other secondary functions. He started from the just                
observation that many dreams contain attempts to provide solutions           
of conflicts, which are afterwards actually carried through. They thus       
behave like preparatory practice for waking activities. He therefore         
drew a parallel between dreaming and the play of animals and children,       
which is to be conceived as a training of the inherited instincts, and       
a preparation for their later serious activity, thus setting up a            
fonction ludique for the dream. A little while before Maeder, Alfred         
Adler likewise emphasized the function of thinking ahead in the dream.       
(An analysis which I published in 1905 contained a dream which may           
be conceived as a resolution-dream, which was repeated night after           
night until it was realized.)                                                
  But an obvious reflection must show us that this secondary                 
function of the dream has no claim to recognition within the framework       
of any dream-interpretation. Thinking ahead, making resolutions,             
sketching out attempted solutions which can then perhaps be realized         
in waking life- these and many more performances are functions of            
the unconscious and preconscious activities of the mind which continue       
as day-residues in the sleeping state, and can then combine with an          
unconscious wish to form a dream (chapter VII., C.). The function of         
thinking ahead in the dream is thus rather a function of                     
preconscious waking thought, the result of which may be disclosed to         
us by the analysis of dreams or other phenomena. After the dream has         
so long been fused with its manifest content, one must now guard             
against confusing it with the latent dream-thoughts.                         
-                                                                            
  The above qualification- in so far as the two wishes are mutually          
compatible- contains a suggestion that there may be cases in which the       
function of the dream fails. The dream-process is, to begin with,            
admitted as a wish-fulfilment of the unconscious, but if this                
attempted wish-fulfilment disturbs the preconscious so profoundly that       
the latter can no longer maintain its state of rest, the dream has           
broken the compromise, and has failed to perform the second part of          
its task. It is then at once broken off, and replaced by complete            
awakening. But even here it is not really the fault of the dream if,         
though at other times the guardian, it has now to appear as the              
disturber of sleep, nor need this prejudice us against its averred           
purposive character. This is not the only instance in the organism           
in which a contrivance that is usually to the purpose becomes                
inappropriate and disturbing so soon as something is altered in the          
conditions which engender it; the disturbance, then, at all events           
serves the new purpose of indicating the change, and of bringing             
into play against it the means of adjustment of the organism. Here, of       
course, I am thinking of the anxiety-dream, and lest it should seem          
that I try to evade this witness against the theory of wish-fulfilment       
whenever I encounter it, I will at least give some indications as to         
the explanation of the anxiety-dream.                                        
  That a psychic process which develops anxiety may still be a               
wish-fulfilment has long ceased to imply any contradiction for us.           
We may explain this occurrence by the fact that the wish belongs to          
one system (the Ucs), whereas the other system (the Pcs) has                 
rejected and suppressed it. * The subjection of the Ucs by the Pcs           
is not thoroughgoing even in perfect psychic health; the extent of           
this suppression indicates the degree of our psychic normality.              
Neurotic symptoms indicate to us that the two systems are in mutual          
conflict; the symptoms are the result of a compromise in this                
conflict, and they temporarily put an end to it. On the one hand, they       
afford the Ucs a way out for the discharge of its excitation- they           
serve it as a kind of sally-gate- while, on the other hand, they             
give the Pcs the possibility of dominating the Ucs in some degree.           
It is instructive to consider, for example, the significance of a            
hysterical phobia, or of agoraphobia. A neurotic is said to be               
incapable of crossing the street alone, and this we should rightly           
call a symptom. Let someone now remove this symptom by constraining          
him to this action which he deems himself incapable of performing. The       
result will be an attack of anxiety, just as an attack of anxiety in         
the street has often been the exciting cause of the establishment of         
an agoraphobia. We thus learn that the symptom has been constituted in       
order to prevent the anxiety from breaking out. The phobia is thrown         
up before the anxiety like a frontier fortress.                              
-                                                                            
  * General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, p. 534 below.                   
-                                                                            
  We cannot enlarge further on this subject unless we examine the role       
of the affects in these processes, which can only be done here               
imperfectly. We will therefore affirm the proposition that the               
principal reason why the suppression of the Ucs becomes necessary is         
that, if the movement of ideas in the Ucs were allowed to run its            
course, it would develop an affect which originally had the                  
character of pleasure, but which, since the process of repression,           
bears the character of pain. The aim, as well as the result, of the          
suppression is to prevent the development of this pain. The                  
suppression extends to the idea-content of the Ucs, because the              
liberation of pain might emanate from this idea-content. We here             
take as our basis a quite definite assumption as to the nature of            
the development of affect. This is regarded as a motor or secretory          
function, the key to the innervation of which is to be found in the          
ideas of the Ucs. Through the domination of the Pcs these ideas are as       
it were strangled, that is, inhibited from sending out the impulse           
that would develop the affect. The danger which arises, if cathexis by       
the Pcs ceases, thus consists in the fact that the unconscious               
excitations would liberate an affect that- in consequence of the             
repression that has previously occurred- could only be felt as pain or       
anxiety.                                                                     
  This danger is released if the dream-process is allowed to have            
its own way. The conditions for its realization are that repressions         
shall have occurred, and that the suppressed wish-impulses can               
become sufficiently strong. They, therefore, fall entirely outside the       
psychological framework of dream-formation. Were it not for the fact         
that our theme is connected by just one factor with the theme of the         
development of anxiety, namely, by the setting free of the Ucs               
during sleep, I could refrain from the discussion of the anxiety-dream       
altogether, and thus avoid all the obscurities involved in it.               
  The theory of the anxiety-dream belongs, as I have already                 
repeatedly stated, to the psychology of the neuroses. I might                
further add that anxiety in dreams is an anxiety-problem and not a           
dream-problem. Having once exhibited the point of contact of the             
psychology of the neuroses with the theme of the dream-process, we           
have nothing further to do with it. There is only one thing left which       
I can do. Since I have asserted that neurotic anxiety has its origin         
in sexual sources, I can subject anxiety-dreams to analysis in order         
to demonstrate the sexual material in their dream-thoughts.                  
  For good reasons, I refrain from citing any of the examples so             
abundantly placed at my disposal by neurotic patients, and prefer to         
give some anxiety-dreams of children.                                        
  Personally, I have had no real anxiety-dream for decades, but I do         
recall one from my seventh or eighth year which I subjected to               
interpretation some thirty years later. The dream was very vivid,            
and showed me my beloved mother, with a peculiarly calm, sleeping            
countenance, carried into the room and laid on the bed by two (or            
three) persons with birds' beaks. I awoke crying and screaming, and          
disturbed my parents' sleep. The peculiarly draped, excessively tall         
figures with beaks I had taken from the illustrations of                     
Philippson's Bible; I believe they represented deities with the              
heads of sparrowhawks from an Egyptian tomb-relief. The analysis             
yielded, however, also the recollection of a house-porter's boy, who         
used to play with us children on a meadow in front of the house; I           
might add that his name was Philip. It seemed to me then that I              
first heard from this boy the vulgar word signifying sexual                  
intercourse, which is replaced among educated persons by the Latin           
word coitus, but which the dream plainly enough indicates by the             
choice of the birds' heads. I must have guessed the sexual                   
significance of the word from the look of my worldly-wise teacher.           
My mother's expression in the dream was copied from the countenance of       
my grandfather, whom I had seen a few days before his death snoring in       
a state of coma. The interpretation of the secondary elaboration in          
the dream must therefore have been that my mother was dying; the             
tomb-relief, too, agrees with this. I awoke with this anxiety, and           
could not calm myself until I had waked my parents. I remember that          
I suddenly became calm when I saw my mother; it was as though I had          
needed the assurance: then she was not dead. But this secondary              
interpretation of the dream had only taken place when the influence of       
the developed anxiety was already at work. I was not in a state of           
anxiety because I had dreamt that my mother was dying; I interpreted         
the dream in this manner in the preconscious elaboration because I was       
already under the domination of the anxiety. The latter, however,            
could be traced back, through the repression to a dark, plainly sexual       
craving, which had found appropriate expression in the visual                
content of the dream.                                                        
  A man twenty-seven years of age, who had been seriously ill for a          
year, had repeatedly dreamed, between the ages of eleven and thirteen,       
dreams attended with great anxiety, to the effect that a man with a          
hatchet was running after him; he wanted to run away, but seemed to be       
paralysed, and could not move from the spot. This may be taken as a          
good and typical example of a very common anxiety-dream, free from any       
suspicion of a sexual meaning. In the analysis, the dreamer first            
thought of a story told him by his uncle (chronologically later than         
the dream), viz., that he was attacked at night in the street by a           
suspicious-looking individual; and he concluded from this                    
association that he might have heard of a similar episode at the             
time of the dream. In association with the hatchet, he recalled that         
during this period of his life he once hurt his hand with a hatchet          
while chopping wood. This immediately reminded him of his relations          
with his younger brother, whom he used to maltreat and knock down.           
He recalled, in particular, one occasion when he hit his brother's           
head with his boot and made it bleed, and his mother said: "I'm afraid       
he will kill him one day." While he seemed to be thus held by the            
theme of violence, a memory from his ninth year suddenly emerged.            
His parents had come home late and had gone to bed, whilst he was            
pretending to be asleep. He soon heard panting, and other sounds             
that seemed to him mysterious, and he could also guess the position of       
his parents in bed. His further thoughts showed that he had                  
established an analogy between this relation between his parents and         
his own relation to his younger brother. He subsumed what was                
happening between his parents under the notion of "an act of                 
violence and a fight." The fact that he had frequently noticed blood         
in his mother's bed corroborated this conception.                            
  That the sexual intercourse of adults appears strange and alarming         
to children who observe it, and arouses anxiety in them, is, I may           
say, a fact established by everyday experience. I have explained             
this anxiety on the ground that we have here a sexual excitation which       
is not mastered by the child's understanding, and which probably             
also encounters repulsion because their parents are involved, and is         
therefore transformed into anxiety. At a still earlier period of             
life the sexual impulse towards the parent of opposite sex does not          
yet suffer repression, but as we have seen (chapter V., D.)                  
expresses itself freely.                                                     
  For the night terrors with hallucinations (pavor nocturnus) so             
frequent in children I should without hesitation offer the same              
explanation. These, too, can only be due to misunderstood and rejected       
sexual impulses which, if recorded, would probably show a temporal           
periodicity, since an intensification of sexual libido may equally           
be produced by accidentally exciting impressions and by spontaneous          
periodic processes of development.                                           
  I have not the necessary observational material for the full               
demonstration of this explanation. * On the other hand, pediatrists          
seem to lack the point of view which alone makes intelligible the            
whole series of phenomena, both from the somatic and from the                
psychic side. To illustrate by a comical example how closely, if one         
is made blind by the blinkers of medical mythology, one may pass by          
the understanding of such cases, I will cite a case which I found in a       
thesis on pavor nocturnus (Debacker, 1881, p. 66).                           
-                                                                            
  * This material has since been provided in abundance by the                
literature of psycho-analysis.                                               
-                                                                            
  A boy of thirteen, in delicate health, began to be anxious and             
dreamy; his sleep became uneasy, and once almost every week it was           
interrupted by an acute attack of anxiety with hallucinations. The           
memory of these dreams was always very distinct. Thus he was able to         
relate that the devil had shouted at him: "Now we have you, now we           
have you!" and then there was a smell of pitch and brimstone, and            
the fire burned his skin. From this dream he woke in terror; at              
first he could not cry out; then his voice came back to him, and he          
was distinctly heard to say: "No, no, not me; I haven't done                 
anything," or: "Please, don't; I will never do it again!" At other           
times he said: "Albert has never done that!" Later he avoided                
undressing, "because the fire attacked him only when he was                  
undressed." In the midst of these evil dreams, which were                    
endangering his health, he was sent into the country, where he               
recovered in the course of eighteen months. At the age of fifteen he         
confessed one day: "Je n'osais pas l'avouer, mais j'eprouvais                
continuellement des picotements et des surexcitations aux parties; * a       
la fin, cela m'enervait tant que plusieurs fois j'ai pense me jeter          
par la fenetre du dortoir." *(2)                                             
-                                                                            
  * The emphasis [on 'parties'] is my own, though the meaning is plain       
enough without it.                                                           
  *(2) I did not dare admit it, but I continually felt tinglings and         
overexcitements of the parts; at the end, it wearied me so much that         
several times I thought to throw myself from the dormitory window.           
-                                                                            
  It is, of course, not difficult to guess: 1. That the boy had              
practised masturbation in former years, that he had probably denied          
it, and was threatened with severe punishment for his bad habit (His         
confession: Je ne le ferai plus; * his denial: Albert n'a jamais             
fait ca.) *(2) 2. That, under the advancing pressure of puberty, the         
temptation to masturbate was re-awakened through the titillation of          
the genitals. 3. That now, however, there arose within him a                 
struggle for repression, which suppressed the libido and transformed         
it into anxiety, and that this anxiety now gathered up the punishments       
with which he was originally threatened.                                     
-                                                                            
  * I will not do it again.                                                  
  *(2) Albert never did that.                                                
-                                                                            
  Let us, on the other hand, see what conclusions were drawn by the          
author (p. 69):                                                              
  "1. It is clear from this observation that the influence of                
puberty may produce in a boy of delicate health a condition of extreme       
weakness, and that this may lead to a very marked cerebral anaemia. *        
-                                                                            
  * The italics ['very marked cerebral anaemia.'] are mine.                  
-                                                                            
  "2. This cerebral anaemia produces an alteration of character,             
demono-maniacal hallucinations, and very violent nocturnal, and              
perhaps also diurnal, states of anxiety.                                     
  "3. The demonomania and the self-reproaches of the boy can be traced       
to the influences of a religious education which had acted upon him as       
a child.                                                                     
  "4. All manifestations disappeared as a result of a lengthy                
sojourn in the country, bodily exercise, and the return of physical          
strength after the termination of puberty.                                   
  "5. Possibly an influence predisposing to the development of the           
boy's cerebral state may be attributed to heredity and to the father's       
former syphilis."                                                            
  Then finally come the concluding remarks: "Nous avons fait entrer          
cette observation dans le cadre delires apyretiques d'inanition, car         
c'est a l'ischemie cerebrale que nous rattachons cet etat                    
particulier." *                                                              
-                                                                            
  * We put this case in the file of apyretic delirias of inanition,          
for it is to cerebral anaemia that we attach this particular state.          
                                                                             
VII|E                                                                        
          E. The Primary and Secondary Processes. Repression                 
-                                                                            
  In attempting to penetrate more profoundly into the psychology of          
the dream-processes, I have undertaken a difficult task, to which,           
indeed, my powers of exposition are hardly adequate. To reproduce            
the simultaneity of so complicated a scheme in terms of a successive         
description, and at the same time to make each part appear free from         
all assumptions, goes fairly beyond my powers. I have now to atone for       
the fact that in my exposition of the psychology of dreams I have been       
unable to follow the historic development of my own insight. The lines       
of approach to the comprehension of the dream were laid down for me by       
previous investigations into the psychology of the neuroses, to              
which I should not refer here, although I am constantly obliged to           
do so; whereas I should like to work in the opposite direction,              
starting from the dream, and then proceeding to establish its junction       
with the psychology of the neuroses. I am conscious of all the               
difficulties which this involves for the reader, but I know of no            
way to avoid them.                                                           
 
  Since I am dissatisfied with this state of affairs, I am glad to           
dwell upon another point of view, which would seem to enhance the            
value of my efforts. As was shown in the introductory section, I found       
myself confronted with a theme which had been marked by the sharpest         
contradictions on the part of those who had written on it. In the            
course of our treatment of the problems of the dream, room has been          
found for most of these contradictory views. We have been compelled to       
take decided exception to two only of the views expressed: namely,           
that the dream is a meaningless process, and that it is a somatic            
process. Apart from these, we have been able to find a place for the         
truth of all the contradictory opinions at one point or another of the       
complicated tissue of the facts, and we have been able to show that          
each expressed something genuine and correct. That our dreams continue       
the impulses and interests of waking life has been generally confirmed       
by the discovery of the hidden dream-thoughts. These concern                 
themselves only with things that seem to us important and of great           
interest. Dreams never occupy themselves with trifles. But we have           
accepted also the opposite view, namely, that the dream gathers up the       
indifferent residues of the day, and cannot seize upon any important         
interest of the day until it has in some measure withdrawn itself from       
waking activity. We have found that this holds true of the                   
dream-content, which by means of distortion gives the dream-thought an       
altered expression. We have said that the dream-process, owing to            
the nature of the mechanism of association, finds it easier to               
obtain possession of recent or indifferent material, which has not yet       
been put under an embargo by our waking mental activity; and that,           
on account of the censorship, it transfers the psychic intensity of          
the significant but also objectionable material to the indifferent.          
The hypermnesia of the dream and its ability to dispose of infantile         
material have become the main foundations of our doctrine; in our            
theory of dreams we have assigned to a wish of infantile origin the          
part of the indispensable motive-power of dream-formation. It has not,       
of course, occurred to us to doubt the experimentally demonstrated           
significance of external sensory stimuli during sleep; but we have           
placed this material in the same relation to the dream-wish as the           
thought-residues left over from our waking activity. We need not             
dispute the fact that the dream interprets objective sensory stimuli         
after the manner of an illusion; but we have supplied the motive for         
this interpretation, which has been left indeterminate by other              
writers. The interpretation proceeds in such a way that the                  
perceived object is rendered harmless as a source of disturbance of          
sleep, whilst it is made usable for the wish-fulfilment. Though we           
do not admit as a special source of dreams the subjective state of           
excitation of the sensory organs during sleep (which seems to have           
been demonstrated by Trumbull Ladd), we are, nevertheless, able to           
explain this state of excitation by the regressive revival of the            
memories active behind the dream. As to the internal organic                 
sensations, which are wont to be taken as the cardinal point of the          
explanation of dreams, these, too, find a place in our conception,           
though indeed a more modest one. These sensations- the sensations of         
falling, of soaring, or of being inhibited- represent an ever-ready          
material, which the dream-work can employ to express the dream-thought       
as often as need arises.                                                     
  That the dream-process is a rapid and momentary one is, we                 
believe, true as regards the perception by consciousness of the              
preformed dream-content; but we have found that the preceding portions       
of the dream-process probably follow a slow, fluctuating course. As          
for the riddle of the superabundant dream-content compressed into            
the briefest moment of time, we have been able to contribute the             
explanation that the dream seizes upon ready-made formations of the          
psychic life. We have found that it is true that dreams are                  
distorted and mutilated by the memory, but that this fact presents           
no difficulties, as it is only the last manifest portion of a                
process of distortion which has been going on from the very                  
beginning of the dream-work. In the embittered controversy, which            
has seemed irreconcilable, whether the psychic life is asleep at             
night, or can make the same use of all its faculties as during the           
day, we have been able to conclude that both sides are right, but that       
neither is entirely so. In the dream-thoughts we found evidence of a         
highly complicated intellectual activity, operating with almost all          
the resources of the psychic apparatus; yet it cannot be denied that         
these dream-thoughts have originated during the day, and it is               
indispensable to assume that there is a sleeping state of the                
psychic life. Thus, even the doctrine of partial sleep received its          
due, but we have found the characteristic feature of the sleeping            
state not in the disintegration of the psychic system of                     
connections, but in the special attitude adopted by the psychic system       
which is dominant during the day- the attitude of the wish to sleep.         
The deflection from the outer world retains its significance for our         
view, too; though not the only factor at work, it helps to make              
possible the regressive course of the dream-representation. The              
abandonment of voluntary guidance of the flow of ideas is                    
incontestable; but psychic life does not thereby become aimless, for         
we have seen that upon relinquishment of the voluntary directing             
ideas, involuntary ones take charge. On the other hand, we have not          
only recognized the loose associative connection of the dream, but           
have brought a far greater area within the scope of this kind of             
connection than could have been suspected; we have, however, found           
it merely an enforced substitute for another, a correct and                  
significant type of association. To be sure, we too have called the          
dream absurd, but examples have shown us how wise the dream is when it       
simulates absurdity. As regards the functions that have been                 
attributed to the dream, we are able to accept them all. That the            
dream relieves the mind, like a safety-valve, and that, as Robert            
has put it, all kinds of harmful material are rendered harmless by           
representation in the dream, not only coincides exactly with our own         
theory of the twofold wish-fulfilment in the dream, but in its very          
wording becomes more intelligible for us than it is for Robert               
himself. The free indulgence of the psyche in the play of its                
faculties is reproduced in our theory as the non-interference of the         
preconscious activity with the dream. The return of the embryonal            
standpoint of psychic life in the dream, and Havelock Ellis's remark         
that the dream is "an archaic world of vast emotions and imperfect           
thoughts," appear to us as happy anticipations of our own                    
exposition, which asserts that primitive modes of operations that            
are suppressed during the day play a part in the formation of                
dreams. We can fully identify ourselves with Sully's statement, that         
"our dreams bring back again our earlier and successively developed          
personalities, our old ways of regarding things, with impulses and           
modes of reaction which ruled us long ago"; and for us, as for Delage,       
the suppressed material becomes the mainspring of the dream.                 
  We have fully accepted the role that Scherner ascribes to the              
dream-phantasy, and his own interpretations, but we have been                
obliged to transpose them, as it were, to another part of the problem.       
It is not the dream that creates the phantasy, but the activity of           
unconscious phantasy that plays the leading part in the formation of         
the dream-thoughts. We remain indebted to Scherner for directing us to       
the source of the dream-thoughts, but almost everything that he              
ascribes to the dream-work is attributable to the activity of the            
unconscious during the day, which instigates dreams no less than             
neurotic symptoms. The dream-work we had to separate from this               
activity as something quite different and far more closely controlled.       
Finally, we have by no means renounced the relation of the dream to          
psychic disturbances, but have given it, on new ground, a more solid         
foundation.                                                                  
  Held together by the new features in our theory as by a superior           
unity, we find the most varied and most contradictory conclusions of         
other writers fitting into our structure; many of them are given a           
different turn, but only a few of them are wholly rejected. But our          
own structure is still unfinished. For apart from the many obscure           
questions in which we have involved ourselves by our advance into            
the dark regions of psychology, we are now, it would seem, embarrassed       
by a new contradiction. On the one hand, we have made it appear that         
the dream-thoughts proceed from perfectly normal psychic activities,         
but on the other hand we have found among the dream-thoughts a               
number of entirely abnormal mental processes, which extend also to the       
dream-content, and which we reproduce in the interpretation of the           
dream. All that we have termed the dream-work seems to depart so             
completely from the psychic processes which we recognize as correct          
and appropriate that the severest judgments expressed by the writers         
mentioned as to the low level of psychic achievement of dreams must          
appear well founded.                                                         
  Here, perhaps, only further investigations can provide an                  
explanation and set us on the right path. Let me pick out for                
renewed attention one of the constellations which lead to                    
dream-formation.                                                             
  We have learned that the dream serves as a substitute for a number         
of thoughts derived from our daily life, and which fit together with         
perfect logic. We cannot, therefore, doubt that these thoughts have          
their own origin in our normal mental life. All the qualities which we       
value in our thought-processes, and which mark them out as complicated       
performances of a high order, we shall find repeated in the                  
dream-thoughts. There is, however, no need to assume that this               
mental work is performed during sleep; such an assumption would              
badly confuse the conception of the psychic state of sleep to which we       
have hitherto adhered. On the contrary, these thoughts may very well         
have their origin in the daytime, and, unremarked by our                     
consciousness, may have gone on from their first stimulus until, at          
the onset of sleep, they have reached completion. If we are to               
conclude anything from this state of affairs, it can only be that it         
proves that the most complex mental operations are possible without          
the cooperation of consciousness- a truth which we have had to learn         
anyhow from every psycho-analysis of a patient suffering from hysteria       
or obsessions. These dream-thoughts are certainly not in themselves          
incapable of consciousness; if we have not become conscious of them          
during the day, this may have been due to various reasons. The act           
of becoming conscious depends upon a definite psychic function-              
attention- being brought to bear. This seems to be available only in a       
determinate quantity, which may have been diverted from the train of         
thought in question by other aims. Another way in which such trains of       
thought may be withheld from consciousness is the following: From            
our conscious reflection we know that, when applying our attention, we       
follow a particular course. But if that course leads us to an idea           
which cannot withstand criticism, we break off and allow the                 
cathexis of attention to drop. Now, it would seem that the train of          
thought thus started and abandoned may continue to develop without our       
attention returning to it, unless at some point it attains a specially       
high intensity which compels attention. An initial conscious rejection       
by our judgment, on the ground of incorrectness or uselessness for the       
immediate purpose of the act of thought, may, therefore, be the              
cause of a thought-process going on unnoticed by consciousness until         
the onset of sleep.                                                          
  Let us now recapitulate: We call such a train of thought a                 
preconscious train, and we believe it to be perfectly correct, and           
that it may equally well be a merely neglected train or one that has         
been interrupted and suppressed. Let us also state in plain terms            
how we visualize the movement of our thought. We believe that a              
certain quantity of excitation, which we call cathectic energy, is           
displaced from a purposive idea along the association paths selected         
by this directing idea. A neglected train of thought has received no         
such cathexis, and the cathexis has been withdrawn from one that was         
suppressed or rejected; both have thus been left to their own                
excitations. The train of thought cathected by some aim becomes able         
under certain conditions to attract the attention of consciousness,          
and by the mediation of consciousness it then receives hyper-cathexis.       
We shall be obliged presently to elucidate our assumptions as to the         
nature and function of consciousness.                                        
  A train of thought thus incited in the Pcs may either disappear            
spontaneously, or it may continue. The former eventuality we                 
conceive as follows: it diffuses its energy through all the                  
association paths emanating from it, and throws the entire chain of          
thoughts into a state of excitation, which continues for a while,            
and then subsides, through the excitation which had called for               
discharge being transformed into dormant cathexis. If this first             
eventuality occurs, the process has no further significance for              
dream-formation. But other directing ideas are lurking in our                
preconscious, which have their source in our unconscious and                 
ever-active wishes. These may gain control of the excitation in the          
circle of thoughts thus left to itself, establish a connection between       
it and the unconscious wish, and transfer to it the energy inherent in       
the unconscious wish. Henceforth the neglected or suppressed train           
of thought is in a position to maintain itself, although this                
reinforcement gives it no claim to access to consciousness. We may           
say, then, that the hitherto preconscious train of thought has been          
drawn into the unconscious.                                                  
  Other constellations leading to dream-formation might be as follows:       
The preconscious train of thought might have been connected from the         
beginning with the unconscious wish, and for that reason might have          
met with rejection by the dominating aim-cathexis. Or an unconscious         
wish might become active for other (possibly somatic) reasons, and           
of its own accord seek a transference to the psychic residues not            
cathected by the Pcs. All three cases have the same result: there is         
established in the preconscious a train of thought which, having             
been abandoned by the preconscious cathexis, has acquired cathexis           
from the unconscious wish.                                                   
  From this point onward the train of thought is subjected to a series       
of transformations which we no longer recognize as normal psychic            
processes, and which give a result that we find strange, a                   
psychopathological formation. Let us now emphasize and bring                 
together these transformations:                                              
  1. The intensities of the individual ideas become capable of               
discharge in their entirety, and pass from one idea to another, so           
that individual ideas are formed which are endowed with great                
intensity. Through the repeated occurrence of this process, the              
intensity of an entire train of thought may ultimately be concentrated       
in a single conceptual unit. This is the fact of compression or              
condensation with which we become acquainted when investigating the          
dream-work. It is condensation that is mainly responsible for the            
strange impression produced by dreams, for we know of nothing                
analogous to it in the normal psychic life that is accessible to             
consciousness. We get here, too, ideas which are of great psychic            
significance as nodal points or as end-results of whole chains of            
thought, but this value is not expressed by any character actually           
manifest for our internal perception; what is represented in it is not       
in any way made more intensive. In the process of condensation the           
whole set of psychic connections becomes transformed into the                
intensity of the idea-content. The situation is the same as when, in         
the case of a book, I italicize or print in heavy type any word to           
which I attach outstanding value for the understanding of the text. In       
speech, I should pronounce the same word loudly, and deliberately, and       
with emphasis. The first simile points immediately to one of the             
examples which were given of the dream-work (trimethylamine in the           
dream of Irma's injection). Historians of art call our attention to          
the fact that the most ancient sculptures known to history follow a          
similar principle, in expressing the rank of the persons represented         
by the size of the statues. The king is made two or three times as           
tall as his retinue or his vanquished enemies. But a work of art of          
the Roman period makes use of more subtle means to accomplish the same       
end. The figure of the Emperor is placed in the centre, erect and in         
his full height, and special care is bestowed on the modelling of this       
figure; his enemies are seen cowering at his feet; but he is no longer       
made to seem a giant among dwarfs. At the same time, in the bowing           
of the subordinate to his superior, even in our own day, we have an          
echo of this ancient principle of representation.                            
  The direction followed by the condensations of the dream is                
prescribed on the one hand by the true preconscious relations of the         
dream-thoughts, and, on the other hand, by the attraction of the             
visual memories in the unconscious. The success of the                       
condensation-work produces those intensities which are required for          
penetration to the perception-system.                                        
  2. By the free transference of intensities, and in the service of          
the condensation, intermediary ideas- compromises, as it were- are           
formed (cf. the numerous examples). This, also, is something unheard         
of in the normal movement of our ideas, where what is of most                
importance is the selection and the retention of the right                   
conceptual material. On the other hand, composite and compromise             
formations occur with extraordinary frequency when we are trying to          
find verbal expression for preconscious thoughts; these are considered       
slips of the tongue.                                                         
  3. The ideas which transfer their intensities to one another are           
very loosely connected, and are joined together by such forms of             
association as are disdained by our serious thinking, and left to be         
exploited solely by wit. In particular, assonances and punning               
associations are treated as equal in value to any other associations.        
  4. Contradictory thoughts do not try to eliminate one another, but         
continue side by side, and often combine to form                             
condensation-products, as though no contradiction existed; or they           
form compromises for which we should never forgive our thought, but          
which we frequently sanction in our action.                                  
  These are some of the most conspicuous abnormal processes to which         
the dream-thoughts which have previously been rationally formed are          
subjected in the course of the dream-work. As the main feature of            
these processes, we may see that the greatest importance is attached         
to rendering the cathecting energy mobile and capable of discharge;          
the content and the intrinsic significance of the psychic elements           
to which these cathexes adhere become matters of secondary importance.       
One might perhaps assume that condensation and compromise-formation          
are effected only in the service of regression, when the occasion            
arises for changing thoughts into images. But the analysis- and              
still more plainly the synthesis- of such dreams as show no regression       
towards images, e.g., the dream Autodidasker: Conversation with              
Professor N, reveals the same processes of displacement and                  
condensation as do the rest.                                                 
  We cannot, therefore, avoid the conclusion that two kinds of               
essentially different psychic processes participate in                       
dream-formation; one forms perfectly correct and fitting                     
dream-thoughts, equivalent to the results of normal thinking, while          
the other deals with these thoughts in a most astonishing and, as it         
seems, incorrect way. The latter process we have already set apart           
in chapter VI as the dream-work proper. What can we say now as to            
the derivation of this psychic process?                                      
  It would be impossible to answer this question here if we had not          
penetrated a considerable way into the psychology of the neuroses, and       
especially of hysteria. From this, however, we learn that the same           
"incorrect" psychic processes- as well as others not enumerated-             
control the production of hysterical symptoms. In hysteria, too, we          
find at first a series of perfectly correct and fitting thoughts,            
equivalent to our conscious ones, of whose existence in this form we         
can, however, learn nothing, i.e., which we can only subsequently            
reconstruct. If they have forced their way anywhere to perception,           
we discover from the analysis of the symptom formed that these               
normal thoughts have been subjected to abnormal treatment, and that by       
means of condensation and compromise-formation, through superficial          
associations which cover up contradictions, and eventually along the         
path of regression, they have been conveyed into the symptom. In             
view of the complete identity between the peculiarities of the               
dream-work and those of the psychic activity which issues in                 
psychoneurotic symptoms, we shall feel justified in transferring to          
the dream the conclusions urged upon us by hysteria.                         
  From the theory of hysteria we borrow the proposition that such an         
abnormal psychic elaboration of a normal train of thought takes              
place only when the latter has been used for the transference of an          
unconscious wish which dares from the infantile life and is in a state       
of repression. Complying with this proposition, we have built up the         
theory of the dream on the assumption that the actuating dream-wish          
invariably originates in the unconscious; which, as we have                  
ourselves admitted, cannot be universally demonstrated, even though it       
cannot be refuted. But in order to enable us to say just what                
repression is, after employing this term so freely, we shall be              
obliged to make a further addition to our psychological scaffolding.         
  We had elaborated the fiction of a primitive psychic apparatus,            
the work of which is regulated by the effort to avoid accumulation           
of excitation, and as far as possible to maintain itself free from           
excitation. For this reason it was constructed after the plan of a           
reflex apparatus; motility, in the first place as the path to                
changes within the body, was the channel of discharge at its disposal.       
We then discussed the psychic results of experiences of gratification,       
and were able at this point to introduce a second assumption,                
namely, that the accumulation of excitation- by processes that do            
not concern us here- is felt as pain, and sets the apparatus in              
operation in order to bring about again a state of gratification, in         
which the diminution of excitation is perceived as pleasure. Such a          
current in the apparatus, issuing from pain and striving for pleasure,       
we call a wish. We have said that nothing but a wish is capable of           
setting the apparatus in motion and that the course of any                   
excitation in the apparatus is regulated automatically by the                
perception of pleasure and pain. The first occurrence of wishing may         
well have taken the form of a hallucinatory cathexis of the memory           
of gratification. But this hallucination, unless it could be                 
maintained to the point of exhaustion, proved incapable of bringing          
about a cessation of the need, and consequently of securing the              
pleasure connected with gratification.                                       
  Thus, there was required a second activity- in our terminology the         
activity of a second system- which would not allow the memory-cathexis       
to force its way to perception and thence to bind the psychic                
forces, but would lead the excitation emanating from the need-stimulus       
by a detour, which by means of voluntary motility would ultimately           
so change the outer world as to permit the real perception of the            
gratifying object. Thus far we have already elaborated the scheme of         
the psychic apparatus; these two systems are the germ of what we set         
up in the fully developed apparatus as the Ucs and Pcs.                      
  To change the outer world appropriately by means of motility               
requires the accumulation of a large total of experiences in the             
memory-systems, as well as a manifold consolidation of the relations         
which are evoked in this memory-material by various directing ideas.         
We will now proceed further with our assumptions. The activity of            
the second system, groping in many directions, tentatively sending           
forth cathexes and retracting them, needs on the one hand full command       
over all memory-material, but on the other hand it would be a                
superfluous expenditure of energy were it to send along the individual       
thought-paths large quantities of cathexis, which would then flow away       
to no purpose and thus diminish the quantity needed for changing the         
outer world. Out of a regard for purposiveness, therefore, I postulate       
that the second system succeeds in maintaining the greater part of the       
energic cathexes in a state of rest, and in using only a small portion       
for its operations of displacement. The mechanics of these processes         
is entirely unknown to me; anyone who seriously wishes to follow up          
these ideas must address himself to the physical analogies, and find         
some way of getting a picture of the sequence of motions which               
ensues on the excitation of the neurones. Here I do no more than             
hold fast to the idea that the activity of the first Psi-system aims         
at the free outflow of the quantities of excitation, and that the            
second system, by means of the cathexes emanating from it, effects           
an inhibition of this outflow, a transformation into dormant cathexis,       
probably with a rise of potential. I therefore assume that the               
course taken by any excitation under the control of the second               
system is bound to quite different mechanical conditions from those          
which obtain under the control of the first system. After the second         
system has completed its work of experimental thought, it removes            
the inhibition and damming up of the excitations and allows them to          
flow off into motility.                                                      
  An interesting train of thought now presents itself if we consider         
the relations of this inhibition of discharge by the second system           
to the process of regulation by the pain-principle. Let us now seek          
out the counterpart of the primary experience of gratification,              
namely, the objective experience of fear. Let a perception-stimulus          
act on the primitive apparatus and be the source of a pain-excitation.       
There will then ensue uncoordinated motor manifestations, which will         
go on until one of these withdraws the apparatus from perception,            
and at the same time from the pain. On the reappearance of the percept       
this manifestation will immediately be repeated (perhaps as a movement       
of flight), until the percept has again disappeared. But in this             
case no tendency will remain to recathect the perception of the source       
of pain by hallucination or otherwise. On the contrary, there will           
be a tendency in the primary apparatus to turn away again from this          
painful memory-image immediately if it is in any way awakened, since         
the overflow of its excitation into perception would, of course, evoke       
(or more precisely, begin to evoke) pain. This turning away from a           
recollection, which is merely a repetition of the former flight from         
perception, is also facilitated by the fact that, unlike the                 
perception, the recollection has not enough quality to arouse                
consciousness, and thereby to attract fresh cathexis. This                   
effortless and regular turning away of the psychic process from the          
memory of anything that had once been painful gives us the prototype         
and the first example of psychic repression. We all know how much of         
this turning away from the painful, the tactics of the ostrich, may          
still be shown as present even in the normal psychic life of adults.         
  In obedience to the pain-principle, therefore, the first                   
Psi-system is quite incapable of introducing anything unpleasant             
into the thought-nexus. The system cannot do anything but wish. If           
this were to remain so, the activity of thought of the second                
system, which needs to have at its disposal all the memories stored up       
by experience, would be obstructed. But two paths are now open: either       
the work of the second system frees itself completely from the               
pain-principle, and continues its course, paying no heed to the pain         
attached to given memories, or it contrives to cathect the memory of         
the pain in such a manner as to preclude the liberation of pain. We          
can reject the first possibility, as the pain-principle also proves to       
act as a regulator of the cycle of excitation in the second system; we       
are therefore thrown back upon the second possibility, namely, that          
this system cathects a memory in such a manner as to inhibit any             
outflow of excitation from it, and hence, also, the outflow,                 
comparable to a motor-innervation, needed for the development of pain.       
And thus, setting out from two different starting-points, i.e., from         
regard for the pain-principle, and from the principle of the least           
expenditure of innervation, we are led to the hypothesis that cathexis       
through the second system is at the same time an inhibition of the           
discharge of excitation. Let us, however, keep a close hold on the           
fact- for this is the key to the theory of repression- that the second       
system can only cathect an idea when it is in a position to inhibit          
any pain emanating from this idea. Anything that withdrew itself             
from this inhibition would also remain inaccessible for the second           
system, i.e., would immediately be given up by virtue of the                 
pain-principle. The inhibition of pain, however, need not be complete;       
it must be permitted to begin, since this indicates to the second            
system the nature of the memory, and possibly its lack of fitness            
for the purpose sought by the process of thought.                            
  The psychic process which is alone tolerated by the first system I         
shall now call the primary process; and that which results under the         
inhibiting action of the second system I shall call the secondary            
process. I can also show at another point for what purpose the               
second system is obliged to correct the primary process. The primary         
process strives for discharge of the excitation in order to                  
establish with the quantity of excitation thus collected an identity         
of perception; the secondary process has abandoned this intention, and       
has adopted instead the aim of an identity of thought. All thinking is       
merely a detour from the memory of gratification (taken as a purposive       
idea) to the identical cathexis of the same memory, which is to be           
reached once more by the path of motor experiences. Thought must             
concern itself with the connecting-paths between ideas without               
allowing itself to be misled by their intensities. But it is obvious         
that condensations of ideas and intermediate or                              
compromise-formations are obstacles to the attainment of the                 
identity which is aimed at; by substituting one idea for another             
they swerve away from the path which would have led onward from the          
first idea. Such procedures are, therefore, carefully avoided in our         
secondary thinking. It will readily be seen, moreover, that the              
pain-principle, although at other times it provides the                      
thought-process with its most important clues, may also put                  
difficulties in its way in the pursuit of identity of thought.               
Hence, the tendency of the thinking process must always be to free           
itself more and more from exclusive regulation by the                        
pain-principle, and to restrict the development of affect through            
the work of thought to the very minimum which remains effective as a         
signal. This refinement in functioning is to be achieved by a fresh          
hyper-cathexis, effected with the help of consciousness. But we are          
aware that this refinement is seldom successful, even in normal              
psychic life, and that our thinking always remains liable to                 
falsification by the intervention of the pain-principle.                     
  This, however, is not the breach in the functional efficiency of our       
psychic apparatus which makes it possible for thoughts representing          
the result of the secondary thought-work to fall into the power of the       
primary psychic process; by which formula we may now describe the            
operations resulting in dreams and the symptoms of hysteria. This            
inadequacy results from the converging of two factors in our                 
development, one of which pertains solely to the psychic apparatus,          
and has exercised a determining influence on the relation of the two         
systems, while the other operates fluctuatingly, and introduces motive       
forces of organic origin into the psychic life. Both originate in            
the infantile life, and are a precipitate of the alteration which            
our psychic and somatic organism has undergone since our infantile           
years.                                                                       
  When I termed one of the psychic processes in the psychic                  
apparatus the primary process, I did so not only in consideration of         
its status and function, but was also able to take account of the            
temporal relationship actually involved. So far as we know, a                
psychic apparatus possessing only the primary process does not               
exist, and is to that extent a theoretical fiction but this at least         
is a fact: that the primary processes are present in the apparatus           
from the beginning, while the secondary processes only take shape            
gradually during the course of life, inhibiting and overlaying the           
primary, whilst gaining complete control over them perhaps only in the       
prime of life. Owing to this belated arrival of the secondary                
processes, the essence of our being, consisting of unconscious               
wish-impulses, remains something which cannot be grasped or                  
inhibited by the preconscious; and its part is once and for all              
restricted to indicating the most appropriate paths for the                  
wish-impulses originating in the unconscious. These unconscious wishes       
represent for all subsequent psychic strivings a compulsion to which         
they Must submit themselves, although they may perhaps endeavour to          
divert them and to guide them to superior aims. In consequence of this       
retardation, an extensive region of the memory-material remains in           
fact inaccessible to preconscious cathexis.                                  
  Now among these wish-impulses originating in the infantile life.           
indestructible and incapable of inhibition, there are some the               
fulfilments of which have come to be in contradiction with the               
purposive ideas of our secondary thinking. The fulfilment of these           
wishes would no longer produce an affect of pleasure, but one of pain;       
and it is just this conversion of affect that constitutes the                
essence of what we call repression. In what manner and by what               
motive forces such a conversion can take place constitutes the problem       
of repression, which we need here only to touch upon in passing. It          
will suffice to note the fact that such a conversion of affect               
occurs in the course of development (one need only think of the              
emergence of disgust, originally absent in infantile life), and that         
it is connected with the activity of the secondary system. The               
memories from which the unconscious wish evokes a liberation of affect       
have never been accessible to the Pcs, and for that reason this              
liberation cannot be inhibited. It is precisely on account of this           
generation of affect that these ideas are not now accessible even by         
way of the preconscious thoughts to which they have transferred the          
energy of the wishes connected with them. On the contrary, the               
pain-principle comes into play, and causes the Pcs to turn away from         
these transference-thoughts. These latter are left to themselves,            
are repressed, and thus, the existence of a store of infantile               
memories, withdrawn from the beginning from the Pcs, becomes the             
preliminary condition of repression.                                         
  In the most favourable case, the generation of pain terminates so          
soon as the cathexis is withdrawn from the transference-thoughts in          
the Pcs, and this result shows that the intervention of the                  
pain-principle is appropriate. It is otherwise, however, if the              
repressed unconscious wish receives an organic reinforcement which           
it can put at the service of its transference-thoughts, and by which         
it can enable them to attempt to break through with their                    
excitation, even if the cathexis of the Pcs has been taken away from         
them. A defensive struggle then ensues, inasmuch as the Pcs reinforces       
the opposite to the repressed thoughts (counter-cathexis), and the           
eventual outcome is that the transference-thoughts (the carriers of          
the unconscious wish) break through in some form of compromise through       
symptom-formation. But from the moment that the repressed thoughts are       
powerfully cathected by the unconscious wish-impulse, but forsaken           
by the preconscious cathexis, they succumb to the primary psychic            
process, and aim only at motor discharge; or, if the way is clear,           
at hallucinatory revival of the desired identity of perception. We           
have already found, empirically, that the incorrect processes                
described are enacted only with thoughts which are in a state of             
repression. We are now in a position to grasp yet another part of            
the total scheme of the facts. These incorrect Processes are the             
primary processes of the psychic apparatus; they occur wherever              
ideas abandoned by the preconscious cathexis are left to themselves          
and can become filled with the uninhibited energy which flows from the       
unconscious and strives for discharge. There are further facts which         
go to show that the processes described as incorrect are not really          
falsifications of our normal procedure, or defective thinking. but the       
modes of operation of the psychic apparatus when freed from                  
inhibition. Thus we see that the process of the conveyance of the            
preconscious excitation to motility occurs in accordance with the same       
procedure, and that in the linkage of preconscious ideas with words we       
may easily find manifested the same displacements and confusions             
(which we ascribe to inattention). Finally, a proof of the increased         
work made necessary by the inhibition of these primary modes of              
procedure might be found in the fact that we achieve a comical effect,       
a surplus to be discharged through laughter, if we allow these modes         
of thought to come to consciousness.                                         
  The theory of the psychoneuroses asserts with absolute certainty           
that it can only be sexual wish-impulses from the infantile life,            
which have undergone repression (affect-conversion) during the               
developmental period of childhood, which are capable of renewal at           
later periods of development (whether as a result of our sexual              
constitution, which has, of course, grown out of an original                 
bi-sexuality, or in consequence of unfavourable influences in our            
sexual life); and which therefore supply the motive-power for all            
psychoneurotic symptom-formation. It is only by the introduction of          
these sexual forces that the gaps still demonstrable in the theory           
of repression can be filled. Here, I will leave it undecided whether         
the postulate of the sexual and infantile holds good for the theory of       
dreams as well; I am not completing the latter, because in assuming          
that the dream-wish invariably originates in the unconscious I have          
already gone a step beyond the demonstrable. * Nor will I inquire            
further into the nature of the difference between the play of                
psychic forces in dream-formation and in the formation of hysterical         
symptoms, since there is missing here the needed fuller knowledge of         
one of the two things to be compared. But there is another point which       
I regard as important, and I will confess at once that it was only           
on account of this point that I entered upon all the discussions             
concerning the two psychic systems, their modes of operation, and            
the fact of repression. It does not greatly matter whether I have            
conceived the psychological relations at issue with approximate              
correctness, or, as is easily possible in such a difficult matter,           
wrongly and imperfectly. However our views may change about the              
interpretation of the psychic censorship or the correct and the              
abnormal elaboration of the dream-content. it remains certain that           
such processes are active in dream-formation, and that in their              
essentials they reveal the closest analogy with the processes observed       
in the formation of hysterical symptoms. Now the dream is not a              
pathological phenomenon; it does not presuppose any disturbance of our       
psychic equilibrium; and it does not leave behind it any weakening           
of our efficiency or capacities. The objection that no conclusions can       
be drawn about the dreams of healthy persons from my own dreams and          
from those of my neurotic patients may be rejected without comment.          
If, then, from the nature of the given phenomena we infer the nature         
of their motive forces, we find that the psychic mechanism utilized by       
the neuroses is not newly-created by a morbid disturbance that lays          
hold of the psychic life, but lies in readiness in the normal                
structure of our psychic apparatus. The two psychic systems, the             
frontier-censorship between them, the inhibition and overlaying of the       
one activity by the other, the relations of both to consciousness-           
or whatever may take place of these concepts on a juster                     
interpretation of the actual relations- all these belong to the normal       
structure of our psychic instrument, and the dream shows us one of the       
paths which lead to a knowledge of this structure. If we wish to be          
content with a minimum of perfectly assured additions to our                 
knowledge, we shall say that the dream affords proof that the                
suppressed material continues to exist even in the normal person and         
remains capable of psychic activity. Dreams are one of the                   
manifestations of this suppressed material; theoretically, this is           
true in all cases; and in tangible experience, it has been found             
true in at least a great number of cases, which happen to display most       
plainly the more striking features of the dream-life. The suppressed         
psychic material, which in the waking state has been prevented from          
expression and cut off from internal perception by the mutual                
neutralization of contradictory attitudes, finds ways and means, under       
the sway of compromise-formations, of obtruding itself on                    
consciousness during the night.                                              
-                                                                            
  Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. *(2)                         
-                                                                            
  At any rate, the interpretation of dreams is the via regia to a            
knowledge of the unconscious element in our psychic life.                    
-                                                                            
  * Here, as elsewhere, there are gaps in the treatment of the               
subject, which I have deliberately left, because to fill them up             
would, on the one hand, require excessive labour, and, on the other          
hand, I should have to depend on material which is foreign to the            
dream. Thus, for example, I have avoided stating whether I give the          
word suppressed a different meaning from that of the word repressed.         
No doubt, however, it will have become clear that the latter                 
emphasizes more than the former the relation to the unconscious. I           
have not gone into the problem, which obviously arises, of why the           
dream-thoughts undergo distortion by the censorship even when they           
abandon the progressive path to consciousness, and choose the path           
of regression. And so with other similar omissions. I have, above all,       
sought to give some idea of the problems to which the further                
dissection of the dream-work leads, and to indicate the other themes         
with which these are connected. It was, however, not always easy to          
decide just where the pursuit should be discontinued. That I have            
not treated exhaustively the part which the psycho-sexual life plays         
in the dream, and have avoided the interpretation of dreams of an            
obviously sexual content, is due to a special reason- which may not          
perhaps be that which the reader would expect. It is absolutely              
alien to my views and my neuropathological doctrines to regard the           
sexual life as a pudendum with which neither the physician nor the           
scientific investigator should concern himself. To me, the moral             
indignation which prompted the translator of Artemidorus of Daldis           
to keep from the reader's knowledge the chapter on sexual dreams             
contained in the Symbolism of Dreams is merely ludicrous. For my own         
part, what decided my procedure was solely the knowledge that in the         
explanation of sexual dreams I should be bound to get deeply                 
involved in the still unexplained problems of perversion and                 
bisexuality; it was for this reason that I reserved this material            
for treatment elsewhere.                                                     
  *(2) If I cannot influence the gods, I will stir up Acheron.               
-                                                                            
  By the analysis of dreams we obtain some insight into the                  
composition of this most marvellous and most mysterious of                   
instruments; it is true that this only takes us a little way, but it         
gives us a start which enables us, setting out from the angle of other       
(properly pathological) formations, to penetrate further in our              
disjoining of the instrument. For disease- at all events that which is       
rightly called functional- does not necessarily presuppose the               
destruction of this apparatus, or the establishment of new cleavages         
in its interior: it can be explained dynamically by the                      
strengthening and weakening of the components of the play of forces,         
so many of the activities of which are covered up in normal                  
functioning. It might be shown elsewhere how the fact that the               
apparatus is a combination of two instances also permits of a                
refinement of its normal functioning which would have been                   
impossible to a single system. *                                             
-                                                                            
  * The dream is not the only phenomenon that permits us to base our         
psycho-pathology on psychology. In a short unfinished series of              
articles in the Monatsschrift fur Psychiatrie und Neurologie ("uber          
den psychischen Mechanismus der Vergesslichkeit," 1898, and "uber            
Deckerinnerungen," 1899) I attempted to interpret a number of                
psychic manifestations from everyday life in support of the same             
conception. (These and other articles on "Forgetting," "Lapses of            
Speech," etc., have now been published in the Psycho-pathology of            
Everyday Life.)                                                              
                                                                             
VII|F                                                                        
            F. The Unconscious and Consciousness. Reality.                   
-                                                                            
  If we look more closely, we may observe that the psychological             
considerations examined in the foregoing chapter require us to assume,       
not the existence of two systems near the motor end of the psychic           
apparatus, but two kinds of processes or courses taken by                    
excitation. But this does not disturb us; for we must always be              
ready to drop our auxiliary ideas, when we think we are in a                 
position to replace them by something which comes closer to the              
unknown reality. Let us now try to correct certain views which may           
have taken a misconceived form as long as we regarded the two systems,       
in the crudest and most obvious sense, as two localities within the          
psychic apparatus- views which have left a precipitate in the terms          
repression and penetration. Thus, when we say that an unconscious            
thought strives for translation into the preconscious in order               
subsequently to penetrate through to consciousness, we do not mean           
that a second idea has to be formed, in a new locality, like a               
paraphrase, as it were, whilst the original persists by its side;            
and similarly, when we speak of penetration into consciousness, we           
wish carefully to detach from this notion any idea of a change of            
locality. When we say that a preconscious idea is repressed and              
subsequently absorbed by the unconscious, we might be tempted by these       
images, borrowed from the idea of a struggle for a particular                
territory, to assume that an arrangement is really broken up in the          
one psychic locality and replaced by a new one in the other                  
locality. For these comparisons we will substitute a description which       
would seem to correspond more closely to the real state of affairs; we       
will say that an energic cathexis is shifted to or withdrawn from a          
certain arrangement, so that the psychic formation falls under the           
domination of a given instance or is withdrawn from it. Here again           
we replace a topographical mode of representation by a dynamic one; it       
is not the psychic formation that appears to us as the mobile element,       
but its innervation. *                                                       
-                                                                            
  * This conception underwent elaboration and modification when it was       
recognized that the essential character of a preconscious idea was its       
connection with the residues of verbal ideas. See The Unconscious,           
p. 428 below.                                                                
-                                                                            
  Nevertheless, I think it expedient and justifiable to continue to          
use the illustrative idea of the two systems. We shall avoid any abuse       
of this mode of representation if we remember that ideas, thoughts,          
and psychic formations in general must not in any case be localized in       
organic elements of the nervous system but, so to speak, between them,       
where resistances and association-tracks form the correlate                  
corresponding to them. Everything that can become an object of               
internal perception is virtual, like the image in the telescope              
produced by the crossing of light-rays. But we are justified in              
thinking of the systems- which have nothing psychic in themselves, and       
which never become accessible to our psychic perception- as                  
something similar to the lenses of the telescope, which project the          
image. If we continue this comparison, we might say that the                 
censorship between the two systems corresponds to the refraction of          
rays on passing into a new medium.                                           
  Thus far, we have developed our psychology on our own                      
responsibility; it is now time to turn and look at the doctrines             
prevailing in modern psychology, and to examine the relation of              
these to our theories. The problem of the unconscious in psychology          
is, according to the forcible statement of Lipps, * less a                   
psychological problem than the problem of psychology. As long as             
psychology disposed of this problem by the verbal explanation that the       
psychic is the conscious, and that unconscious psychic occurrences are       
an obvious contradiction, there was no possibility of a physician's          
observations of abnormal mental states being turned to any                   
psychological account. The physician and the philosopher can meet only       
when both acknowledge that unconscious psychic processes is the              
appropriate and justified expression for all established fact. The           
physician cannot but reject, with a shrug of his shoulders, the              
assertion that consciousness is the indispensable quality of the             
psychic; if his respect for the utterances of the philosophers is            
still great enough, he may perhaps assume that he and they do not deal       
with the same thing and do not pursue the same science. For a single         
intelligent observation of the psychic life of a neurotic, a single          
analysis of a dream, must force upon him the unshakable conviction           
that the most complicated and the most accurate operations of thought,       
to which the name of psychic occurrences can surely not be refused,          
may take place without arousing consciousness. *(2) The physician,           
it is true, does not learn of these unconscious processes until they         
have produced an effect on consciousness which admits of communication       
or observation. But this effect on consciousness may show a psychic          
character which differs completely from the unconscious process, so          
that internal perception cannot possibly recognize in the first a            
substitute for the second. The physician must reserve himself the            
right to penetrate, by a Process of deduction, from the effect on            
consciousness to the unconscious psychic process; he learns in this          
way that the effect on consciousness is only a remote psychic                
product of the unconscious process, and that the latter has not become       
conscious as such, and has, moreover, existed and operated without           
in any way betraying itself to consciousness.                                
-                                                                            
  * Der Begriff des Unbewussten in der Psychologie. Lecture                  
delivered at the Third International Psychological Congress at Munich,       
1897.                                                                        
  *(2) I am happy to be able to point to an author who has drawn             
from the study of dreams the same conclusion as regards the relation         
between consciousness and the unconscious.                                   
  Du Prel says: "The problem: what is the psyche, manifestly                 
requires a preliminary examination as to whether consciousness and           
psyche are identical. But it is just this preliminary question which         
is answered in the negative by the dream, which shows that the concept       
of the psyche extends beyond that of consciousness, much as the              
gravitational force of a star extends beyond its sphere of luminosity"       
(Philos. d. Mystik, p. 47).                                                  
  "It is a truth which cannot be sufficiently emphasized that the            
concepts of consciousness and of the psyche are not co-extensive"            
(p. 306).                                                                    
-                                                                            
  A return from the over-estimation of the property of consciousness         
is the indispensable preliminary to any genuine insight into the             
course of psychic events. As Lipps has said, the unconscious must be         
accepted as the general basis of the psychic life. The unconscious           
is the larger circle which includes the smaller circle of the                
conscious; everything conscious has a preliminary unconscious stage,         
whereas the unconscious can stop at this stage, and yet claim to be          
considered a full psychic function. The unconscious is the true              
psychic reality; in its inner nature it is just as much unknown to           
us as the reality of the external world, and it is just as imperfectly       
communicated to us by the data of consciousness as is the external           
world by the reports of our sense-organs.                                    
  We get rid of a series of dream-problems which have claimed much           
attention from earlier writers on the subject when the old                   
antithesis between conscious life and dream-life is discarded, and the       
unconscious psychic assigned to its proper place. Thus, many of the          
achievements which are a matter for wonder in a dream are now no             
longer to be attributed to dreaming, but to unconscious thinking,            
which is active also during the day. If the dream seems to make play         
with a symbolical representation of the body, as Scherner has said, we       
know that this is the work of certain unconscious phantasies, which          
are probably under the sway of sexual impulses and find expression not       
only in dreams, but also in hysterical phobias and other symptoms.           
If the dream continues and completes mental work begun during the day,       
and even brings valuable new ideas to light, we have only to strip off       
the dream-disguise from this, as the contribution of the dream-work,         
and a mark of the assistance of dark powers in the depths of the             
psyche (cf. the devil in Tartini's sonata-dream). The intellectual           
achievement as such belongs to the same psychic forces as are                
responsible for all such achievements during the day. We are                 
probably much too inclined to over-estimate the conscious character          
even of intellectual and artistic production. From the reports of            
certain writers who have been highly productive, such as Goethe and          
Helmholtz, we learn, rather, that the most essential and original part       
of their creations came to them in the form of inspirations, and             
offered itself to their awareness in an almost completed state. In           
other cases, where there is a concerted effort of all the psychic            
forces, there is nothing strange in the fact that conscious                  
activity, too, lends its aid. But it is the much-abused privilege of         
conscious activity to hide from us all other activities wherever it          
participates.                                                                
  It hardly seems worth while to take up the historical significance         
of dreams as a separate theme. Where, for instance, a leader has             
been impelled by a dream to engage in a bold undertaking, the                
success of which has had the effect of changing history, a new problem       
arises only so long as the dream is regarded as a mysterious power and       
contrasted with other more familiar psychic forces. The problem              
disappears as soon as we regard the dream as a form of expression            
for impulses to which a resistance was attached during the day, whilst       
at night they were able to draw reinforcement from deep-lying                
sources of excitation. * But the great respect with which the                
ancient peoples regarded dreams is based on a just piece of                  
psychological divination. It is a homage paid to the unsubdued and           
indestructible element in the human soul, to the demonic power which         
furnishes the dream-wish, and which we have found again in our               
unconscious.                                                                 
-                                                                            
  * Cf. (chapter II.), the dream (Sa-Turos) of Alexander the Great           
at the siege of Tyre.                                                        
-                                                                            
  It is not without purpose that I use the expression in our                 
unconscious, for what we so call does not coincide with the                  
unconscious of the philosophers, nor with the unconscious of Lipps. As       
they use the term, it merely means the opposite of the conscious. That       
there exist not only conscious but also unconscious psychic                  
processes is the opinion at issue, which is so hotly contested and           
so energetically defended. Lipps enunciates the more comprehensive           
doctrine that everything psychic exists as unconscious, but that             
some of it may exist also as conscious. But it is not to prove this          
doctrine that we have adduced the phenomena of dreams and hysterical         
symptom-formation; the observation of normal life alone suffices to          
establish its correctness beyond a doubt. The novel fact that we             
have learned from the analysis of psycho-pathological formations,            
and indeed from the first member of the group, from dreams, is that          
the unconscious- and hence all that is psychic- occurs as a function         
of two separate systems, and that as such it occurs even in normal           
psychic life. There are consequently two kinds of unconscious, which         
have not as yet been distinguished by psychologists. Both are                
unconscious in the psychological sense; but in our sense the first,          
which we call Ucs, is likewise incapable of consciousness; whereas the       
second we call Pcs because its excitations, after the observance of          
certain rules, are capable of reaching consciousness; perhaps not            
before they have again undergone censorship, but nevertheless                
regardless of the Ucs system. The fact that in order to attain               
consciousness the excitations must pass through an unalterable series,       
a succession of instances, as is betrayed by the changes produced in         
them by the censorship, has enabled us to describe them by analogy           
in spatial terms. We described the relations of the two systems to           
each other and to consciousness by saying that the system Pcs is             
like a screen between the system Ucs and consciousness. The system Pcs       
not only bars access to consciousness, but also controls the access to       
voluntary motility, and has control of the emission of a mobile              
cathectic energy, a portion of which is familiar to us as attention. *       
-                                                                            
  * Cf. here my remarks in the Proceedings of the Society for                
Psychical Research, vol. xxvi, in which the descriptive, dynamic and         
systematic meanings of the ambiguous word Unconscious are                    
distinguished from one another.                                              
-                                                                            
  We must also steer clear of the distinction between the                    
super-conscious and the subconscious, which has found such favour in         
the more recent literature on the psychoneuroses, for just such a            
distinction seems to emphasize the equivalence of what is psychic            
and what is conscious.                                                       
  What role is now left, in our representation of things, to the             
phenomenon of consciousness, once so all-powerful and over-shadowing         
all else? None other than that of a sense-organ for the perception           
of psychic qualities. According to the fundamental idea of our               
schematic attempt we can regard conscious perception only as the             
function proper to a special system for which the abbreviated                
designation Cs commends itself. This system we conceive to be                
similar in its mechanical characteristics to the perception-system           
P, and hence excitable by qualities, and incapable of retaining the          
trace of changes: i.e., devoid of memory. The psychic apparatus which,       
with the sense-organ of the P-systems, is turned to the outer world,         
is itself the outer world for the sense-organ of Cs, whose                   
teleological justification depends on this relationship. We are here         
once more confronted with the principle of the succession of instances       
which seems to dominate the structure of the apparatus. The material         
of excitation flows to the sense-organ Cs from two sides: first from         
the P-system, whose excitation, qualitatively conditioned, probably          
undergoes a new elaboration until it attains conscious perception;           
and, secondly, from the interior of the apparatus itself, whose              
quantitative processes are perceived as a qualitative series of              
pleasures and pains once they have reached consciousness after               
undergoing certain changes.                                                  
  The philosophers, who became aware that accurate and highly                
complicated thought-structures are possible even without the                 
co-operation of consciousness, thus found it difficult to ascribe            
any function to consciousness; it appeared to them a superfluous             
mirroring of the completed psychic process. The analogy of our Cs            
system with the perception-systems relieves us of this                       
embarrassment. We see that perception through our sense-organs results       
in directing an attention-cathexis to the paths along which the              
incoming sensory excitation diffuses itself; the qualitative                 
excitation of the P-system serves the mobile quantity in the psychic         
apparatus as a regulator of its discharge. We may claim the same             
function for the overlying sense-organ of the Cs system. By perceiving       
new qualities, it furnishes a new contribution for the guidance and          
suitable distribution of the mobile cathexis-quantities. By means of         
perceptions of pleasure and pain, it influences the course of the            
cathexes within the psychic apparatus, which otherwise operates              
unconsciously and by the displacement of quantities. It is probable          
that the pain-principle first of all regulates the displacements of          
cathexis automatically, but it is quite possible that consciousness          
contributes a second and more subtle regulation of these qualities,          
which may even oppose the first, and perfect the functional capacity         
of the apparatus, by placing it in a position contrary to its original       
design, subjecting even that which induces pain to cathexis and to           
elaboration. We learn from neuro-psychology that an important part           
in the functional activity of the apparatus is ascribed to these             
regulations by the qualitative excitations of the sense-organs. The          
automatic rule of the primary pain-principle, together with the              
limitation of functional capacity bound up with it, is broken by the         
sensory regulations, which are themselves again automatisms. We find         
that repression, which, though originally expedient, nevertheless            
finally brings about a harmful lack of inhibition and of psychic             
control, overtakes memories much more easily than it does perceptions,       
because in the former there is no additional cathexis from the               
excitation of the psychic sense-organs. Whilst an idea which is to           
be warded off may fail to become conscious because it has succumbed to       
repression, it may on other occasions come to be repressed simply            
because it has been withdrawn from conscious perception on other             
grounds. These are clues which we make use of in therapy in order to         
undo accomplished repressions.                                               
  The value of the hyper-cathexis which is produced by the                   
regulating influence of the Cs sense-organs on the mobile quantity           
is demonstrated in a teleological context by nothing more clearly than       
by the creation of a new series of qualities, and consequently a new         
regulation, which constitutes the prerogative of man over animals. For       
the mental processes are in themselves unqualitative except for the          
excitations of pleasure and pain which accompany them: which, as we          
know, must be kept within limits as possible disturbers of thought. In       
order to endow them with quality, they are associated in man with            
verbal memories, the qualitative residues of which suffice to draw           
upon them the attention of consciousness, which in turn endows thought       
with a new mobile cathexis.                                                  
  It is only on a dissection of hysterical mental processes that the         
manifold nature of the problems of consciousness becomes apparent. One       
then receives the impression that the transition from the preconscious       
to the conscious cathexis is associated with a censorship similar to         
that between Ucs and Pcs. This censorship, too, begins to act only           
when a certain quantitative limit is reached, so that                        
thought-formations which are not very intense escape it. All                 
possible cases of detention from consciousness and of penetration into       
consciousness under certain restrictions are included within the range       
of psychoneurotic phenomena; all point to the intimate and twofold           
connection between the censorship and consciousness. I shall                 
conclude these psychological considerations with the record of two           
such occurrences.                                                            
  On the occasion of a consultation a few years ago, the patient was         
an intelligent-looking girl with a simple, unaffected manner. She            
was strangely attired; for whereas a woman's dress is usually                
carefully thought out to the last pleat, one of her stockings was            
hanging down and two of the buttons of her blouse were undone. She           
complained of pains in one of her legs, and exposed her calf without         
being asked to do so. Her chief complaint, however, was as follows:          
She had a feeling in her body as though something were sticking into         
it which moved to and fro and shook her through and through. This            
sometimes seemed to make her whole body stiff. On hearing this, my           
colleague in consultation looked at me: the trouble was quite                
obvious to him. To both of us it seemed peculiar that this suggested         
nothing to the patient's mother, though she herself must repeatedly          
have been in the situation described by her child. As for the girl,          
she had no idea of the import of her words, or she would never have          
allowed them to pass her lips. Here the censorship had been hoodwinked       
so successfully that under the mask of an innocent complaint a               
phantasy was admitted to consciousness which otherwise would have            
remained in the preconscious.                                                
  Another example: I began the psycho-analytic treatment of a boy            
fourteen who was suffering from tic convulsif, hysterical vomiting,          
headache, etc., by assuring him that after closing his eyes he would         
see pictures or that ideas would occur to him, which he was to               
communicate to me. He replied by describing pictures. The last               
impression he had received before coming to me was revived visually in       
his memory. He had been playing a game of checkers with his uncle, and       
now he saw the checkerboard before him. He commented on various              
positions that were favourable or unfavourable, on moves that were not       
safe to make. He then saw a dagger lying on the checker-board- an            
object belonging to his father, but which his phantasy laid on the           
checker-board. Then a sickle was lying on the board; a scythe was            
added; and finally, he saw the image of an old peasant mowing the            
grass in front of his father's house far away. A few days later I            
discovered the meaning of this series of pictures. Disagreeable family       
circumstances had made the boy excited and nervous. Here was a case of       
a harsh, irascible father, who had lived unhappily with the boy's            
mother, and whose educational methods consisted of threats; he had           
divorced his gentle and delicate wife, and remarried; one day he             
brought home a young woman as the boy's new mother. The illness of the       
fourteen-year-old boy developed a few days later. It was the                 
suppressed rage against his father that had combined these images into       
intelligible allusions. The material was furnished by a mythological         
reminiscence. The sickle was that with which Zeus castrated his              
father; the scythe and the image of the peasant represented Kronos,          
the violent old man who devours his children, and upon whom Zeus             
wreaks his vengeance in so unfilial a manner. The father's marriage          
gave the boy an opportunity of returning the reproaches and threats          
which the child had once heard his father utter because he played with       
his genitals (the draught-board; the prohibited moves; the dagger with       
which one could kill). We have here long-impressed memories and              
their unconscious derivatives which, under the guise of meaningless          
pictures, have slipped into consciousness by the devious paths               
opened to them.                                                              
  If I were asked what is the theoretical value of the study of              
dreams, I should reply that it lies in the additions to                      
psychological knowledge and the beginnings of an understanding of            
the neuroses which we thereby obtain. Who can foresee the importance a       
thorough knowledge of the structure and functions of the psychic             
apparatus may attain, when even our present state of knowledge permits       
of successful therapeutic intervention in the curable forms of               
psychoneuroses? But, it may be asked, what of the practical value of         
this study in regard to a knowledge of the psyche and discovery of the       
hidden peculiarities of individual character? Have not the unconscious       
impulses revealed by dreams the value of real forces in the psychic          
life? Is the ethical significance of the suppressed wishes to be             
lightly disregarded, since, just as they now create dreams, they may         
some day create other things?                                                
  I do not feel justified in answering these questions. I have not           
followed up this aspect of the problem of dreams. In any case,               
however, I believe that the Roman Emperor was in the wrong in ordering       
one of his subjects to be executed because the latter had dreamt             
that he had killed the Emperor. He should first of all have                  
endeavoured to discover the significance of the man's dreams; most           
probably it was not what it seemed to be. And even if a dream of a           
different content had actually had this treasonable meaning, it              
would still have been well to recall the words of Plato- that the            
virtuous man contents himself with dreaming of that which the wicked         
man does in actual life. I am therefore of the opinion that dreams           
should be acquitted of evil. Whether any reality is to be attributed         
to the unconscious wishes, I cannot say. Reality must, of course, be         
denied to all transitory and intermediate thoughts. If we had before         
us the unconscious wishes, brought to their final and truest                 
expression, we should still do well to remember that psychic reality         
is a special form of existence which must not be confounded with             
material reality. It seems, therefore, unnecessary that people               
should refuse to accept the responsibility for the immorality of their       
dreams. With an appreciation of the mode of functioning of the psychic       
apparatus, and an insight into the relations between conscious and           
unconscious, all that is ethically offensive in our dream-life and the       
life of phantasy for the most part disappears.                               
  "What a dream has told us of our relations to the present                  
(reality) we will then seek also in our consciousness and we must            
not be surprised if we discover that the monster we saw under the            
magnifying-glass of the analysis is a tiny little infusorian" (H.            
Sachs).                                                                      
  For all practical purposes in judging human character, a man's             
actions and conscious expressions of thought are in most cases               
sufficient. Actions, above all, deserve to be placed in the front            
rank; for many impulses which penetrate into consciousness are               
neutralized by real forces in the psychic life before they find              
issue in action; indeed, the reason why they frequently do not               
encounter any psychic obstacle on their path is because the                  
unconscious is certain of their meeting with resistances later. In any       
case, it is highly instructive to learn something of the intensively         
tilled soil from which our virtues proudly emerge. For the                   
complexity of human character, dynamically moved in all directions,          
very rarely accommodates itself to the arbitrament of a simple               
alternative, as our antiquated moral philosophy would have it.               
  And what of the value of dreams in regard to our knowledge of the          
future? That, of course, is quite out of the question. One would             
like to substitute the words: in regard to our knowledge of the              
past. For in every sense a dream has its origin in the past. The             
ancient belief that dreams reveal the future is not indeed entirely          
devoid of the truth. By representing a wish as fulfilled the dream           
certainly leads us into the future; but this future, which the dreamer       
accepts as his present, has been shaped in the likeness of the past by       
the indestructible wish.                                                     
                                                                             
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  "Die Symbolik in den Legenden, Marchen, Gebrauchen und Traumen,"           
Psychiatrisch-Neurolog. Wochenschr., X. Jahrg., 1908.                        
  "Zur Entstehung der Symbolik im Traum, in der Dementia praecox,            
etc." Zentralblatt f. Ps.-A., I, 1910-1911, pp. 383-389.                     
  "Uber die Funktion des Traumes," Jahrb. f. psychoanalyt. Forsch.,          
IV, 1912.                                                                    
  "Uber das Traumproblem", Ibid., V, 1913, p. 647.                           
  "Zur Frage der teleologischen Traumfunktion," Ibid., p. 453.               
-                                                                            
  MARCINOWSKI, J., "Gezeichnete Traume," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., II,           
1911-1912, pp. 490-518.                                                      
  "Drei Romane in Zahlen," Ibid., pp. 619-638.                               
-                                                                            
  MITCHELL, A., About Dreaming, Laughing and Blushing, London, 1905.         
-                                                                            
  MIURA, K., "Japanische Traumdeuterei," Mitt. d. deutsch, Ges. f.           
Natur- u, Volkerk Ostasiens, X, pp. 291-306.                                 
-                                                                            
  NACKE, P., "Uber sexuelle Traume," H. Gross' Archiv., 1903, p. 307.        
  "Der Traum als feinstes Reagans f. d. Akt d. sexuellen                     
Empfindens," Monatsschrift f. Krim.-Psychol., 1905.                          
  "Kontrasttraume und spez. sexuelle Kontrasttraume," H. Gross'              
Archiv., Vol. 24, 1907, pp. 1-19.                                            
  "Beitrage zu den sexuellen Traumen," H. Gross' Archiv., 29, pp.            
363 ff.                                                                      
  "Die diagnostische und prognostische Brauchbarkeit der sex. Traume,"       
Arztl. Sachv.-Ztg., 1911, No. 2.                                             
-                                                                            
  NEGELEIN, J. V., Der Traumschlussel des Yaggaddeva, Giessen, 1912.         
(Relig. Gesch. Vers., XI, 4.)                                                
-                                                                            
  PACHANTONI, D., "Der Traum als Ursprung von Wahnideen bei                  
Alkoholdeliranten," Zentralbl. f. Nervenheilk., 32. Jahrg., 1909, p.         
796.                                                                         
-                                                                            
  PEAR, T. H., "The Analysis of Some Personal Dreams, with Special           
Reference to Freud's Interpretation; Meeting at the British Assoc. for       
the advancement of science, Birmingham, 16-17 September, 1913,"              
British Journ. of. Psychol., VI, 3-4, February, 1914.                        
-                                                                            
  POTZL, OTTO, "Experimentell erregte Traumbilder in ihren Beziehungen       
zum indirekten Sehen," Zeitschr. f. d. ges. Neurol. u. Psych., Vol.          
37, 1917.                                                                    
-                                                                            
  PFISTER, OSKAR, "Wahnvorstellung und Schulerselbstmord. Auf Grund          
einer Traumanalyse beleuchtet," Schweiz. Blatter fur                         
Schulgesundheitspflege, 1909, No. I.                                         
 
  "Kryptolalie, Krytographie und unbewusstes Vexierbild bei Normalen,"       
Jahrb. f. Ps.-A. Forschg., V, I, 1913.                                       
-                                                                            
  PRINCE, MORTON, "The Mechanism and Interpretation of Dreams," Journ.       
of Abn. Psychol., October-November, 1910.                                    
  "The Mechanism and Interpretation of Dreams; a reply to Dr.                
Jones," Journ. of Abn. Psychol., 1910-1911, pp. 337-353.                     
-                                                                            
  PUTNAM, J. J., "Aus der Analyse zweier Treppen-Traume," Zentralbl.         
f. Ps.-A., II, 1911-1912, p. 264.                                            
  "Ein charakteristischer Kindertraum," Ibid., p. 328.                       
  "Dream-interpretation and the theory of Psycho-analysis," Journ,           
of Abn. Psychol., IX, No. I, p. 36.                                          
-                                                                            
  RAALTE, F. VAN, "Kinderdroomen," Het Kind, 1912. January.                  
-                                                                            
  RANK, OTTO, Der Mythus von der Geburt des Helden. Schr. z. angew.          
Seelenkunde, No. 5, Vienna and Leipzig, 1909.                                
  "Beispiel eines verkappten Odipus-Traumes," Zentralblatt fur               
Psychoanalyse, I, 1910.                                                      
  "Zum Thema der Zahnreiztraume," Ibid.                                      
  "Das Verlieren als Symptomhandlung, zugleich ein Beitrag zum               
Verstandnis der Beziehungen des Traumlebens zu den Fehlleistungen            
des Alltagslebens," Ibid.                                                    
  "Ein Traum, der sich selbst deutet," Jahrbuch fur psychoanalyt.            
und psychopathol. Forschungen, Vol. II, 1910.                                
  "Ein Beitrag zum Narzissmus," Ibid., Vol. III, 1911.                       
  "Fehlleistung und Traum," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., II, 1911-1912, p.          
266.                                                                         
  "Aktuelle Sexualregungen als Traumanlasse," Ibid., pp. 596-602.            
  "Die Symbolschichtung im Wecktraum und ihre Wiederkehr im mythischen       
Denken," Jahrb. f. Ps.-A., IV, 1912.                                         
  Das Inzestmotiv in Dichtung und Sage, Grundzuge einer Psychologie          
des dichterischen Schaffens, Vienna and Leipzig, 1912.                       
  "Die Nacktheit in Sage und Dichtung. Eine Ps.-A. Studie," Imago, II,       
1912.                                                                        
  "Eine noch nicht beschriebene Form des Odipus-Traumes," Intern.            
Zeitschr. f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913, p. 151.                                 
  "Fehlhandlung und Traum," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., III, p.           
158.                                                                         
  "Die Geburtsrettungsphantasie in Traum und Dichtung," Internat.            
Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., II, p. 43.                                              
  "Ein gedichteter Traum," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., III, p. 231.       
-                                                                            
  RANK, O., and SACHS, H., "Die Bedeutung der Psychoanalyse fur die          
Geisteswissenschaften." Grenzfr. d. Nerven- u. Seelenlebens, ed.             
Lowenfeld, No. 93, Wiesbaden, 1913.                                          
-                                                                            
  REIK, TH., "Zwei Traume Flauberts," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., III,             
1912-1913, p. 223.                                                           
  "Kriemhilds Traum," Ibid., II, p. 416.                                     
  "Beruf und Traumsymbolik," Ibid., p. 531.                                  
  "Der Nacktheitstraum eines Forschungsreisenden," Internat. Zeitschr.       
f. Ps.-A., II, p. 463.                                                       
  "Gotthilf Schuberts 'Symbolik des Traumes'," Internat. Zeitschr.           
f. Ps.-A., III, p. 295.                                                      
  "Volkerpsychologische Parallelen zum Traumsymbol des Mantels,"             
Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., VI, p. 310.                                   
  "Zum Thema: Traum und Traumwandeln," Internat, Zeitschr. f.                
Ps.-A., VI, p. 311.                                                          
-                                                                            
  ROBITSEK, ALFRED, "Die Analyse von Egmonts Traum," Jahrb fur               
psychoanalyt. und psychopathol. Forschungen, Vol. II, 1910.                  
  "Die Stiege, Leiter, als sexuelles Symbol in der Antike," Zentralbl.       
f. Ps.-A., I, 1910-1911, p. 586                                              
  "Zur Frage der Symbolik in den Traumen Gesunder," Ibid., II, p. 340.       
-                                                                            
  ROHEIM, G., "Die Urszene im Traume," Internat. Zeitschr. f.                
Ps.-A., VI, p. 337.                                                          
-                                                                            
  SACHS, HANNS, "Zur Darstellungstechnik des Traumes," Zentralbl. f.         
Ps.-A. I, 1910-1911.                                                         
  "Ein Fall intensiver Traumentstellung," Ibid., p. 588.                     
  "Traumdeutung und Menschenkenntnis," Jahrb. f. Ps.-A., III, 1911, p.       
568.                                                                         
  "Ein Traum Bismarcks," Intern. Ztschr. f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913, H.       
I.                                                                           
  "Traumdarstellungen analer Weckreize," Ibid., p. 489.                      
  "Das Zimmer als Traumdarstellung des Weibes," Internat. Zeitschr. f.       
Ps.-A., II, p. 35.                                                           
  "Ein absurder Traum," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., III,.p. 35.           
-                                                                            
  SADGER, J., "Uber dass Unbewusste und die Traume bei Hebbel," Imago,       
June, 1913.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  SCHROTTER, KARL, "Experimentelle Traume," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A.,            
II, 1912, p. 638.                                                            
-                                                                            
  SCHWARZ, F., "Traum u. Traumdeutung nach 'Abdalgani an Nabulusi',"         
Zeitschr. d. deutsch. morgenl. Ges., Vol. 67, 1913, No. 3, pp.               
473-493.                                                                     
-                                                                            
  SECKER, F., "Chines. Ansichten uber den Traum," Neue metaph.               
Rdschr., Vol. 17, 1909-1910, p. 101.                                         
-                                                                            
  SILBERER, HERBERT, "Bericht uber eine Methode, gewisse symbolische         
Halluzinations-erscheinungen hervorzurufen und zu beobachten,"               
Jahrb. Vol. I, 1909.                                                         
  "Phantasie und Mythos," Ibid. Vol. II, 1910.                               
  "Symbolik des Erwachens und Schwellensymbolik uberh." Ibid., III,          
1911.                                                                        
  "Uber die Symbolbildung," Ibid.                                            
  "Zur Symbolbildung," Ibid., IV, 1912.                                      
  "Spermatozoentraume," Ibid.                                                
  "Zur Frage der Spermatozoentraume," Ibid.                                  
-                                                                            
  SPIELREIN, S., "Traum vom 'Pater Freudenreich'," Intern. Ztschr.           
f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913, p. 484.                                           
-                                                                            
  SPITTELER, KARL, "Meine fruhesten Erlebnisse. I, Hilflos und               
sprachlos. Die Traume des Kindes," Sudd. Monatsh., October, 1913.            
-                                                                            
  STARCKE, AUGUST, "Ein Traum, der das Gegenteil einer Wunscherfullung       
zu verwirklichen schien, zugleich ein Beispiel eines Traumes, der            
von einem anderen Traum gedeutet wird," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., II,            
1911-1912, p. 86.                                                            
  "Traumbeispiele," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., II, p. 381.               
-                                                                            
  STARCKE, JOHANN, "Neue Traumexperimente in Zusammenhang mit                
alteren und neuren Traumtheorien," Jahrb. f. Ps.-A., V, 1913, p. 233.        
-                                                                            
  STEGMANN, MARG., "Darstellung epileptischer Anfalle im Traume,"            
Intern. Zeitschr. f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913.                                 
  "Ein Vexiertraum," Ibid., p. 486.                                          
-                                                                            
  STEKEL, WILHELM, "Beitrage zur Traumdeutung," Jahrbuch fur                 
psycho-analytische und Psycho-patholog. Forschungen, Vol. I. 1909.           
  Nervose Angstzustande und ihre Behandlung, Vienna-Berlin, 1908,            
2nd edition, 1912.                                                           
  Die Sprache des Traumes. Eille Darstellung der Symbolik und                
Deutung des Traumes in ihren Beziehungen zur kranken und gesunden            
Seele fur Artze und Psychologen, Wiesbaden, 1911.                            
  Die Traume der Dichter, Wiesbaden, 1912.                                   
  "Ein prophetischer Nummerntraum," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., 11,                
1911-1912, pp. 128-130.                                                      
  "Fortschritte der Traumdeutung," Zentralbl. f. Ps.-A., III,                
1912-1913, pp. 154, 426.                                                     
  "Darstellung der Neurose im Traum," Ibid,, p. 26.                          
-                                                                            
  SWOBODA, HERMANN, Die Perioden des menschlichen Organismus, Vienna         
and Leipzig, 1904.                                                           
-                                                                            
  TAUSK, V., "Zur Psychologie der Kindersexualitat," Intern. Zeitschr.       
f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913, p. 444.                                           
  "Zwei homosexuelle Traume," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., II, p.          
36.                                                                          
  "Ein Zahlentraum," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A., II, p. 39.               
-                                                                            
  TFINKDJI, JOSEPH, ABBE, "Essai sur les songes et l'art de les              
interpreter (onirocritie) en Mesopotamie," Anthropos, VIII, 2s. 3d.,         
March-June, 1913.                                                            
-                                                                            
  TOBOWOLSKA, JUSTINE, "Etude sur les illusions de temps dans les            
reves du sommeil normal," These de Paris, 1900.                              
-                                                                            
  VASCHIDE, N. Le Sommeil et les reves, Paris, 1911, Bibl. de                
Philos. scient. (66) (Contains bibliography of other titles by the           
same author on dreams and sleep).                                            
  AND PIERON, La psychol. du reve au point de vue medical, Paris.            
1902.                                                                        
-                                                                            
  VOLD, J. MOURLY, Uber den Traum, Experimentell-psychologische              
Untersuchungen, ed. O. Klemm, Vol. I, Leipzig, 1910; Vol. II, 1912.          
-                                                                            
  WEISS, EDOARDO, "Totemmaterial im Traume," Internat. Zeitschr. f.          
Ps.-A. II, p. 159.                                                           
-                                                                            
  WEISS, KARL, "Ein Pollutionstraum," Internat. Zeitschr. f. Ps.-A.,         
VI. p. 343.                                                                  
-                                                                            
  WEYGANDT, W., "Beitr. z. Psychologie des Traumes," Philos.                 
Studien, Vol. 20, 1902, pp. 456-486.                                         
-                                                                            
  WIGGAM, A., "A Contribution to the Data of Dream Psychology,"              
Pedagogical Seminary, June, 1909.                                            
-                                                                            
  WINTERSTEIN, ALFR. V., "Zum Thema: 'Lenkbare Traume'," Zentralbl. f.       
Ps.-A., II, 1911-1912, p. 290.                                               
-                                                                            
  WULFF, M., "Ein interessanter Zusammenhang von Traum, Symbolhandlung       
und Krankheitssymptom," Internat. Ztschr. f. arztl. Ps.-A., I, 1913,         
No. 6.                                                                       
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                               THE END
