No More Learning

We
reported dreams which were apparently dreams of convenience. But,
properly speaking, all dreams may claim this designation. The efficacy
of the wish to continue to sleep is the most easily recognized in the
waking dreams, which so transform the objective sensory stimulus as to
render it compatible with the continuance of sleep; they interweave this
stimulus with the dream in order to rob it of any claims it might make
as a warning to the outer world. But this wish to continue to sleep must
also participate in the formation of all other dreams which may disturb
the sleeping state from within only. "Now, then, sleep on; why, it's but
a dream"; this is in many cases the suggestion of the Forec. to
consciousness when the dream goes too far; and this also describes in a
general way the attitude of our dominating psychic activity toward
dreaming, though the thought remains tacit. I must draw the conclusion
that _throughout our entire sleeping state we are just as certain that
we are dreaming as we are certain that we are sleeping_. We are
compelled to disregard the objection urged against this conclusion that
our consciousness is never directed to a knowledge of the former, and
that it is directed to a knowledge of the latter only on special
occasions when the censor is unexpectedly surprised. Against this
objection we may say that there are persons who are entirely conscious
of their sleeping and dreaming, and who are apparently endowed with the
conscious faculty of guiding their dream life. Such a dreamer, when
dissatisfied with the course taken by the dream, breaks it off without
awakening, and begins it anew in order to continue it with a different
turn, like the popular author who, on request, gives a happier ending to
his play. Or, at another time, if placed by the dream in a sexually
exciting situation, he thinks in his sleep: "I do not care to continue
this dream and exhaust myself by a pollution; I prefer to defer it in
favor of a real situation. "

[1] They share this character of indestructibility with all psychic acts
that are really unconscious--that is, with psychic acts belonging to the
system of the unconscious only. These paths are constantly open and
never fall into disuse; they conduct the discharge of the exciting
process as often as it becomes endowed with unconscious excitement To
speak metaphorically they suffer the same form of annihilation as the
shades of the lower region in the _Odyssey_, who awoke to new life the
moment they drank blood. The processes depending on the foreconscious
system are destructible in a different way. The psychotherapy of the
neuroses is based on this difference.

[2] Le Lorrain justly extols the wish-fulfilment of the dream: "Sans
fatigue serieuse, sans etre oblige de recourir a cette lutte opinatre et
longue qui use et corrode les jouissances poursuivies. "

[3] This idea has been borrowed from _The Theory of Sleep_ by Liebault,
who revived hypnotic investigation in our days. (_Du Sommeil provoque_,
etc. ; Paris, 1889. )




VII

THE FUNCTION OF THE DREAM


Since we know that the foreconscious is suspended during the night by
the wish to sleep, we can proceed to an intelligent investigation of the
dream process. But let us first sum up the knowledge of this process
already gained. We have shown that the waking activity leaves day
remnants from which the sum of energy cannot be entirely removed; or the
waking activity revives during the day one of the unconscious wishes; or
both conditions occur simultaneously; we have already discovered the
many variations that may take place. The unconscious wish has already
made its way to the day remnants, either during the day or at any rate
with the beginning of sleep, and has effected a transference to it. This
produces a wish transferred to the recent material, or the suppressed
recent wish comes to life again through a reinforcement from the
unconscious. This wish now endeavors to make its way to consciousness on
the normal path of the mental processes through the foreconscious, to
which indeed it belongs through one of its constituent elements. It is
confronted, however, by the censor, which is still active, and to the
influence of which it now succumbs. It now takes on the distortion for
which the way has already been paved by its transference to the recent
material. Thus far it is in the way of becoming something resembling an
obsession, delusion, or the like, _i. e. _ a thought reinforced by a
transference and distorted in expression by the censor. But its further
progress is now checked through the dormant state of the foreconscious;
this system has apparently protected itself against invasion by
diminishing its excitements. The dream process, therefore, takes the
regressive course, which has just been opened by the peculiarity of the
sleeping state, and thereby follows the attraction exerted on it by the
memory groups, which themselves exist in part only as visual energy not
yet translated into terms of the later systems. On its way to regression
the dream takes on the form of dramatization. The subject of compression
will be discussed later. The dream process has now terminated the second
part of its repeatedly impeded course. The first part expended itself
progressively from the unconscious scenes or phantasies to the
foreconscious, while the second part gravitates from the advent of the
censor back to the perceptions. But when the dream process becomes a
content of perception it has, so to speak, eluded the obstacle set up in
the Forec. by the censor and by the sleeping state. It succeeds in
drawing attention to itself and in being noticed by consciousness. For
consciousness, which means to us a sensory organ for the reception of
psychic qualities, may receive stimuli from two sources--first, from the
periphery of the entire apparatus, viz. from the perception system, and,
secondly, from the pleasure and pain stimuli, which constitute the sole
psychic quality produced in the transformation of energy within the
apparatus. All other processes in the system, even those in the
foreconscious, are devoid of any psychic quality, and are therefore not
objects of consciousness inasmuch as they do not furnish pleasure or
pain for perception. We shall have to assume that those liberations of
pleasure and pain automatically regulate the outlet of the occupation
processes. But in order to make possible more delicate functions, it was
later found necessary to render the course of the presentations more
independent of the manifestations of pain. To accomplish this the Forec.
system needed some qualities of its own which could attract
consciousness, and most probably received them through the connection of
the foreconscious processes with the memory system of the signs of
speech, which is not devoid of qualities. Through the qualities of this
system, consciousness, which had hitherto been a sensory organ only for
the perceptions, now becomes also a sensory organ for a part of our
mental processes. Thus we have now, as it were, two sensory surfaces,
one directed to perceptions and the other to the foreconscious mental
processes.

I must assume that the sensory surface of consciousness devoted to the
Forec. is rendered less excitable by sleep than that directed to the
P-systems. The giving up of interest for the nocturnal mental processes
is indeed purposeful. Nothing is to disturb the mind; the Forec. wants
to sleep. But once the dream becomes a perception, it is then capable of
exciting consciousness through the qualities thus gained. The sensory
stimulus accomplishes what it was really destined for, namely, it
directs a part of the energy at the disposal of the Forec. in the form
of attention upon the stimulant. We must, therefore, admit that the
dream invariably awakens us, that is, it puts into activity a part of
the dormant force of the Forec. This force imparts to the dream that
influence which we have designated as secondary elaboration for the sake
of connection and comprehensibility. This means that the dream is
treated by it like any other content of perception; it is subjected to
the same ideas of expectation, as far at least as the material admits.
As far as the direction is concerned in this third part of the dream, it
may be said that here again the movement is progressive.

To avoid misunderstanding, it will not be amiss to say a few words about
the temporal peculiarities of these dream processes. In a very
interesting discussion, apparently suggested by Maury's puzzling
guillotine dream, Goblet tries to demonstrate that the dream requires no
other time than the transition period between sleeping and awakening.
The awakening requires time, as the dream takes place during that
period. One is inclined to believe that the final picture of the dream
is so strong that it forces the dreamer to awaken; but, as a matter of
fact, this picture is strong only because the dreamer is already very
near awakening when it appears. "Un reve c'est un reveil qui commence. "

It has already been emphasized by Dugas that Goblet was forced to
repudiate many facts in order to generalize his theory. There are,
moreover, dreams from which we do not awaken, _e. g. _, some 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 awakening.
On the contrary, we must consider it probable that the first part of
the dream-work begins during the day when we are still under the
domination of the foreconscious. The second phase of the dream-work,
viz. the modification through the censor, the attraction by the
unconscious scenes, and the penetration to perception must continue
throughout the night. And we are probably always right when we assert
that we feel as though we had been dreaming the whole night, although we
cannot say what. I do not, however, think it 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 distortion of the censor, and
consequently the change of direction to regression, and so on. We were
forced to form such a succession for the sake of _description_; in
reality, however, it is much rather a matter of simultaneously trying
this path and that, and of emotions fluctuating to and fro, until
finally, owing to the most expedient distribution, one particular
grouping is secured which remains. From certain personal experiences, I
am myself inclined to believe that the dream-work often requires more
than one day and one night to produce its result; if this be true, the
extraordinary art manifested in the construction of the dream loses all
its marvels. In my opinion, even the regard for comprehensibility as an
occurrence of perception may take effect before the dream attracts
consciousness to itself. To be sure, from now on the process is
accelerated, as the dream is henceforth subjected to the same treatment
as any other perception. It is like fireworks, which require hours of
preparation and only a moment for ignition.

Through the dream-work the dream process now gains either sufficient
intensity to attract consciousness to itself and arouse the
foreconscious, which is quite independent of the time or profundity of
sleep, or, its intensity being insufficient it must wait until it meets
the attention which is set in motion immediately before awakening. Most
dreams seem to operate with relatively slight psychic intensities, for
they wait for the awakening. This, however, explains the fact that we
regularly perceive something dreamt on being suddenly aroused from a
sound sleep. Here, as well as in spontaneous awakening, the first glance
strikes the perception content created by the dream-work, while the next
strikes the one produced from without.

But of greater theoretical interest are those dreams which are capable
of waking us in the midst of sleep. We must bear in mind the expediency
elsewhere universally demonstrated, and ask ourselves why the dream or
the unconscious wish has the power to disturb sleep, _i. e. _ the
fulfillment of the foreconscious wish. This is probably due to certain
relations of energy into which we have no insight. If we possessed such
insight we should probably find that the freedom given to the dream and
the expenditure of a certain amount of detached attention represent for
the dream an economy in energy, keeping in view the fact that the
unconscious must be held in check at night just as during the day. We
know from experience that the dream, even if it interrupts sleep,
repeatedly during the same night, still remains compatible with sleep.
We wake up for an instant, and immediately resume our sleep. It is like
driving off a fly during sleep, we awake _ad hoc_, and when we resume
our sleep we have removed the disturbance. As demonstrated by familiar
examples from the sleep of wet nurses, &c. , the fulfillment of the wish
to sleep is quite compatible with the retention of a certain amount of
attention in a given direction.

But we must here take cognizance of an objection that is based on a
better knowledge of the unconscious processes. Although we have
ourselves described the unconscious wishes as always active, we have,
nevertheless, asserted that they are not sufficiently strong during the
day to make themselves perceptible. But when we sleep, and the
unconscious wish has shown its power to form a dream, and with it to
awaken the foreconscious, why, then, does this power become exhausted
after the dream has been taken cognizance of? Would it not seem more
probable that the dream should continually renew itself, like the
troublesome fly which, when driven away, takes pleasure in returning
again and again? What justifies our assertion that the dream removes the
disturbance of sleep?

That the unconscious wishes always remain active is quite true. They
represent paths which are passable whenever a sum of excitement makes
use of them. Moreover, a remarkable peculiarity of the unconscious
processes is the fact that they remain indestructible. Nothing can be
brought to an end in the unconscious; nothing can cease or be forgotten.
This impression is most strongly gained in the study of the neuroses,
especially of hysteria. The unconscious stream of thought which leads to
the discharge through an attack becomes passable again as soon as there
is an accumulation of a sufficient amount of excitement. The
mortification brought on thirty years ago, after having gained access to
the unconscious affective source, operates during all these thirty years
like a recent one. Whenever its memory is touched, it is revived and
shows itself to be supplied with the excitement which is discharged in
a motor attack. It is just here that the office of psychotherapy begins,
its task being to bring about adjustment and forgetfulness for the
unconscious processes. Indeed, the fading of memories and the flagging
of affects, which we are apt to take as self-evident and to explain as a
primary influence of time on the psychic memories, are in reality
secondary changes brought about by painstaking work. It is the
foreconscious that accomplishes this work; and the only course to be
pursued by psychotherapy is the subjugate the Unc, to the domination of
the Forec.

There are, therefore, two exits for the individual unconscious emotional
process. It is either left to itself, in which case it ultimately breaks
through somewhere and secures for once a discharge for its excitation
into motility; or it succumbs to the influence of the foreconscious, and
its excitation becomes confined through this influence instead of being
discharged. It is the latter process that occurs in the dream. Owing to
the fact that it is directed by the conscious excitement, the energy
from the Forec. , which confronts the dream when grown to perception,
restricts the unconscious excitement of the dream and renders it
harmless as a disturbing factor. When the dreamer wakes up for a moment,
he has actually chased away the fly that has threatened to disturb his
sleep. We can now understand that it is really more expedient and
economical to give full sway to the unconscious wish, and clear its way
to regression so that it may form a dream, and then restrict and adjust
this dream by means of a small expenditure of foreconscious labor, than
to curb the unconscious throughout the entire period of sleep. We
should, indeed, expect that the dream, even if it was not originally an
expedient process, would have acquired some function in the play of
forces of the psychic life. We now see what this function is. The dream
has taken it upon itself to bring the liberated excitement of the Unc.
back under the domination of the foreconscious; it thus affords relief
for the excitement of the Unc. and acts as a safety-valve for the
latter, and at the same time it insures the sleep of the foreconscious
at a slight expenditure of the waking state. Like the other psychic
formations of its group, the dream offers itself as a compromise serving
simultaneously both systems by fulfilling both wishes in so far as they
are compatible with each other. A glance at Robert's "elimination
theory," will show that we must agree with this author in his main
point, viz. in the determination of the function of the dream, though we
differ from him in our hypotheses and in our treatment of the dream
process.

The above qualification--in so far as the two wishes are compatible with
each other--contains a suggestion that there may be cases in which the
function of the dream suffers shipwreck. The dream process is in the
first instance admitted as a wish-fulfillment of the unconscious, but if
this tentative wish-fulfillment disturbs the foreconscious to such an
extent that the latter can no longer maintain its rest, the dream then
breaks the compromise and fails to perform the second part of its task.
It is then at once broken off, and replaced by complete wakefulness.
Here, too, it is not really the fault of the dream, if, while ordinarily
the guardian of sleep, it is here compelled to appear as the disturber
of sleep, nor should this cause us to entertain any doubts as to its
efficacy. This is not the only case in the organism in which an
otherwise efficacious arrangement became inefficacious and disturbing as
soon as some element is changed in the conditions of its origin; the
disturbance then serves at least the new purpose of announcing the
change, and calling into play against it the means of adjustment of the
organism. In this connection, I naturally bear in mind the case of the
anxiety dream, and in order not to have the appearance of trying to
exclude this testimony against the theory of wish-fulfillment wherever
I encounter it, I will attempt an explanation of the anxiety dream, at
least offering some suggestions.

That a psychic process developing anxiety may still be a
wish-fulfillment has long ceased to impress us as a contradiction. We
may explain this occurrence by the fact that the wish belongs to one
system (the Unc. ), while by the other system (the Forec. ), this wish has
been rejected and suppressed. The subjection of the Unc. by the Forec.
is not complete even in perfect psychic health; the amount of this
suppression shows the degree of our psychic normality. Neurotic symptoms
show that there is a conflict between the two systems; the symptoms are
the results of a compromise of this conflict, and they temporarily put
an end to it. On the one hand, they afford the Unc. an outlet for the
discharge of its excitement, and serve it as a sally port, while, on the
other hand, they give the Forec. the capability of dominating the Unc.
to some extent. It is highly instructive to consider, _e. g. _, the
significance of any hysterical phobia or of an agoraphobia. Suppose a
neurotic incapable of crossing the street alone, which we would justly
call a "symptom. " We attempt to remove this symptom by urging him to the
action which he deems himself incapable of. The result will be an
attack of anxiety, just as an attack of anxiety in the street has often
been the cause of establishing an agoraphobia. We thus learn that the
symptom has been constituted in order to guard against the outbreak of
the anxiety. The phobia is thrown before the anxiety like a fortress on
the frontier.

Unless we enter into the part played by the affects in these processes,
which can be done here only imperfectly, we cannot continue our
discussion. Let us therefore advance the proposition that the reason why
the suppression of the unconscious becomes absolutely necessary is
because, if the discharge of presentation should be left to itself, it
would develop an affect in the Unc. which originally bore the character
of pleasure, but which, since the appearance of the repression, bears
the character of pain. The aim, as well as the result, of the
suppression is to stop the development of this pain. The suppression
extends over the unconscious ideation, because the liberation of pain
might emanate from the ideation. The foundation is here laid for a very
definite assumption concerning the nature of the affective development.
It is regarded as a motor or secondary activity, the key to the
innervation of which is located in the presentations of the Unc. Through
the domination of the Forec. these presentations become, as it were,
throttled and inhibited at the exit of the emotion-developing impulses.
The danger, which is due to the fact that the Forec. ceases to occupy
the energy, therefore consists in the fact that the unconscious
excitations liberate such an affect as--in consequence of the repression
that has previously taken place--can only be perceived as pain or
anxiety.

This danger is released through the full sway of the dream process. The
determinations for its realization consist in the fact that repressions
have taken place, and that the suppressed emotional wishes shall become
sufficiently strong. They thus stand entirely without the psychological
realm of the dream structure. Were it not for the fact that our subject
is connected through just one factor, namely, the freeing of the Unc.
during sleep, with the subject of the development of anxiety, I could
dispense with discussion of the anxiety dream, and thus avoid all
obscurities connected with it.

As I have often repeated, the theory of the anxiety belongs to the
psychology of the neuroses. I would say that the anxiety in the dream is
an anxiety problem and not a dream problem. We have nothing further to
do with it after having once demonstrated its point of contact with the
subject of the dream process. There is only one thing left for me to do.
As I have asserted that the neurotic anxiety originates from 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 here any of the numerous examples
placed at my disposal by neurotic patients, but prefer to give anxiety
dreams from young persons.

Personally, I have had no real anxiety dream for decades, but I recall
one from my seventh or eighth year which I subjected to interpretation
about thirty years later. The dream was very vivid, and showed me _my
beloved mother, with 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. The very
tall figures--draped in a peculiar manner--with beaks, I had taken from
the illustrations of Philippson's bible; I believe they represented
deities with heads of sparrowhawks from an Egyptian tomb relief. The
analysis also introduced the reminiscence of a naughty janitor's boy,
who used to play with us children on the meadow in front of the house; I
would add that his name was Philip. I feel that I first heard from this
boy the vulgar word signifying sexual intercourse, which is replaced
among the educated by the Latin "coitus," but to which the dream
distinctly alludes by the selection of the birds' heads. I must have
suspected the sexual significance of the word from the facial expression
of my worldly-wise teacher. My mother's features in the dream were
copied from the countenance of my grandfather, whom I had seen a few
days before his death snoring in the 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. In this
anxiety I awoke, and could not calm myself until I had awakened my
parents. I remember that I suddenly became calm on coming face to face
with my mother, as if I needed the assurance that my mother was not
dead. But this secondary interpretation of the dream had been effected
only under the influence of the developed anxiety. I was not frightened
because I dreamed that my mother was dying, but I interpreted the dream
in this manner in the foreconscious elaboration because I was already
under the domination of the anxiety. The latter, however, could be
traced by means of the repression to an obscure obviously sexual desire,
which had found its satisfying expression in the visual content of the
dream.

A man twenty-seven years old who had been severely ill for a year had
had many terrifying dreams between the ages of eleven and thirteen. He
thought that a man with an ax was running after him; he wished to run,
but felt paralyzed and could not move from the spot. This may be taken
as a good example of a very common, and apparently sexually indifferent,
anxiety dream. In the analysis the dreamer first thought of a story told
him by his uncle, which chronologically was later than the dream, viz.
that he was attacked at night by a suspicious-looking individual. This
occurrence led him to believe that he himself might have already heard
of a similar episode at the time of the dream. In connection with the ax
he recalled that during that period of his life he once hurt his hand
with an ax while chopping wood. This immediately led to his relations
with his younger brother, whom he used to maltreat and knock down. In
particular, he recalled an occasion when he struck his brother on the
head with his boot until he bled, whereupon his mother remarked: "I fear
he will kill him some day. " While he was seemingly thinking of the
subject of violence, a reminiscence from his ninth year suddenly
occurred to him. His parents came home late and went to bed while he was
feigning sleep.
He soon heard panting and other noises that appeared
strange to him, and he could also make out the position of his parents
in bed. His further associations showed that he had established an
analogy between this relation between his parents and his own relation
toward his younger brother. He subsumed what occurred between his
parents under the conception "violence and wrestling," and thus reached
a sadistic conception of the coitus act, as often happens among
children. The fact that he often noticed blood on his mother's bed
corroborated his conception.

That the sexual intercourse of adults appears strange to children who
observe it, and arouses fear in them, I dare say is a fact of daily
experience. I have explained this fear by the fact that sexual
excitement is not mastered by their understanding, and is probably also
inacceptable to them because their parents are involved in it. For the
same son this excitement is converted into fear. At a still earlier
period of life sexual emotion directed toward the parent of opposite sex
does not meet with repression but finds free expression, as we have seen
before.

For the night terrors with hallucinations (_pavor nocturnus_) frequently
found in children, I would unhesitatingly give the same explanation.
Here, too, we are certainly dealing with the incomprehensible and
rejected sexual feelings, which, if noted, would probably show a
temporal periodicity, for an enhancement of the sexual _libido_ may
just as well be produced accidentally through emotional impressions as
through the spontaneous and gradual processes of development.

I lack the necessary material to sustain these explanations from
observation. On the other hand, the pediatrists seem to lack the point
of view which alone makes comprehensible the whole series of phenomena,
on the somatic as well as on the psychic side. To illustrate by a
comical example how one wearing the blinders of medical mythology may
miss the understanding of such cases I will relate a case which I found
in a thesis on _pavor nocturnus_ by _Debacker_, 1881. A
thirteen-year-old boy of delicate health began to become anxious and
dreamy; his sleep became restless, and about once a week it was
interrupted by an acute attack of anxiety with hallucinations. The
memory of these dreams was invariably very distinct. Thus, he related
that the _devil_ shouted at him: "Now we have you, now we have you," and
this was followed by an odor of sulphur; the fire burned his skin. This
dream aroused him, terror-stricken. He was unable to scream at first;
then his voice returned, and he was heard to say distinctly: "No, no,
not me; why, I have done nothing," or, "Please don't, I shall never do
it again. " Occasionally, also, he said: "Albert has not done that. "
Later he avoided undressing, because, as he said, the fire attacked him
only when he was undressed. From amid these evil dreams, which menaced
his health, he was sent into the country, where he recovered within a
year and a half, but at the age of fifteen he once confessed: "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 au dortoir. "

It is certainly not difficult to suspect: 1, that the boy had practiced
masturbation in former years, that he probably denied it, and was
threatened with severe punishment for his wrongdoing (his confession: Je
ne le ferai plus; his denial: Albert n'a jamais fait ca). 2, That under
the pressure of puberty the temptation to self-abuse through the
tickling of the genitals was reawakened. 3, That now, however, a
struggle of repression arose in him, suppressing the _libido_ and
changing it into fear, which subsequently took the form of the
punishments with which he was then threatened.

Let us, however, quote the conclusions drawn by our author. This
observation shows: 1, That the influence of puberty may produce in a
boy of delicate health a condition of extreme weakness, and that it may
lead to a _very marked cerebral anaemia_.

2. This cerebral anaemia produces a transformation of character,
demonomaniacal hallucinations, and very violent nocturnal, perhaps also
diurnal, states of anxiety.

3. Demonomania and the self-reproaches of the day can be traced to the
influences of religious education which the subject underwent 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 the period of puberty.

5. A predisposing influence for the origin of the cerebral condition of
the boy may be attributed to heredity and to the father's chronic
syphilitic state.

The concluding remarks of the author read: "Nous avons fait entrer cette
observation dans le cadre des delires apyretiques d'inanition, car c'est
a l'ischemie cerebrale que nous rattachons cet etat particulier. "




VIII

THE PRIMARY AND SECONDARY PROCESS--REGRESSION


In venturing to attempt to penetrate more deeply into the psychology of
the dream processes, I have undertaken a difficult task, to which,
indeed, my power of description is hardly equal. To reproduce in
description by a succession of words the simultaneousness of so complex
a chain of events, and in doing so to appear unbiassed throughout the
exposition, goes fairly beyond my powers. I have now to atone for the
fact that I have been unable in my description of the dream psychology
to follow the historic development of my views. The view-points for my
conception of the dream were reached through earlier investigations in
the psychology of the neuroses, to which I am not supposed to refer
here, but to which I am repeatedly forced to refer, whereas I should
prefer to proceed in the opposite direction, and, starting from the
dream, to establish a connection with the psychology of the neuroses. I
am well aware of all the inconveniences arising for the reader from this
difficulty, but I know of no way to avoid them.

As I am dissatisfied with this state of affairs, I am glad to dwell
upon another view-point which seems to raise the value of my efforts. As
has been shown in the introduction to the first chapter, I found myself
confronted with a theme which had been marked by the sharpest
contradictions on the part of the authorities. After our elaboration of
the dream problems we found room for most of these contradictions. We
have been forced, however, to take decided exception to two of the views
pronounced, viz. that the dream is a senseless and that it is a somatic
process; apart from these cases we have had to accept all the
contradictory views in one place or another of the complicated argument,
and we have been able to demonstrate that they had discovered something
that was correct. That the dream continues the impulses and interests of
the waking state has been quite generally confirmed through the
discovery of the latent thoughts of the dream. These thoughts concern
themselves only with things that seem important and of momentous
interest to us. The dream never occupies itself with trifles. But we
have also concurred with the contrary view, viz. , that the dream gathers
up the indifferent remnants from the day, and that not until it has in
some measure withdrawn itself from the waking activity can an important
event of the day be taken up by the dream. We found this holding true
for the dream content, which gives the dream thought its changed
expression by means of disfigurement. We have said that from the nature
of the association mechanism the dream process more easily takes
possession of recent or indifferent material which has not yet been
seized by the waking mental activity; and by reason of the censor it
transfers the psychic intensity from the important but also disagreeable
to the indifferent material. The hypermnesia of the dream and the resort
to infantile material have become main supports in our theory. In our
theory of the dream we have attributed to the wish originating from the
infantile the part of an indispensable motor for the formation of the
dream. We naturally could not think of doubting the experimentally
demonstrated significance of the objective sensory stimuli during sleep;
but we have brought this material into the same relation to the
dream-wish as the thought remnants from the waking activity. There was
no need of disputing the fact that the dream interprets the objective
sensory stimuli after the manner of an illusion; but we have supplied
the motive for this interpretation which has been left undecided by the
authorities. The interpretation follows in such a manner that the
perceived object is rendered harmless as a sleep disturber and becomes
available for the wish-fulfillment. Though we do not admit as special
sources of the dream the subjective state of excitement of the sensory
organs during sleep, which seems to have been demonstrated by Trumbull
Ladd, we are nevertheless able to explain this excitement through the
regressive revival of active memories behind the dream. A modest part in
our conception has also been assigned to the inner organic sensations
which are wont to be taken as the cardinal point in the explanation of
the dream. These--the sensation of falling, flying, or inhibition--stand
as an ever ready material to be used by the dream-work to express the
dream thought as often as need arises.

That the dream process is a rapid and momentary one seems to be true for
the perception through consciousness of the already prepared dream
content; the preceding parts of the dream process probably take a slow,
fluctuating course. We have solved the riddle of the superabundant dream
content compressed within the briefest moment by explaining that this is
due to the appropriation of almost fully formed structures from the
psychic life. That the dream is disfigured and distorted by memory we
found to be correct, but not troublesome, as this is only the last
manifest operation in the work of disfigurement which has been active
from the beginning of the dream-work. In the bitter and seemingly
irreconcilable controversy as to whether the psychic life sleeps at
night or can make the same use of all its capabilities as during the
day, we have been able to agree with both sides, though not fully with
either. We have found proof that the dream thoughts represent a most
complicated intellectual activity, employing almost every means
furnished by the psychic apparatus; still 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 theory of partial sleep has come into play; but the characteristics
of the sleeping state have been found not in the dilapidation of the
psychic connections but in the cessation of the psychic system
dominating the day, arising from its desire to sleep. The withdrawal
from the outer world retains its significance also for our conception;
though not the only factor, it nevertheless helps the regression to make
possible the representation of the dream. That we should reject the
voluntary guidance of the presentation course is uncontestable; but the
psychic life does not thereby become aimless, for we have seen that
after the abandonment of the desired end-presentation undesired ones
gain the mastery. The loose associative connection in the dream we have
not only recognized, but we have placed under its control a far greater
territory than could have been supposed; we have, however, found it
merely the feigned substitute for another correct and senseful one. To
be sure we, too, have called the dream absurd; but we have been able to
learn from examples how wise the dream really is when it simulates
absurdity. We do not deny any of the functions that have been attributed
to the dream. That the dream relieves the mind like a valve, and that,
according to Robert's assertion, all kinds of harmful material are
rendered harmless through representation in the dream, not only exactly
coincides with our theory of the twofold wish-fulfillment in the dream,
but, in his own wording, becomes even more comprehensible for us than
for Robert himself. The free indulgence of the psychic in the play of
its faculties finds expression with us in the non-interference with the
dream on the part of the foreconscious activity. The "return to the
embryonal state of psychic life in the dream" and the observation of
Havelock Ellis, "an archaic world of vast emotions and imperfect
thoughts," appear to us as happy anticipations of our deductions to the
effect that _primitive_ modes of work suppressed during the day
participate in the formation of the dream; and with us, as with Delage,
the _suppressed_ material becomes the mainspring of the dreaming.

We have fully recognized the role which Scherner ascribes to the dream
phantasy, and even his interpretation; but we have been obliged, so to
speak, to conduct them to another department in the problem. It is not
the dream that produces the phantasy but the unconscious phantasy that
takes the greatest part in the formation of the dream thoughts. We are
indebted to Scherner for his clew 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, which is at work during the day, and
which supplies incitements not only for dreams but for neurotic symptoms
as well. We have had to separate the dream-work from this activity as
being something entirely different and far more restricted. Finally, we
have by no means abandoned the relation of the dream to mental
disturbances, but, on the contrary, we have given it a more solid
foundation on new ground.

Thus held together by the new material of our theory as by a superior
unity, we find the most varied and most contradictory conclusions of the
authorities fitting into our structure; some of them are differently
disposed, only a few of them are entirely rejected. But our own
structure is still unfinished. For, disregarding the many obscurities
which we have necessarily encountered in our advance into the darkness
of psychology, we are now apparently embarrassed by a new contradiction.
On the one hand, we have allowed the dream thoughts to proceed from
perfectly normal mental operations, while, on the other hand, we have
found among the dream thoughts a number of entirely abnormal mental
processes which extend likewise to the dream contents. These,
consequently, we have repeated in the interpretation of the dream. All
that we have termed the "dream-work" seems so remote from the psychic
processes recognized by us as correct, that the severest judgments of
the authors as to the low psychic activity of dreaming seem to us well
founded.

Perhaps only through still further advance can enlightenment and
improvement be brought about. I shall pick out one of the constellations
leading to the formation of dreams.

We have learned that the dream replaces a number of thoughts derived
from daily life which are perfectly formed logically. We cannot
therefore doubt that these thoughts originate from our normal mental
life. All the qualities which we esteem in our mental operations, and
which distinguish these as complicated activities of a high order, we
find repeated in the dream thoughts. There is, however, no need of
assuming that this mental work is performed during sleep, as this would
materially impair the conception of the psychic state of sleep we have
hitherto adhered to. These thoughts may just as well have originated
from the day, and, unnoticed by our consciousness from their inception,
they may have continued to develop until they stood complete at the
onset of sleep. If we are to conclude anything from this state of
affairs, it will at most prove _that the most complex mental operations
are possible without the cooperation of consciousness_, which we have
already learned independently from every psychoanalysis of persons
suffering from hysteria or obsessions. These dream thoughts are in
themselves surely not incapable of consciousness; if they have not
become conscious to us during the day, this may have various reasons.
The state of becoming conscious depends on the exercise of a certain
psychic function, viz. attention, which seems to be extended only in a
definite quantity, and which may have been withdrawn from the stream of
thought in Question by other aims. Another way in which such mental
streams are kept from consciousness is the following:--Our conscious
reflection teaches us that when exercising attention we pursue a
definite course. But if that course leads us to an idea which does not
hold its own with the critic, we discontinue and cease to apply our
attention. Now, apparently, the stream of thought thus started and
abandoned may spin on without regaining attention unless it reaches a
spot of especially marked intensity which forces the return of
attention. An initial rejection, perhaps consciously brought about by
the judgment on the ground of incorrectness or unfitness for the actual
purpose of the mental act, may therefore account for the fact that a
mental process continues until the onset of sleep unnoticed by
consciousness.

Let us recapitulate by saying that we call such a stream of thought a
foreconscious one, that we believe it to be perfectly correct, and that
it may just as well be a more neglected one or an interrupted and
suppressed one. Let us also state frankly in what manner we conceive
this presentation course. We believe that a certain sum of excitement,
which we call occupation energy, is displaced from an end-presentation
along the association paths selected by that end-presentation. A
"neglected" stream of thought has received no such occupation, and from
a "suppressed" or "rejected" one this occupation has been withdrawn;
both have thus been left to their own emotions. The end-stream of
thought stocked with energy is under certain conditions able to draw to
itself the attention of consciousness, through which means it then
receives a "surplus of energy. " We shall be obliged somewhat later to
elucidate our assumption concerning the nature and activity of
consciousness.

A train of thought thus incited in the Forec. may either disappear
spontaneously or continue. The former issue we conceive as follows: It
diffuses its energy through all the association paths emanating from it,
and throws the entire chain of ideas into a state of excitement which,
after lasting for a while, subsides through the transformation of the
excitement requiring an outlet into dormant energy. [1] If this first
issue is brought about the process has no further significance for the
dream formation. But other end-presentations are lurking in our
foreconscious that originate from the sources of our unconscious and
from the ever active wishes. These may take possession of the
excitations in the circle of thought 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 does not help it to gain access to
consciousness. We may say that the hitherto foreconscious train of
thought has been drawn into the unconscious.

Other constellations for the dream formation would result if the
foreconscious train of thought had from the beginning been connected
with the unconscious wish, and for that reason met with rejection by the
dominating end-occupation; or if an unconscious wish were made active
for other--possibly somatic--reasons and of its own accord sought a
transference to the psychic remnants not occupied by the Forec. All
three cases finally combine in one issue, so that there is established
in the foreconscious a stream of thought which, having been abandoned by
the foreconscious occupation, receives occupation from the unconscious
wish.

The stream of thought is henceforth subjected to a series of
transformations which we no longer recognize as normal psychic processes
and which give us a surprising result, viz. a psychopathological
formation. Let us emphasize and group the same.

1. The intensities of the individual ideas become capable of discharge
in their entirety, and, proceeding from one conception to the other,
they thus form single presentations endowed with marked intensity.
Through the repeated recurrence of this process the intensity of an
entire train of ideas may ultimately be gathered in a single
presentation element. This is the principle of _compression or
condensation_. It is condensation that is mainly responsible for the
strange impression of the dream, for we know of nothing analogous to it
in the normal psychic life accessible to consciousness. We find here,
also, presentations which possess great psychic significance as
junctions or as end-results of whole chains of thought; but this
validity does not manifest itself in any character conspicuous enough
for internal perception; hence, what has been presented in it does not
become in any way more intensive. In the process of condensation the
entire psychic connection becomes transformed into the intensity of the
presentation content. It is the same as in a book where we space or
print in heavy type any word upon which particular stress is laid for
the understanding of the text. In speech the same word would be
pronounced loudly and deliberately and with emphasis. The first
comparison leads us at once to an example taken from the chapter on "The
Dream-Work" (trimethylamine in the dream of Irma's injection).
Historians of art call our attention to the fact that the most ancient
historical sculptures follow a similar principle in expressing the rank
of the persons represented by the size of the statue. The king is made
two or three times as large as his retinue or the vanquished enemy. A
piece of art, however, from the Roman period makes use of more subtle
means to accomplish the same purpose. The figure of the emperor is
placed in the center in a firmly erect posture; special care is bestowed
on the proper modelling of his figure; his enemies are seen cowering at
his feet; but he is no longer represented a giant among dwarfs. However,
the bowing of the subordinate to his superior in our own days is only an
echo of that ancient principle of representation.

The direction taken by the condensations of the dream is prescribed on
the one hand by the true foreconscious relations of the dream thoughts,
an the other hand by the attraction of the visual reminiscences in the
unconscious. The success of the condensation work produces those
intensities which are required for penetration into the perception
systems.

2. Through this free transferability of the intensities, moreover, and
in the service of condensation, _intermediary
presentations_--compromises, as it were--are formed (_cf. _ the numerous
examples). This, likewise, is something unheard of in the normal
presentation course, where it is above all a question of selection and
retention of the "proper" presentation element. On the other hand,
composite and compromise formations occur with extraordinary frequency
when we are trying to find the linguistic expression for foreconscious
thoughts; these are considered "slips of the tongue. "

3. The presentations which transfer their intensities to one another are
_very loosely connected_, and are joined together by such forms of
association as are spurned in our serious thought and are utilized in
the production of the effect of wit only. Among these we particularly
find associations of the sound and consonance types.

4. Contradictory thoughts do not strive to eliminate one another, but
remain side by side. They often unite to produce condensation _as if no
contradiction_ existed, or they form compromises for which we should
never forgive our thoughts, but which we frequently approve of in our
actions.

These are some of the most conspicuous abnormal processes to which the
thoughts which have previously been rationally formed are subjected in
the course of the dream-work. As the main feature of these processes we
recognize the high importance attached to the fact of rendering the
occupation energy mobile and capable of discharge; the content and the
actual significance of the psychic elements, to which these energies
adhere, become a matter of secondary importance. One might possibly
think that the condensation and compromise formation is effected only in
the service of regression, when occasion arises for changing thoughts
into pictures. But the analysis and--still more distinctly--the
synthesis of dreams which lack regression toward pictures, _e. g. _ the
dream "Autodidasker--Conversation with Court-Councilor N. ," present the
same processes of displacement and condensation as the others.

Hence we cannot refuse to acknowledge that the two kinds of essentially
different psychic processes participate in the formation of the dream;
one forms perfectly correct dream thoughts which are equivalent to
normal thoughts, while the other treats these ideas in a highly
surprising and incorrect manner. The latter process we have already set
apart as the dream-work proper. What have we now to advance concerning
this latter psychic process?

We should be unable to answer this question here if we had not
penetrated considerably into the psychology of the neuroses and
especially of hysteria. From this we learn that the same incorrect
psychic processes--as well as others that have not been
enumerated--control the formation of hysterical symptoms. In hysteria,
too, we at once find a series of perfectly correct thoughts equivalent
to our conscious thoughts, of whose existence, however, in this form we
can learn nothing and which we can only subsequently reconstruct. If
they have forced their way anywhere to our perception, we discover from
the analysis of the symptom formed that these normal thoughts have been
subjected to abnormal treatment and _have been transformed into the
symptom by means of condensation and compromise formation, through
superficial associations, under cover of contradictions, and eventually
over the road of regression_. In view of the complete identity found
between the peculiarities of the dream-work and of the psychic activity
forming the 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 dates from the infantile life and is in a state
of repression_. In accordance with this proposition we have construed
the theory of the dream on the assumption that the actuating dream-wish
invariably originates in the unconscious, which, as we ourselves have
admitted, cannot be universally demonstrated though it cannot be
refuted. But in order to explain the real meaning of the term
_repression_, which we have employed so freely, we shall be obliged to
make some further addition to our psychological construction.

We have above elaborated the fiction of a primitive psychic apparatus,
whose work is regulated by the efforts to avoid accumulation of
excitement and as far as possible to maintain itself free from
excitement. For this reason it was constructed after the plan of a
reflex apparatus; the motility, originally the path for the inner bodily
change, formed a discharging path standing at its disposal. We
subsequently discussed the psychic results of a feeling of
gratification, and we might at the same time have introduced the second
assumption, viz. that accumulation of excitement--following certain
modalities that do not concern us--is perceived as pain and sets the
apparatus in motion in order to reproduce a feeling of gratification in
which the diminution of the excitement is perceived as pleasure. Such a
current in the apparatus which emanates from pain and strives 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 discharge of excitement
in the apparatus is regulated automatically by the perception of
pleasure and pain. The first wish must have been an hallucinatory
occupation of the memory for gratification. But this hallucination,
unless it were maintained to the point of exhaustion, proved incapable
of bringing about a cessation of the desire 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 should not permit the memory
occupation to advance to perception and therefrom to restrict the
psychic forces, but should lead the excitement emanating from the
craving stimulus by a devious path over the spontaneous motility which
ultimately should so change the outer world as to allow the real
perception of the object of gratification to take place. Thus far we
have elaborated the plan of the psychic apparatus; these two systems are
the germ of the Unc. and Forec, which we include in the fully developed
apparatus.

In order to be in a position successfully to change the outer world
through the motility, there is required the accumulation of a large sum
of experiences in the memory systems as well as a manifold fixation of
the relations which are evoked in this memory material by different
end-presentations. We now proceed further with our assumption. The
manifold activity of the second system, tentatively sending forth and
retracting energy, must on the one hand have full command over all
memory material, but on the other hand it would be a superfluous
expenditure for it to send to the individual mental paths large
quantities of energy which would thus flow off to no purpose,
diminishing the quantity available for the transformation of the outer
world. In the interests of expediency I therefore postulate that the
second system succeeds in maintaining the greater part of the occupation
energy in a dormant state and in using but a small portion for the
purposes of displacement. The mechanism of these processes is entirely
unknown to me; any one who wishes to follow up these ideas must try to
find the physical analogies and prepare the way for a demonstration of
the process of motion in the stimulation of the neuron. I merely hold to
the idea that the activity of the first [Greek: Psi]-system is directed
_to the free outflow of the quantities of excitement_, and that the
second system brings about an inhibition of this outflow through the
energies emanating from it, _i. e. _ it produces a _transformation into
dormant energy, probably by raising the level_. I therefore assume that
under the control of the second system as compared with the first, the
course of the excitement is bound to entirely different mechanical
conditions. After the second system has finished its tentative mental
work, it removes the inhibition and congestion of the excitements and
allows these excitements to flow off to the 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
regulation through the principle of pain. Let us now seek the
counterpart of the primary feeling of gratification, namely, the
objective feeling of fear. A perceptive stimulus acts on the primitive
apparatus, becoming the source of a painful emotion. This will then be
followed by irregular motor manifestations until one of these withdraws
the apparatus from perception and at the same time from pain, but on the
reappearance of the perception this manifestation will immediately
repeat itself (perhaps as a movement of flight) until the perception has
again disappeared. But there will here remain no tendency again to
occupy the perception of the source of pain in the form of an
hallucination or in any other form. On the contrary, there will be a
tendency in the primary apparatus to abandon the painful memory picture
as soon as it is in any way awakened, as the overflow of its excitement
would surely produce (more precisely, begin to produce) pain. The
deviation from memory, which is but a repetition of the former flight
from perception, is facilitated also by the fact that, unlike
perception, memory does not possess sufficient quality to excite
consciousness and thereby to attract to itself new energy. This easy and
regularly occurring deviation of the psychic process from the former
painful memory presents to us the model and the first example of
_psychic repression_. As is generally known, much of this deviation from
the painful, much of the behavior of the ostrich, can be readily
demonstrated even in the normal psychic life of adults.

By virtue of the principle of pain the first system is therefore
altogether incapable of introducing anything unpleasant into the mental
associations. The system cannot do anything but wish. If this remained
so the mental activity of the second system, which should have at its
disposal all the memories stored up by experiences, would be hindered.
But two ways are now opened: the work of the second system either frees
itself completely from the principle of pain and continues its course,
paying no heed to the painful reminiscence, or it contrives to occupy
the painful memory in such a manner as to preclude the liberation of
pain. We may reject the first possibility, as the principle of pain also
manifests itself as a regulator for the emotional discharge of the
second system; we are, therefore, directed to the second possibility,
namely, that this system occupies a reminiscence in such a manner as to
inhibit its discharge and hence, also, to inhibit the discharge
comparable to a motor innervation for the development of pain. Thus from
two starting points we are led to the hypothesis that occupation through
the second system is at the same time an inhibition for the emotional
discharge, viz.