Flugel, J. C. (1930). Psychoanalysis, its status and promise (Chapter 20). In Aavv (Ed.

),
Psychologies of 1930 (pp. 369-373). Worcester, MA: Clark University Press

CHAPTER 20
PSYCHOANALYSIS
ITS STATUS AND PROMISE
J. C. FLUGEL
University of London

All readers of this volume who have already a pretty extensive knowledge of
contemporary mental science will probably agree that psychoanalysis and behaviorism
are the two most original and startling of all the psychologies that hold the field today.
Both involve striking changes in method and outlook and represent definite departures
from the main trend of psychological development; and (in spite of the very considerable
degree of acceptance which behaviorism has met with in America—as distinct from other
parts of the world) it may still be said that both are looked at with suspicion by the great
body of the world's psychologists. But, if they are alike in these respects, psychoanalysis
and behaviorism differ in nearly all other directions. Indeed, in certain ways they
represent the two extreme tendencies in present psychology. Introspective observation of
consciousness and explanation in terms of conscious thoughts and motives constitute the
classical method of psychology. This method has however, always been supplemented by
the observation of (objective) behavior—if only in order that there may be something for
introspection to explain. Behaviorism, inspired by the progress of modern physical, and
above all of physiological, science bids us give up both the practice of introspection and
the attempt to explain conduct in terms of consciousness. Psychoanalysis, while in no
way minimizing the value of objective observation and indeed making considerable use
of it, has endeavored to extend the method of explanation in terms of consciousness by
employing the already familiar concept of the unconscious much more consistently and
frequently than has been done by any previous school. Instead of abandoning such
explanation as soon as introspection fails to reveal the presence of adequate motives, it
makes a bold attempt to see how far light can be thrown upon the obscurer phemonena of
thought, feeling, and behavior by the assumption that these, too, are determined by
psychological motives, but motives of an unconscious and therefore unintrospectable
kind. In so doing, it does not in any way assert the impossibility of physiological
explanations, such as are usually sought by other schools of psychology in these
circumstances; indeed it hopes that adequate physiological correlations will one day be
forthcoming. But it refuses to abandon the search for psychological causes just because
introspection does not reveal them, and, by adopting and extending the concept of the
unconscious, it seriously postulates for the first time in the history of psychology a
thorough psychological determinism, according to which every psychological event

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is regarded as having a psychological cause. It is probably true that such an assumption is
logically implied in every theory of psychophysical parallelism; but the school of
psychoanalysis is the first to have the courage to convert this philosophical assumption
into a true working hypothesis, thereby putting psychology in the same category as the
physical sciences, so far as concerns the fundamental methodological postulate of an
unbroken chain of causality.

These two concepts—of the unconscious and of psychical determinism— are

fundamental in psychoanalysis. If we refuse to accept these concepts, psychoanalysis can
have little meaning for us. There are, of course, psychologists who will not allow that
such concepts are justifiable; they explicitly deny the former concept and implicitly deny
the latter (by invariably turning to physiology where introspection fails). But, in
considering the position of psychoanalysis as a school of psychology, it is well to point
out that of its two most fundamental doctrines, one, that of the unconscious, has already
been held by many psychologists and philosophers of different schools, while the other,
that of psychical determinism, would seem to be logically implied in the most popular
modern solution of the age-old problem of the relation between mind and body.

But if there is nothing very unorthodox about its basic postulates, it must be admitted that
in many respects—its history, its methods, its ways of thought, its terminology, its
personnel—psychoanalysis lies uniquely apart from the main body of psychological
science. This is well illustrated by the fact that there was no section on psychoanalysis in
Psychologies of 1925; doubtless, because of its peculiar position at the moment, it did not
appear to be a "psychology" within the meaning of the term that was adopted. The
inclusion of such a section in the present volume shows, however, that the barrier
between psychoanalysis and other psychological systems is being slowly broken down—
a circumstance that will surely be welcomed by all who consider that psychoanalysis has
some real contribution to make to the study of the mind. And yet this circumstance must
not blind us to the existence of the important differences that separate psychoanalysis
from other schools of psychology. The editorial welcome that has now been accorded to
psychoanalysis seems, rather, to afford a suitable occasion for an attempt to review the
status of psychoanalysis as a branch of psychology, with reference both to its present
position as a science and its promise for the future.

Historically, psychoanalysis owes much of its relative isolation to the facts (a) that it was
originated not by a pure psychologist but by a physician; (b) that, to an extent almost if
not quite unique in the history of science, its main features were developed by its founder
before it attracted any appreciable notice from the scientific world at all. These historical
reasons were strongly reinforced subsequently—as soon as Freud's views came to be at
all widely known—by a psychological reason: the fact that the discoveries of
psychoanalysis aroused incredulity and displeasure. They seemed at once so surprising
and so repellent that there appeared to the ordinary psychologist to be but little
inducement to forsake his own

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safer, more orthodox, and more comfortable line of work for a method that had only
produced results that were deemed unlikely to be true, and, even if true, would be
decidedly unwelcome. The obvious course was to remain aloof and either neglect the
claims of psychoanalysis, leaving it to psychoanalysts themselves to prove their points if
they could do so, or else to meet them critically with an endeavor to show that the
methods of psychoanalysis were faulty and its conclusions consequently unsound. Most
psychologists adopted the former course; a few decided on the latter, and with their
arguments we shall have to deal. Still some few others, however, having conquered their
first incredulity, saw the apparent reasonableness and possible great significance of
psychoanalytic findings, and proceeded to fit them into their own psychological systems
wherever they were able. Of this latter group, some became again more critical upon a
closer acquaintance, while others have continued to hold in the main a favorable opinion
of psychoanalysis, though, partly because the workers in this class have been so few and
partly because the task itself is difficult, they have so far achieved only a small degree of
amalgamation between psychoanalytic results and those achieved by other methods.
Meanwhile, the psychoanalysts on their side have made very few attempts at a
rapprochement, and from Freud himself downwards have built up such theories as they
needed with but little reference to those of "academic" psychology. Indeed they have,
paradoxically enough at first sight, established a far firmer contact with the other sciences
of human life, notably with anthropology, than with mental science proper, chiefly
because they found in many of these other sciences, concerned as they are with
fundamental and archaic human institutions, more data germane to those which they
themselves encountered in their own study of the deeper layers of the mind.

The term "psychoanalysis" itself threatened at one time, largely through the indiscretions
of journalists and publishers, to become so wide as to lose all significance. But recently
there has been a healthy tendency to restrict its application to the work of Freud and his
school, and such a restricted meaning seems to be now adopted in all psychological and
medical circles. As used in this way, the term still denotes four things, which can be at
least theoretically distinguished. The first of these is a method— the peculiar feature of
which is that it serves at one and the same time as a means of psychological investigation
and as a therapeutic instrument. The second meaning of the term refers to the facts
discovered by this method. In the third meaning the term is extended to cover the
conclusions that are drawn from these facts and the theories that are founded on them. In
the fourth place the term is used to designate the study of further facts (obtained
otherwise than by the psychoanalytic method and often taken from very varied fields) in
the light of the facts and theories already mentioned.

The attitude of the analyst towards these wider data is, in general, similar to that which he
adopts towards the data presented by an individual patient. In both cases he endeavors to
direct an impartial, evenly

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distributed attention to the material as it presents itself, quietly noting resemblances and
differences, until certain connections force themselves upon him, leading to provisional
conclusions, which are in turn accepted, rejected, or modified in the light of further data.
Hence, although the fields are, in many ways, very different, the procedure itself is
fundamentally the same as that in the case of what, for the sake of convenience, we have
here distinguished as the psychoanalytic method proper.

Such a distinction of the various (legitimate) meanings of the term "psychoanalysis" is

useful because the chief difficulties that have been raised about the scientific status of
psychoanalysis are to a great extent concerned with the relations between these different
meanings. More particularly is this the case with regard to the distinction between the
second and third meanings. The chief controversy here concerns what can be regarded as
observed fact and what is mere hypothesis. But this question in its turn leads back to the
distinction between psychoanalysis as a method and psychoanalysis as a body of
discovered facts, for it has been thought that the method itself is liable to distort the facts
it is desired to study—that the so-called facts are indeed artifacts. As regards the fourth
meaning, the chief problem at issue is whether the interpretations made by the
psychoanalytic writers can be regarded as independent confirmations of results obtained
more directly by the psychoanalytic method, or whether there is here a vicious circle in
which the distorted facts and interpretations obtained by this method are illegitimately
read into the anthropological, aesthetic, or biographical data under consideration, which
data are then erroneously regarded as affording corroboration of the original conclusions.

The problems connected with the first three meanings are closely interconnected and
depend in the last resort upon questions connected with the psychoanalytic method. We
must therefore start our critical considerations by dealing with the method. As is well
known, this method was originally developed as a substitute for the evocation of
memories under hypnosis, and in its essential features has been unchanged for many
years, though auxiliary measures which aim at bringing about more favorable
circumstances for the working of these essential features have been the subject of
considerable experimentation and discussion. The most fundamental of the features in
question is the process of free association. The subject of the analysis is asked to abandon
the usual conscious control of thought, to cease thinking for any particular purpose or
about any particular theme. Having adopted this attitude, he is then to say (but naturally
not to do!) everything that comes into his head—even though much of what occurs to
him may appear senseless, disjointed, painful, intimate, or impolite. The method involves
the fullest confidence in psychical determinism, the assumption being that, just in so far
as conscious direction is abandoned, the flow of thoughts will be determined by
unconscious factors, the nature of which will become more clearly apparent than when
conscious direction is maintained.

The instruction given to the subject, though it sounds so simple, is far

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from easy of fulfilment. Indeed, when the attempt is made, it soon becomes apparent that
the free flow of thought is constantly impeded and that the subject's mind becomes the
seat of conflicts, which prevent an easy, uninterrupted sequence of ideas. The causes of
interruption themselves seem to belong to various levels. At the one extreme the subject
may be clearly conscious of certain ideas, but (from shame, embarrassment, or. other
motives) may hesitate to say them out aloud in the presence of the analyst. At the other
extreme the subject may find that for appreciable periods his mind becomes little better
than a blank, containing at most some faint and vague impressions of his actual
environment—and this in spite of his utmost conscious efforts to overcome the stoppage.
In this latter case it seems clear that some inner but unknown force is impeding the
associations, that there is an unconscious resistance to the appearance of certain ideas in
consciousness, just as in the other case there is a conscious disinclination to communicate
such ideas as are already there.

It is evident that this method of free association has some features which differentiate it
from other methods of psychological observation and experimentation. In particular, the
determination to say everything and to put no check on either thought or expression, if it
is honestly persisted in, soon leads the subject into intimate topics which neither his own
feelings nor our ordinary social and ethical conventions will allow him to discuss except
under conditions which insure confidence and privacy. Indeed in many cases he would
refuse to discuss them at all, had he not a strong motive for doing so, this motive being
supplied, in the case of the neurotic patient, by the suffering that his neurosis entails. In
other cases it has to be supplied by professional or scientific considerations or by the
deeper lying "compulsion to confession" which, according to some psychoanalytic
writers, is a fundamental characteristic of the human mind. Here at once we encounter a
great difficulty of the method from the strictly scientific point of view —the fact that this
need for confidence and privacy makes it difficult or impossible for others to obtain full
information as to what takes place during the process of analysis. For a third person to be
actually present would fatally disturb the privacy. For the words of the analysand to be
taken down in full (either by a concealed shorthand writer or by a dictaphone) would be
to betray the confidence which he has placed in the analyst. Even subsequently published
abbreviated accounts have often to be curtailed, or certain details of the reports have to be
modified, though in psychoanalysis details are often of supreme importance for
conveying understanding and conviction.

But these disadvantages, formidable as they may seem, are not really so significant in
practice as might at first appear, for the reason that, even if the conditions of privacy and
confidence did not exist, there would still remain almost impossible obstacles in the way
of presenting a permanent and complete record of any individual analysis. There are two
such obstacles. In the first place, the analyst's conclusions and convictions are based, not
only on the mere words utttered by his patient,

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but also on the emotional expression that goes with their utterance— their varying
intonation, loudness, and tempo, the pauses which are made between them, and the
gestures, and other bodily movements that accompany them—all of which cannot be
reproduced on any written report. We are here face to face, not so much with a peculiar
difficulty of the psychoanalytic method, as with a general deficiency of written (as
distinct from spoken) language. While written language is tolerably adequate for the
conveyance of the cognitive contents of our minds, it is much less suitable than spoken
language for indicating the presence and nature of affective states. Suppose that in
conversation we make a given announcement to two people, A and B; both may, for
reasons of convention or politeness, reply in the same formal terms; and yet we may be
quite clear from the way in which the words are spoken, from involuntary bodily
manifestations, etc., that our announcement is pleasing to A and displeasing to B. But
now suppose, further, that we wish to convey in writing to a third person, C, the result of
our announcement to A and B. If C is for any reason unwilling to believe our account of
the opposite feelings aroused in A and B, we shall find it extraordinarily difficult to
convince him, since the spoken words were the same in both cases, and language is
incapable of conveying adequately the subtleties of emotional expression upon which we
based our judgment. The psychoanalyst is in a very similar position if he tries to carry
conviction to a sceptical outsider. It is impossible for him to prepare any written report
that shall provide another person with all the data from which he himself draws his
conclusions, since many of these data are not communicable by means of written
language. Indeed the "talkie" seems the only medium through which these data could be
made generally available. 1

And yet, even if this most recent invention of physical science could help us to surmount
this difficulty, another difficulty lies in wait, namely, the impossibility of conveying
adequately the great mass of material that goes to an analysis in a way that could be
apprehended by a fellow‐ scientist with ordinary powers of patience and endurance. A
complete psychoanalysis is—as is now well known—a very lengthy business, extending
over months and years of daily work. A "talkie" of corresponding length—of anything
from three hundred hours upwards— would be unendurable, and even a condensed
written report containing anything in the nature of an attempt to convey the full material
of three hundred sittings would in the majority of cases remain unread; probably for this
reason no such full report seems as yet to have been made. We

____________________
1
The day after I wrote this sentence, I learned from the newspaper that the "talkie" had
been employed experimentally in Philadelphia in the process of obtaining a confession
from a suspected murderer, so that the full facts concerning his confession should be
subsequently available for study and evaluation. There is, of course, a certain
parallelism between the need for subsequent evaluation of legal evidence of this kind
and the need for evaluating psychoanalytic evidence.

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have here a particularly crass example of a difficulty that is liable to beset all scientific
records that cannot be reduced to quantitative form. The naturalist, for instance,
describing the habits of some little-known animal can make only a relatively brief
summary of his actual (perhaps very numerous) observations, illustrated by complete
description of a few typical examples of concrete behavior on the part of the animal,
either by means of word pictures or with the help of photograph or film. For the rest he
can only invite his colleagues to give themselves the trouble of making fresh observations
of their own. And this is what the psychoanalysts have done. They have given
summarized reports of their general conclusions drawn from long protracted analyses,
illustrated them by fuller accounts of the analysis of concrete items of material (e.g., of
dreams, of phantasies, and of instances of parapraxia 2 ), and have invited others to
undertake similar analytic studies on their own account. Their procedure has not in reality
been different from that of other scientists in a similar predicament.

The invitation to repeat the observations under like conditions seems to be an adequate
(perhaps indeed the only possible) reply to those who doubt the correctness of the
psychoanalyst's descriptions of the facts observed, and of the conclusions he has drawn
from these facts. This—combined with a reference to the history of psychoanalysis,
which has shown a frequent remolding of theory to suit newly gathered data —should be
sufficient to deal with those earlier critics of psychoanalysis who considered that analysts
worked with preconceived theories and chose their facts to fit these theories. It is still
perhaps the only possible reply to those more modern critics who insist that the
psychoanalytic method, as practiced, necessarily distorts the facts to be observed—
though the reply is in this case obviously less satisfactory. Such critics maintain that
corroboration of the facts by fresh observers working by the same method is scientifically
valueless, since, by adopting the method proposed by psychoanalysts, the new workers
render themselves liable to the same distortion of judgment that affected the original
observers.

To explain this objection we have to take account of a complication which, for the sake
of simplicity, we have hitherto omitted from our considerations of the psychoanalytic
method. The process of free association, which we have described as the most essential
feature of this method, does not in itself demand an activity on the part of the analyst
beyond that of an attentive listener; nor does it, strictly speaking, demand the presence of
an analyst at all, for auto-analysis is theoretically at least a possible procedure and is in
practice often resorted to in minor matters. Nevertheless, although by general admission
psychoanalysis demands a much greater passivity on the part of the physician than do
other forms of psychotherapy, it is, of course, true that the analyst is not entirely passive.
A psychoanalytic interview is not a monologue with an audience

____________________
2
This term has been adopted by psychoanalysts as a general designation of the minor
errors and forgettings included by Freud under the name of "the psychopathology of
everyday life."

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of one, but a conversation between two people in which the patient plays the leading part.
Now, in so far as the analyst participates in the conversation, the method undergoes a
complication; the essential process of free association is interrupted and supplemented. A
complicating factor of this kind obviously adds greatly to the difficulties of
psychoanalysis as a method of pure science—however much it may add to its therapeutic
efficiency. The analyst starts his work with certain expectations and presuppositions
gained from his own experience and his general knowledge of the subject. It is clear that
these presuppositions are liable to bias his interpretation of the material with which his
patient presents him and that this interpretation may in turn exercise a suggestive
influence upon the patient. This latter influence, furthermore, seems likely to be all the
greater in view of the admitted occurrence of the transference—an affective rapport of a
peculiar kind between patient and analyst, which always occurs in a successful analysis,
and which is held by psychoanalysts themselves to have certain features in common with
that which occurs in hypnosis. What is more natural to suppose, therefore, than that the
patient accepts the interpretations of the analyst in virtue of a heightened suggestibility
induced by this rapport? The very process of being analyzed is, then, it would seem,
calculated to distort the analysand's judgment in favor of psychoanalytic theories, and, as
this process is regarded by analysts as one of the most important prerequisites for forming
a sound judgment as to the correctness of psychoanalytic views, it would seem as though
they had skilfully succeeded in entrenching themselves in a position in which they are
effectually isolated from all criticism.

The case against psychoanalysis from this point of view looks very black indeed. To
many opponents the case seems closed. But to show that there are reasons which appear
to render the conclusions of the psychoanalyst unlikely does not in itself prove them to be
untrue. What methods of supporting his conclusions are open to the analyst? In the main,
two. In the first place, he can attempt to meet the charges directly, by bringing evidence
to the effect that suggestion does not in fact play the rôle in psychoanalytic practice with
which it has been credited. In the second place, he can endeavor to support the
correctness of psychoanalytic conclusions indirectly, by showing that they are in
harmony with facts which can be observed quite independently of the psychoanalytic
method. In following this second course he necessarily makes use of the last of the four
above-mentioned meanings of the term psychoanalysis, extending the term so as to
include the study from the psychoanalytic point of view of data gathered from numerous
and varied fields, in themselves quite unconnected with psychoanalysis.

We shall deal first with the direct method of defense. The arguments that have been, or
may be, brought forward under this head are fairly numerous:

1) It has been pointed out that psychoanalysts—and this applies especially to the pioneers
of the method—should themselves be in a good

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position to judge how far the influence of suggestion is at work, since many of them
(including of course, Freud himself) had enjoyed long practice with suggestive
therapeutics before they adopted psychoanalysis. Indeed, having had experience with
both methods, they should, other things equal, be in a better position than their critics to
understand the points of resemblance and of difference between the two procedures.
2) An analysis carried out with the help of an already trained analyst (hetero-analysis),
though strongly recommended, is not always regarded as essential; auto-analysis is a
possible substitute for hetero-analysis, at least in some cases, and this was, of course, the
only method available to certain pioneers, again including Freud himself. Some of the
earliest and most original members of the psychoanalytic school were therefore immune
to the influence of suggestion, in that form at least which is here in question.

3) It is maintained that the development of psychoanalytic doctrine shows that this

doctrine, far from being constructed a priori, was a matter of gradual growth, as new and
often unsuspected facts were discovered. Freud himself has frequently modified his views
as his knowledge and experience increased. Some of the modifications that were due to
him were certainly not of the kind that would have been made had his object been to
safeguard or clarify pre-existing theories. On the contrary, they show unmistakable signs
of having been forced upon him by experience. The best known of these modifications is
that which concerns the nature of sexual traumata in childhood; whereas he at first
believed that these traumata were always in the nature of real occurrences and that the
impressions which came to light during the analysis of certain cases were, as they
appeared to be, genuine memories, he later found that such impressions were in many
cases mere phantasies, though this did not prevent them from exerting a traumatic
influence. A no less striking instance was the introduction of the concept of narcissism
which, though it has proved amply justified by its usefulness in practice, has undoubtedly
rendered his theoretical conceptions more complex and difficult, since it spoiled the
attractive simplicity of the theory of opposing sexual trends and ego trends, and, by
extending the sphere of the sexual trends into the self, rendered the function of the ego
trends much more obscure than they had been at first. Such a complication of hitherto
existing views—a complication which, while it solves some problems, necessitates a
revision of theory in other directions—is of frequent occurrence in empirical science, but
is seldom if ever found in a priori speculation, which always aims at relatively simple,
wide, and clear-cut concepts. We may bear in mind too, in this connection, that, right up
to the present time—more than three decades after the enunciation of the first principles
—psychoanalytic doctrine shows no signs of becoming fixed or crystallized; on the
contrary, it exhibits every indication of healthy growth, important and far-reaching
additions having been made within the last few years.

General considerations of this kind appear therefore to confirm the

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assertions of Freud and other psychoanalysts that the development of psychoanalytic

theory has followed and been built on fact, rather than vice versa.

The ultimate verdict in this particular matter must lie with the historian of science.
Meanwhile we may safely say that no serious attempt has as yet been made by the critics
of psychoanalysis to show in detail the supposed influence of preconceived ideas upon
the historical development of psychoanalytic theory.
4) In conformity with the contention that psychoanalytic doctrine as a whole has always
been based upon discovered fact, it is also claimed that in individual analysis the analyst
is frequently unable to foretell the precise significance of any particular symptom or other
manifestation, but is on the contrary often surprised to find its meaning quite other than
that which he might have anticipated on the basis of his existing knowledge and
presuppositions. Owing to the relative inaccessibility (for reasons we have already dealt
with) of the full facts concerning individual analyses, the value of this claim is much
more difficult to assess than the corresponding claim concerning the development of
psychoanalytic doctrine as a whole. Those who hold that "suggestion" (in the last resort
both of analyst and analysand) is chiefly responsible for the alleged "discoveries" of
psychoanalysis will doubtless discount the statement of analysts as to the frequent non-
fulfilment of their expectations. It is certainly worth noting, however, that this statement
concerning individual analyses is in full harmony with their (more easily verifiable)
contentions as to the development of general psychoanalytic theory.

5) The counter arguments hitherto dealt with aim at showing that certain features of
psychoanalytic history and procedure make it impossible to believe that suggestion can
have exercised the influence which is ascribed to it by certain critics of psychoanalysis.
These arguments are concerned principally with the mind of the analyst. Another line of
defense is to consider the mind of the analysand and to show that his attitude is such as to
preclude the influence of suggestion on the imagined scale. It is pointed out that the
transference situation, which determines the attitude of the analysand to the analyst, is
based upon a repetition or re-living, not only of the love, respect, and admiration that has
been felt by the analysand towards important persons in his earlier life, but also of the
hate, jealousy, and envy that he has felt towards the same or other persons. Although the
first-named elements of the transference undoubtedly favor a receptive attitude (and
indeed according to psychoanalytic views are essential for the operation of suggestion
under any circumstances), the more hostile elements which compose the "negative"
aspects of the transference lead, on the contrary, to an attitude of obstinacy and suspicion,
which predisposes the patient to discount or disbelieve what is said by the analyst. Indeed
many patients are far more acutely critical of psychoanalysis than are any theoretical
opponents. Since these hostile elements inevitably dominate the situation for a great part
(in many cases the major part) of the analysis, the picture of the

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docile patient gladly accepting the interpretations of the analyst is in reality very far
removed indeed from the truth.It is true, however, that no analysis is possible in the face
of complete and permanent hostility; the positive elements of the transference do
undoubtedly play an essential, though by no means an exclusive, part in the analysis.
Here, it may be said, is after all a means by which suggestion becomes effective in the
end. The psychoanalytic reply to this renewed charge is that in psychoanalysis, as distinct
from all other psychotherapeutic methods, the transference itself is analyzed. The aim of
the analyst, when faced with a positive transference is the same as that when he is faced
with a negative transference; in both cases he endeavors to trace the affective attitude of
the patient to its source in earlier emotional relationships, and, in so far as he is
successful, the patient is ultimately freed from any abnormal dependence on, or any
unreasonable love or hate towards, the analyst. The fact that the positive transference
supplies an important driving force for the whole work of analysis does not alter the
analytic procedure with regard to it; like a scaffolding that is essential for the construction
of a building, it is removed when the construction itself is finished. Indeed its removal is
essential for the final stages of the work, and the process of removal is recognized by
psychoanalysts as one of the most difficult and delicate portions of their task; an over-
strong positive transference, which makes a patient unwilling to break with the analyst, is
one of the severest obstacles that is liable to be encountered, impeding as it does both
psychological exploration and therapeutic effect (although in initial stages it may have
helped in both these directions).Summing up, therefore, under this head, it is maintained
that the positive transference cannot account for the great suggestive influence that is
sometimes credited to it, and this for three reasons:
a. It is more than counterbalanced by the negative transference.
b. It is apt to hinder rather than to help the analysis itself (except perhaps in the earliest
stages).
c. It is itself analyzed and dissolved in successfully completed analyses.

6) The arguments against the view that psychoanalytic findings are due to suggestibility
in the patient are strongly reinforced by the fact that similar findings have been made in
the case of psychotic patients (e.g., paranoids, manic depressives, schizophrenics—who
are notoriously not amenable to suggestion).

There is here a question of simple observation and report of the spontaneous utterances
and interpretations of the patients themselves rather than of interpretation by the analyst.
Indeed most of the observations made on insanity do not require the psychoanalytic
method at all, and thus should, strictly speaking, be classed under the (second) heading of
independent corroborative evidence.

7) The last two arguments lead on naturally to certain wider considerations, which, in the
view of psychoanalysts themselves, have probably

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more weight than all the other replies to criticisms with which we have dealt. What is true
of the mind of the analysand is, psychoanalysts would maintain, true of the human mind
in general. The power of suggestion can be overrated as regards both the process of
analysis and human life as a whole. Indeed it may be said that the fear of suggestion may
easily, and often does, take on a neurotic quality. The discovery of "suggestion" by
psychology has been followed by something in the nature of a phobia, in which one
important part of this discovery, viz., that suggestion depends upon an inner subjective
process and not upon an external power, is apt to be forgotten or discounted.
Psychoanalysis itself has greatly added to this aspect of our psychological knowledge by
showing that the subjective process in question consists in exteriorizing or "projecting"
certain inner mental forces (connected ultimately with the parent imagines and embodied
in the "superego"). It is only in virtue of such a projection on to another person that this
person can acquire anything resembling that formidable and dangerous power which
those who fear suggestion have in mind. The supposed danger of exposing oneself to
suggestion at the hands of the psychoanalyst is largely due, therefore, to a fear of our own
unconscious thus projected. This supposed danger can take different forms in different
individuals. The plain man thinks it is his mental or moral health that is in jeopardy. The
psychologist (by a process of rationalization) thinks it is his power of scientific judgment.

With this argument the psychoanalyst definitely carries the war into his opponent's
territory, by asserting that the alarm which certain psychologists have displayed as
regards the influence of suggestion is a psychological reaction to the threat of exposure of
their unconscious forces —a threat which, of course, the very existence of psychoanalysis
entails. In so far as there is truth in this view, it is likely to prove ultimately of much
greater avail than all the other lines of defense that we have examined. It makes it
possible to show that the objections are themselves in the nature of neurotic
manifestations of a phobia, whereas, if we once accept the objections at their face value,
detailed refutation of them, however logically compelling, is likely to meet with no more
success than is elsewhere encountered by attempts to combat a neurotic fear by conscious
reasonings.

So much for the first method of defense, which endeavors to clear the process of analysis
itself from the charges of being vitiated by suggestive influences. The second method of
defense is wider and less specific in its range and purpose. It consists of the attempt to
show that psychoanalytic conclusions can be verified by independent evidence. We may
perhaps distinguish two main varieties of this method, according to whether the endeavor
is to show (a) that actual data obtained by the psychoanalytic method can be objectively
tested, or (b) that the general conclusions arrived at by the employment of the
psychoanalytic method are in harmony with facts that are available quite independently
of this method and that cannot possibly be affected by psychoanalytic views.

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1) In the first variety there fall such procedures as the verification of infantile memories
recovered during analysis, the detection of complexes or character qualities in unknown
persons who have submitted to an analyst a written report of certain of their dreams, the
foretelling of events (e.g., a divorce) in the history of individuals on the basis of their
symptoms or their writings, or—more generally—the foretelling of future social
tendencies (e.g., the desire to return to the gold standard after the war) on the basis of
psychoanalytic insight into the unconscious meaning of these tendencies. Under this
heading may also be included such control experiments as the attempted analysis of
artificial dreams composed by selecting words at random from a dictionary—an
experiment which, by the reported failure of the analysis, provided evidence in favor of
the genuineness of the analytic results in other cases.

On the whole, the work done along these lines, though occasionally impressive, has been
small in quantity and unsystematic in character. The only serious attempt at such
objective verification on a larger scale has been by means of Jung's word-association
experiment, which clearly shows the existence of affective tendencies that can in some
cases be discovered only by the psychoanalytic method itself. But the full possibilities of
even this experiment do not seem to have been exhausted; it is usually employed as a
means of preliminary orientation for analysis rather than as a means of control, such as it
might have afforded if it had been used by a second analyst who drew from it such
conclusions as were possible and then compared these conclusions with those of a
colleague in charge of the psychoanalysis itself.

In the paucity of attempts at objective control along these lines we may perhaps see a
regrettable consequence of the dissociation between psychoanalysis and experimental
psychology. Most psychoanalysts, being primarily therapeutists, were little interested in
the niceties of experimental control which are here in question. It is greatly to be hoped
that a rapprochement between analysts and experimentalists will, in the near future, lead
to a fruitful cooperation in this field.

2) Incomparably more work has been done along the second line. Some of this work lies
in fields that are not far removed from that of the psychoanalytic method itself, fields that
are connected primarily with the psychological examination of the individual mind.
Another part of the work, as already indicated, has been concerned with matters that are
remote from the regions of therapeutics or of individual psychology, employing for the
most part data provided by anthropology, mythology, history, and aesthetics.

As an example of the first kind we may cite the work on parapraxia ("the
psychopathology of everyday life") and on wit. Freud originally showed—and many
others have corroborated him—that human behavior within these fields exhibits much the
same processes as those revealed by the psychoanalytic method in neurosis and in
dreams, and, in particular, that such behavior is largely determined by unconscious
motivations and by intra-psychic conflict. The great advantage of these fields for demon

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strations of psychoanalytic conclusions is that the mechanisms involved are, as a rule,

much simpler than those of neurotic symptoms or of dreams (at least of adults' dreams)
and that it is easy to point out that in many cases the psychoanalytic interpretation is
spontaneously adopted by those who know nothing whatever of psychoanalysis. Thus we
all tend to take offense if our name is misspoken or misspelled, or if anothr name is
substituted for it; we are likewise hurt when a rendezvous is cut, and the plea that it was
forgotten does not mollify our feelings. In fact we feel and behave just as if the mistakes
and forgettings were psychically determined, just as if a person wished to show that we
are not sufficiently important to make it worth his while to remember our name or the
appointment he has made with us. Indeed such "mistakes" may be deliberately produced
(as when in a play one character persistently addresses the other by the wrong name) and
are always understood in the psychoanalytic sense (in this case as a sign of contempt). It
would be possible, starting from such simple and universally understood examples, to
construct a series of instances of gradually increasing complexity, ending with cases
which require elaborate treatment by the psychoanalytic method before their meaning is
revealed. The argument from continuity here speaks powerfully in favor of the
psychoanalytic interpretation in the latter cases.

Not only the general fact of unconscious motivation but many of the detailed mechanisms
through which it manifests itself—condensation, allusion, symbolization, etc.—are
illustrated in humor and parapraxia. Thus, whole classes of wit depend upon that simple
form of condensation which is employed in the pun. The pun itself, however, often
indicates some sexual or hostile tendency as well as pure pleasure in the play of words,
and there is again a continuous transition from the pun or double entendre to the
distortion of a word in order to express some hidden tendency (as when I myself in a
lecture once had the misfortune to refer to Schrötter—a writer who had, to my
annoyance, anticipated some observations of my own—as Storer [i.e., "disturber"]).
Similarly with symbolism. In France I once witnessed a "curtain raiser" where the scene
took place in a dentist's consulting room. The dentist who carried out a variety of
operations on the teeth of a female patient, continually described these operations in
terms which left no doubt that they were veiled allusions to various sexual procedures,
and the whole effect of the play depended upon an appreciation of this symbolism—
which indeed appeared to be understood by everyone. There was here a complete
parallelism between the indirect expressions employed for the purposes of humor and the
symbolism so frequently found in dreams ("displacement from below upwards," in this
case from vulva to mouth). Conversely, dreams sometimes employ expressions which
could easily be used for purposes of double entendre or other forms of humor, as when in
a dream the idea of semen is depicted by a group of sailors ("seamen"), or when the
contrasted ideas of freedom to roam abroad and the necessity of remaining in a cramped
and crowded home environment are

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symbolized by two individuals called respectively "Mr. Percy Porty" (= passport) and
"the Sardine" (from the phrase "packed like sardines").

Coming now to wider fields that are remote from direct psychoanalytical considerations,
an essential feature of the psychoanalytic application along these lines is that the data
themselves were not collected by psychoanalysts, but are common property, having been
given to the world by the labors of artists, anthropologists, mythologists, historians, and
literary men, or in other cases having been handed down and well known for many
generations. In dealing with this material we entirely obviate the disadvantage that
inevitably appertains to data gathered by the psychoanalytic method proper, namely, that
it is almost impossible to present to others the full material as it was available to the
analyst himself. On the contrary, the same data now confront both the psychoanalyst and
his critic. The question is: How far are these data in harmony with psychoanalytical
conclusions drawn from clinical material? If the agreement is striking, it does not prove
the correctness of psychoanalytical deductions in any given case or from any given
patient, but it does raise a strong presumption in favor of the general validity of these
conclusions.
Now, actually of course, psychoanalysts have appealed to parallels of very different
degrees of cogency, or at least of obviousness. In some instances the parallel is beyond
all dispute. If psychoanalysts have found that men in their unconscious minds have
wished to kill or castrate their fathers, to cohabit with their mothers, or to eat their
children, it cannot be denied that these unseemly desires are portrayed as actual
occurrences in myth; where, for instance, Oedipus (albeit unknowingly—corresponding
to a repression of the wish) marries his mother after murdering his father, where Cronos
castrates his father and is in turn castrated by his son, having in the interval developed a
cannibalistic taste for the flesh of his own children. The only conceivable way to deny the
validity of the parallel would be to take a weapon resembling that of the psychoanalyst
himself and to say that these myths are themselves only symbolic, that they do not mean
what they appear to mean, but are indirect representations of (say) the sunrise, the sunset,
or the change of seasons. But this would be to revive a line of thought which (though it
admittedly contains some truth) no longer finds much favor with mythologists. It leaves
us, too, with the awkward problem as to why the indirect representations in question
should have taken such repulsive forms (for even if we regard the ancient myth-makers as
merely nasty-minded forerunners of the modern psychoanalyst, it is scarcely possible to
account for the persistence of their myths for countless generations except on the
assumption that they made a very general appeal).

In other cases the myths themselves are not clear portrayals of the tendencies that
analysts profess to find in the unconscious of their patients, but are themselves, it is
maintained, symbolic of these tendencies—the symbolism, however, being much the
same as that which is found within

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the individual mind. Here the value of the corroborative evidence, if any, is more difficult
to weigh. The fact that conclusions drawn from a study of the individual mind can be
applied to products of the group mind (such as myths) adds to the interest and importance
of these conclusions if they are correct, but it does not in itself prove their correctness; it
may indicate merely that the analyst is committing the same mistake in both cases, and to
maintain that we have "proved" a piece of dream symbolism by applying our
interpretation to a piece of mythology and then triumphantly pointing to the
correspondence, is to argue in a circle. But if there are circumstances in the myth itself
which, independently of clinical experience, point to the correctness of the interpretation,
then we have really obtained an objective corroboration of the general possibility of such
symbolism's occurring in the human mind. Such would be the case, for instance, if
historical evidence concerning the development of the myth showed that it had gradually
acquired the symbolic form and had originally represented the psychoanalytic
interpretation in an undisguised way. Only slightly less convincing would be the
discovery of an undisguised variant of the myth among the same or neighboring people.
Actually, of course, such attempted verification has most often taken the form of
collecting more or less numerous variants, each of which seems to support the
interpretation in one way or another. In the course of this work psychoanalysts have
found themselves involved in a fierce anthropological controversy between the modern
followers of Bastian and his Elementargedanken upon the one hand and the new
historical or diffusionist school upon the other. The psychoanalyst in the search for
anthropological parallels for the facts which he believes himself to have discovered by
his own methods tends to be more interested in the point of view of the former school. As
a psychologist, too, dealing with apparently fundamental and deep-lying processes
(processes, too, which exhibit in their general characteristics a most striking resemblance
from one patient to another), he is likely to expect an essential similarity in the products
of the human mind, even though obscured by superficial differences of time and place
and culture. Indeed his work seems to provide a very striking corroboration of the
fundamental idea underlying the theory of Bastian, inasmuch as it reveals a surprising
constancy in the nature of the more important symbolical relationships, which appear to
remain largely influenced by conscious contacts. But there is no necessary antagonism
between the work of the psychoanalysts and that of the diffusionists—and this in spite of
the violent attacks that have been made on psychoanalytical interpretations by members
of the latter school. To trace the history and diffusion of human culture through its
various migrations is a useful and important undertaking, but to show historically how a
given belief or practice has migrated does not absolve us in the least from the task of
considering its psychological significance, any more than a complete account of the life
of a historical person from the cradle to the grave should lead us to suppose that that
person was a robot devoid of thoughts or plans or wishes.

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Nevertheless it remains true, of course, that the attempt to obtain corroborative evidence
for psychoanalytic findings from anthropological material must pay due regard to
historical evidence and, failing this, historical likelihood. It is for psychoanalytic
purposes less convincing, for instance, to compare two apparent variants for the same
myth if they come from two very different parts of the world (and may therefore have had
very different histories) than if they are found in allied peoples and neighboring localities,
and are therefore almost certainly variations of the same theme; while, on the other hand,
mere difference of locality does not guarantee the separate and spontaneous employment
of the same symbolic expression, unless it can be clearly shown that there is no
possibility of the myth's having been passed from one locality to the other by means of
culture contact. But, when all due precautions of this kind are taken, the psychoanalyst is
still able to point to so many cases in which a number of variants of the same myth, so to
speak, interpret each other (by providing a series of steps from undisguised wish-
fulfilment to highly distorted and symbolic expressions of a corresponding wish) that he
may justly claim to have established in this way an independent corroboration of many of
his clinical discoveries; in the sense that, even if these clinical discoveries had never been
made, it would still be theoretically possible to draw the same conclusions from a study
of the myths alone.

What we have here said with regard to myths holds good also, mutatis mutandis, to other
anthropological material (e.g., comparative theology and ritual) and to the data obtainable
from history, biography, and art. In view of the undoubted difficulties that attend the
proof of conclusions drawn solely from material gathered by the psychoanalytic method,
such independent verification from sources that are open to the fullest investigation by all
would seem to be of the highest importance from the scientific point of view.

Insofar as we admit that psychoanalysts have, along the various lines we have considered,
given satisfactory proof of the essential correctness of their main contentions, we must
admit also that psychoanalysis has opened up new vistas of the utmost promise and
importance, not only for psychology but for all the sciences—both pure and applied—
that deal with human behavior and human institutions. If, as psychoanalysts maintain,
human conduct is largely determined by mental tendencies that are normally
unconscious, and if psychoanalysis provides us with a means of bringing these tendencies
to consciousness and thus making them accessible to understanding and control, then it
would seem that a most important step has been taken towards the overcoming of what is
by universal admission the greatest menace to our present culture—man's ignorance, and
consequent imperfect mastery, of himself, an ignorance which, so long as it persists,
renders the advances of physical science at least as dangerous as they are beneficial. The
inner conflicts revealed by psychoanalysis within the individual's mind, conflicts which
entail an immeasurable quantity of suffering and inefficiency, are paralleled by social,
national, and racial conflicts, which, at the lowest estimate, cause a vast amount of

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waste and friction, and, in the opinion of many able judges, threaten the very existence of
human culture. At present, owing to these conflicts, man can make but little intelligent
use of his intellectual powers or scientific knowledge, because both are liable to be
employed in the service of unconscious motives, of the nature and goals of which he has
but little understanding. If psychoanalysis can increase that understanding, new and
dazzling possibilities are opened up for human evolution guided by conscious and
intelligent desire.

It would seem, in fact, no exaggeration to say that psychoanalysis has it in its power
definitely to increase the importance of the biological rôle of consciousness (with its
uniquely delicate powers of reasoning and discrimination), since it can extend the range
of biological processes that are capable of entering the field of consciousness. The
significance of psychology will be correspondingly extended; indeed it is likely to
become the most important of all the sciences, as far as human welfare is concerned, and
will probably be regarded as fundamental to all the applied sciences of human life
(politics, law, economics, etc.), in much the same way as chemistry and physics are
fundamental to all the arts of manipulating our physical environment. The great
contribution that psychoanalysis is destined to make in this extension of psychology is
already very clear. In the present chapter we have only been concerned with the
applications of psychoanalysis to wider fields, in so far as these applications help us to
estimate the general validity of psychoanalysis itself. If we grant this validity, however, it
at once becomes apparent that not only do these applications of a psychological
viewpoint to other fields enrich psychology itself (psychoanalysis has for the first time
created a true comparative psychology of human life, in which illuminating comparisons
can be made between the individual mental products of childhood and maturity, health
and disease, and the products of group life as manifested in myth, belief, and institution),
but that they immensely deepen our outlook on these other fields, by enabling us to
contemplate social phenomena in the light of the fundamental motives that produce them.

As in the case of individual analyses, a conscious realization of the motives underlying

social conduct tends to make possible a rationally controlled modification or
readjustment of these motives and of our attitude towards them. It is pretty clear that in
certain ways psychoanalysis is already producing such a modification of our social life,
as the result of the diffusion of some of the more general results of psychoanalytic
inquiry and of a more widespread realization of the importance and value of the
psychological standpoint in studying conduct—social and individual.

This is particularly marked in the field of sex, where an increased freedom of thought and
discussion—largely due to the filtration of the simpler psychoanalytic concepts into
literature and journalism—is tending slowly to replace the intolerance and hypocrisy of
the last century. Through psychoanalysis the idea is gradually gaining ground that
suppression and dogmatic adherence to ancient codes is not necessarily the only—or
indeed the best—method of dealing with the sexual difficulties of our time. In

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this field psychoanalysis has not only increased our scientific knowledge of a most
important part of psychological and sociological reality, but has increased the general
ability to contemplate this portion of reality without shame or panic.

Great as this social achievement is, it seems likely to be overshadowed sooner or later by
an even greater one. The psychoanalytic researches of the last few years into the structure
of the ego have resulted in discoveries about the nature and development of human
morality, which, when in turn they begin to become part of general knowledge, cannot
but produce a far-reaching critical discussion of our most fundamental ethical
conceptions. These recent researches have shown, in the words of Freud, that "the normal
man is not only far more immoral than he believes, but is also far more moral than he has
any idea of." The morality that is here in question (the "super-ego" in psychoanalytic
terminology) is, however, the morality of the unconscious, and partakes of many of the
characteristics of the unconscious that have already become familiar through the earlier
psychoanalytic investigations of the libido. It is, for instance, archaic and infantile in its
origin and pattern, it is modified only slowly, if at all, by the experiences of later life, it
lacks all delicate discrimination, and is but little in touch with outer reality. Owing to
these attributes, it is often incompatible with conscious moral standards, which, in
persons of intellect and education, are, in our present society, apt to be greatly modified
by reflection, teaching, and experience, as life proceeds. Our unconscious morality is
therefore liable to condemn much that consciously we should approve or at least regard
as harmless. This relative inaccessibility of our unconscious morality to "real"
considerations leads to one particularly important differentiating feature: an inability to
distinguish adequately between immoral desires on the one hand and immoral actions on
the other, the former being treated as harshly as the latter. Harshness indeed is another
general characteristic of the super-ego. One of the most startling of the revelations of
psychoanalysis concerns the human capacity for unconscious self-punishment in response
to an unconscious sense of guilt. This irrational "need for punishment" is the cause of an
incalculable amount of human misery and loss of efficiency, which may be removed in so
far as it proves possible to bring our unconscious morality into closer relation with our
conscious apprehension of reality. The possibilities in this direction for the emancipation
of the human mind and of human culture are themselves immense. But even this is not
the whole story. One of the most surprising features of our unconscious morality is what
one brilliant investigator has illuminatingly called its "corruptibility." In spite of its
severity, it is often willing to permit a certain license to immoral and anti-social
tendencies, on one condition, viz., that compensatory suffering be endured. This suffering
may be relatively independent of the gratification of the tendencies in question (indeed it
may be projected and thus become vicarious!) or—at the other extreme—it may be so
intimately fused with this gratification as to take the form of sadistic self-punishment.
But, in whatever way it manifests itself, this

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"corruptibility," leading as it does to an unnatural alliance between opposing tendencies

in the mind rather than to a genuine solution of conflict, 3 is in the long run prejudicial to
true morality. Indeed there is ample reason to believe not only that it may lead to a
pernicious connivance at anti-social conduct, but that a large proportion of existing
criminality is actually thus brought about.

Meanwhile, returning in conclusion to the more immediate problems that confront us as

students of the mind, the most urgent need from the point of view of pure science would
seem to be the establishment of closer relations between the psychoanalyst and the
"academic" psychologist.

In this matter, questions of method are of supreme importance. Experimental psychology

has worked out methods that are in many ways more scientifically exact than those of
psychoanalysis, but at the expense of neglecting some of the most important aspects of
the mind. It is nearly thirty years since Titchener wrote that our ignorance of the affective
processes was "something of a scandal to experimental psychology." The scandal still to
a considerable extent remains, but in the meantime psychoanalysis has achieved far more
in this direction than all other schools of psychology together. Its methods are, however,
still highly cumbersome and inconvenient; it has, in fact, not yet reached the
experimental stage. So far as clinical observation is concerned, psychoanalysts have not
as yet been able to sit down and study by their methods this or that abstracted problem, as
the experimentalists have done. They have simply studied the human mind as a whole,
and, as their experience has widened, their attention has been drawn first to this and then
to that aspect of the mind. Such specially directed research as there has been is concerned
almost. entirely with the wider applications of psychoanalysis (psychoanalysis in our
fourth sense). At the present moment, if a graduate student in psychology expresses the
desire to do research on psychoanalysis, it is only along this line, if at all, that he can
safely be advised to proceed. If he were to start to work by direct clinical methods
(psychoanalysis in our first sense), he would first have to submit to a prolonged analysis
of himself, and then, only after several further years of work, could he hope, by good
fortune and acute observation, to make definite discoveries of his own. This circumstance
seems necessarily to limit very greatly the direct psychological value of the
psychoanalytic method in the hands of pure psychologists, for (short of endowments on a
great scale) very few would undertake such work, unless they were assured of adequate
remuneration. Such remuneration will, as a rule, come only from the use of
psychoanalysis for therapeutic purposes, and here, too, its use is apt to be limited by the
high cost of the lengthy treatment. Eventually, however, funds may be forthcoming,
which (as in the case of other forms of therapy) may make it possible to apply an
expensive form of treatment to a large number of patients at small cost to themselves.
Indeed there are already a number

____________________
3
If one seeks for a social parallel, one is reminded of the cooperation of the churches
and of the bootleggers towards the maintenance of prohibition.

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of psychoanalytic clinics where work of this kind is carried out. An extension of this
work will open up greater possibilities for the collection of psychoanalytic data on a large
scale and will make it worth while foi promising students of psychology to specialize in
this direction.

Lastly, it has still to be seen how far the obvious difficulties in applying true experimental
methods to psychoanalysis are really insuperable. It may be that a body of psychologists
fully trained both in experimental psychology and in psychoanalysis (at present there are
scarcely any such) may find means of overcoming many of these difficulties. It would
seem, for instance, that such subjects as dreams, wit, symbolism, failures of memory,
word association (here, of course, some work has already been done), moral concepts and
feelings, inhibitions occurring during mental work, spontaneously occurring Einfälle
(such as numbers)—these might serve as starting-points for analysis by strictly controlled
experimental methods. Such fragmentary experiments on real and artificial dreams as
have for instance been described by Bleuler (a friendly critic) and Wohlgemuth (a hostile
one) might be systematically repeated and extended. Even the questionnaire method is
capable of bringing in useful corroborative results (as Conklin's questionnaire on the
foster-child phantasy has shown). What eventual success such methods may achieve it is,
of course, impossible to say at present. In view of the vast benefits that psychology would
be likely to derive, if psychoanalysis could be made amenable to experimental technique,
the attempt seems emphatically to be worth the making.

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