The Penguin Freud Reader - Internet Archive
PENGUIN BOOKSThe Penguin Freud ReaderSigmund Freud was born in 1856 in Moravia; between the ages of fourand eighty-two his home was in Vienna: in 1938 Hitler’s invasion ofAustria forced him to seek asylum in London, where he died in thefollowing year. His career began with several years of brilliant work onthe anatomy and physiology of the nervous system. He was almost thirtywhen, after a period of study under Charcot in Paris, his interests firstturned to psychology; and after ten years of clinical work in Vienna (atfirst in collaboration with Breuer, an older colleague) he invented whatwas to become psychoanalysis. This began simply as a method oftreating neurotic patients through talking, but it quickly grew into anaccumulation of knowledge about the workings of the mind in general.Freud was thus able to demonstrate the development of the sexualinstinct in childhood and, largely on the basis of an examination ofdreams, arrived at his fundamental discovery of the unconscious forcesthat influence our everyday thoughts and actions. Freud’s life wasuneventful, but his ideas shape not only many specialist disciplines, butalso the whole intellectual climate of the twentieth century.Adam Phillips was formerly Principal Child Psychotherapist at CharingCross Hospital in London. He is the author of several books onpsychoanalysis including On Kissing, Tickling and Being Bored, Darwin’sWorms, Promises, Promises, Houdini’s Box and Going Sane.
SIGMUND FREUDThe Penguin Freud ReaderSelected and Introduced by Adam PhillipsPENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKSPublished by the Penguin GroupPenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, EnglandPenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USAPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P2Y3(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road,Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, IndiaPenguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,Rosebank 2196, South AfricaPenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, Englandwww.penguin.comThis collection of essays first published in Penguin Classics 20061Introduction copyright Adam Phillips, 2006The information on pp. 567–70 constitutes an extension of this copyright pageAll rights reservedThe moral rights of the translators and the author of the Introduction have been assertedExcept in the United States of America, this book is sold subjectto the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’sprior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that inwhich it is published and without a similar condition including thiscondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ContentsIntroductionA Note on the TextsAn Outline of PsychoanalysisThe Splitting of the Ego in Defence ProcessesLetter to Romain Rolland (A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis)Constructions in AnalysisFetishismNegationNote on the ‘Magic Notepad’‘Psychoanalysis’ and ‘Libido Theory’Beyond the Pleasure PrincipleFrom the History of an Infantile Neurosis [The ‘Wolfman’]Mourning and MelancholiaLapsesObservations on Love in TransferenceOn the Psychology of the Grammar-school BoyOn the Introduction of Narcissism
Remembering, Repeating, and Working Throughfrom Contributions to the Psychology of Erotic LifeFormulations on the Two Principles of Psychic FunctioningFamily RomancesHysterical Phantasies and their Relation to BisexualityFragment of an Analysis of Hysteria (Dora)Screen MemoriesHumourPublishing histories and copyright information
IntroductionThere is an inducement to say, ‘Yes, of course, it must be like that’.A powerful mythology. Wittgenstein, Conversations on FreudIn the so-called Standard Edition of Freud’s work – the first official andvirtually complete translation of Freud’s writing by James Strachey,published in 1959 – the word ‘reader’ is used one hundred and twentytwo times. The reader, whom Freud often addresses directly in hiswriting, and reading itself were very important for Freud, all of whosework as a writer and as a clinician is about the impact of language onthe ever-changing modern individual: the person who suffers and enjoysmore words than ever before in history; the person who is definedeconomically, politically and psychologically by her literacy, or lack ofit. Freud is the writer for people who want to find out what words mayhave done to them, and may still be doing. And like the modernistwriters who are his contemporaries – Freud’s psychoanalytic writingbeginning like Wilde and Conrad in the 1890s, and ending with hisdeath in 1939, two years before the deaths of James Joyce and VirginiaWoolf – Freud changes our reading habits. He makes us wonder, amongmany other things, what we may be doing when we are reading, whatthe desire to read is a desire for? When we read psychoanalysis we arereading about what people do to each other with words; and words, forFreud, are what we do our wanting with.And yet psychoanalysis as a therapy, it would seem, is not aboutwriting at all. It is the talking and listening cure because only spoken
words (and money) are exchanged between the analyst and what Freudas a doctor called the patient. It is not a reading cure; what, after all,would reading be a cure for? But in order to become a psychoanalyst onehas to have been a Freud reader. The patient, ideally, will be thebeneficiary of, among other things, his analyst’s reading. And this bringsus to a question that is at the heart of psychoanalysis, and that is part ofthe point of this selection of Freud’s writings; how does one find outabout psychoanalysis? If the question was asked of any other science, theanswer would be, among other things, witness or actually perform theexperiments that constitute the science. But no one can witness apsychoanalysis; the experiment cannot be exactly replicated. So if youwant to find out what psychoanalysis is there is only the reconditeexperience of being psychoanalysed oneself, gossip and so-calledinformed discussion about the subject, and reading. The very firstpsychoanalysts practised what they had heard and read that Freud did.Much of Freud’s voluminous and fascinating correspondence with hismost talented followers – Jung, Ferenczi, Abraham, Jones, Binswanger,Groddeck, Pfister, Lou Andreas-Salomé – are responses to Freud’swriting. Freud, in other words, was a writer who for some reasoninspired passionate reading; which, of course, has continued in therancour and relish with which he is still read. Normally, when peopledon’t like a writer they simply stop reading him, and there is no fussabout it. When people don’t like Freud they can’t stop both reading himand not reading him, and pronouncing on him; they can’t just let him go.‘Once psychoanalysis has held one in its grip,’ his colleague LudwigBinswanger wrote to Freud in 1924, ‘it never lets go again’. It is not thatpsychoanalysis holds one in its grip, it is that people grip on to it (as a
hate-object, as a love-object, but not usually as an irrelevant object).So it is the aim of The Penguin Freud Reader not to introduce people topsychoanalysis as a therapy, which can only be done by trying it out; norto provide a comprehensive selection of Freud’s writing, which wouldmerely reveal more about the selector than the selected; nor to take itfor granted that a ‘great writer’ is here on show, when Freud himself hadso much to tell us and did so much to ironize our wishes for greatness. Itis, rather, the aim of this Reader to enable the curious, who are bydefinition not the converted, to discover what, if anything, is sohaunting about Freud’s writing. Why, for some people, Freud’s writingwas the kind of reading experience that was (and is) more akin to aconversion experience; why Freud’s sentences had what might be calleda religious effect on people, even, or especially when, they wanted todescribe psychoanalysis as a science. ‘The analytic revelation,’ ThomasMann wrote in his speech of 1936 on Freud’s eightieth birthday, ‘is arevolutionary force. With it a blithe scepticism has come into the world,a mistrust that unmasks all the schemes and subterfuges of our ownsouls. Once roused and on the alert, it cannot be put to sleep again. Itinfiltrates life, undermines its raw naïveté, takes from it the strain of itsown ignorance inculcates the taste for understatement, as the Englishcall it – for the deflated rather than for the inflated word ’ (publishedin his Essays of Three Decades). It is among the paradoxes of Freud’swriting that he inspires us by deflating us; that his blithe scepticism –and scepticism, as Mann knows, is often bitter, resigned and boastful –can make our lives, in their very disillusionments, more amusing, moresexually awakened, more charged with interested and interesting
meaning. Understatement reminds us that there is something under ourstatements. Something at work, and at play. In Freud’s description ofwhat we are like, it is our passion for ignorance that animates us; and itis our passion for ignorance about ourselves that is so time-consuming,so life-consuming. What Mann calls mixing the language of politics andof religion, the psychoanalytic revelation that is a revolution suggests, atits most minimal, that there may be a contagious energy about Freud’swriting. It can make people excessive in their responses.Excess is Freud’s theme. Our desire, he tells us, is way in excess of anyobject’s capacity to satisfy it; the meanings we make are in excess of themeanings we intend; our desire for death can be in excess of our desirefor more life. Freud’s influence, many people now think, has itself beenexcessive. It is as though we can’t help but read now through the glasseshe has given us. Alerted by him to puns and ambiguities, hesitations andnon-sequiturs, slips and over-emphases; wily about the sex under thesentences, the deflected aggressions, the egotism involved in whatever isshied away from, we are all Freud readers now. And yet Freud counselsus to be wary of our knowingness, mindful of our need to know wherewe are at the cost of seeing where we are. He shows us that we areprone to read and listen – two things that are closer than they at firstseem – too wishfully, too fearfully; and that we often deal with what wefear by identifying with it, by trying to be like it (so Freudians, whateverelse they are, are people frightened of Freud). Indeed, there is nothingmore excessive, in Freud’s account of us, than our craving for authority.If Freud wants us to be attentive by showing us how defensive we are,that in the struggle to be pleased with ourselves we can miss too much,
he also wants to persuade us that we are always reading for pleasure.Because it is pleasure that we are always seeking, and never more sothan when the nature of that pleasure is obscure. The question, in otherwords, for the Freud reader, is: what is the pleasure of reading Freud?Can she read Freud – or indeed anyone else now – in her own way ratherthan in Freud’s way?Contributing to a questionnaire on reading in 1907, Freud was askedsimply to name, without explanation, ten good books. As a man with apassion for riddles, a man for whom living a life was always a matter ofreading the signs, this simple enough request puzzled him. ‘Accustomedto paying attention to small signs,’ he wrote, ‘I must then trust thewording in which you couch your enigmatical demand.’ As apsychoanalyst, of course, it was the couching of demands that Freud wasinterested in; and, indeed, the sense in which the simplest demand wasenigmatic. What is it, after all, that makes us think that any givendemand is simple? Freud trusts the wording of the demand for ten goodbooks by unpacking it at some length. There are, he says in his slightlyfarcical way, at least three other kinds of books, apart from the goodones.You did not ask, he tells the editors by way of reply, for ‘the ten mostmagnificent works (of world literature)’, in which case he would havenamed Homer, the tragedies of Sophocles, Goethe’s Faust, Shakespeare’sHamlet, Macbeth ‘etc.’; the etc. referring, presumably, to all the othergreat books in a certain European canon of the highest literary art. Nordid they ask for the ‘ten most significant books’. If they had, Freudwould have named what he calls the ‘scientific achievements’ of
Copernicus, Darwin and the rather more obscure Johann Weir (‘on thebelief in witches’) among others. Finally, if they had asked him for his‘favourite books’, he would certainly have mentioned Milton’s ParadiseLost and Heine’s Lazarus. For Freud it is the ‘good’ book that he finds themost difficult to define, as though it is the simple adjective that asks themost of us, the ordinary words that read like riddles.Good books, Freud suggests, must be like good friends, ‘to whom oneowes a part of one’s knowledge of life and view of the world – bookswhich one has enjoyed oneself and gladly commends to others, but inconnection with which the element of timid reverence, the feeling ofone’s own smallness in the face of greatness, is not particularlyprominent.’One’s relationship to a ‘good’ book, like one’s relationship to a goodfriend, is not fearful; the other kinds of books are intimidating. They caneven inspire us by diminishing us, by making us feel small. Indeed, the‘element of timid reverence, the feeling of one’s own smallness in theface of greatness’ are rather more akin to feelings of religious awe. Thesecular religion of great writing – for Freud, as for so many of hisbourgeois contemporaries – had replaced the sacred religions of theirforefathers. Freud was someone who had clearly been daunted byliterature, someone who had felt traumatized – humiliated, belittled andinspired – by reading. Good books for him are clearly reassuring anduseful; the other kinds of books he mentions are overpowering. It wouldnot be overstating the case to say that, for Freud, reading had been themodern equivalent of what, beginning in the eighteenth century, hadbeen called the experience of the sublime. To write and to read was to
be close to the source of something, close to the source of the mostimportant something. Freud, in short, did not want to be a writer ofgood books.He also didn’t particularly want to be a good doctor. He felt, he wrotein his Autobiographical Study (1925) ‘no particular partiality for theposition and activity of a physician in those early years, nor, by the way,later. Rather, I was moved by a sort of greed for knowledge.’ What hedoesn’t tell us, at least there, is what he thought a greed for knowledgewas a greed for. Since reading is one form that this greed takes, andsince, for Freud, there were three kinds of appetite – the appetite tosurvive (to eat and be protected), the appetite, that is the desire, for theforbidden object of desire (incest), and the appetite, that is also a desire,for death – it is worth wondering what this greed for knowledge that isso well served by reading might be about. Because Freud as a writer isboth acquiring knowledge through the process of writing, and satisfyinghis reader’s appetite for what they are likely to think of as knowledgeabout something.In all his writing Freud is very didactic; if you dip into any page of thisReader you will find Freud informing you about something, explaining toyou how dreams work, how and why memory is memory of desire, howsymptoms are forms of sexual satisfaction, why pain is so alluring as apleasure, and so on. He assumes that the reader wants to know aboutthings. But he also assumes, more paradoxically, that the one thing thereader wants to do more than know, is not to know; that, indeed, thevery ways we go about knowing things is the form our greed forignorance takes. Psychoanalysis is a very elaborate redescription of
curiosity.Freud tells us, as his phrase ‘the greed for knowledge’ suggests, thatwhat we have been taught to call knowing we should call desiring;knowledge is a way of making desire sound less disreputable. Butknowing is really (i.e. in Freud’s terms) what another psychoanalyst, D.W. Winnicott, called ‘the imaginative elaboration of physical function’.There are not only bodies of knowledge, there are only bodies that wantknowledge. Because our desire, when it is not solely the struggle forsurvival, is essentially, in Freud’s view, a desire for something forbidden,it is the very thing we try not to know about, and the only thing thatreally interests us. Like Freud’s magnificent, significant and favouritebooks, there is always a feeling of one’s own smallness in the face of thegreatness of one’s desires. Like Oedipus, the Freud reader is on a selfblinding quest. And the quest is conducted in language. It is in languagethat the self is constructed, and it is in language that the self is free todeceive itself. Virtually every page of Freud’s writing says somethingabout language, and something about the hiding and the seeking ofdesire.Living a life is reading a life, in Freud’s view; and since life iscomposed of its desire for more life, and its desire for less life, and,above all, its desire for the forbidden life, nothing is going to make usmore resistant than this reading. The (Freudian) reader and writer arenot only partners in crime; they are partners in concealing the crimefrom themselves. ‘The writer enables us,’ Freud writes in ‘The CreativeWriter and Daydreaming’, ‘ to enjoy our own fantasies without shameor self-reproach.’ Our fantasies, which are the conscious formulation of
our unconscious desires, are shameful and guilt-provoking; the writerrenders the unacceptable acceptable, and the reader consents. ThenFreud provokes us, in his ironically understated way, to wonder whetherit is better or worse for us to be aware of just what it is we haveconsented to. (If pleasure is contraband, is it better for the smuggler toknow what he is smuggling?) What is it, Freud wants to know, that canmake reading (and writing) so pleasurable; and what do we need to do,and not to do, in order to sustain this pleasure? For Freud, like many ofhis contemporary modernist writers, reading and writing seems like thebest analogy, the most illuminating way of talking about the dramas andmelodramas of everyday modern life. Writing about writing was writingabout holding on to an appetite for modern life, about what languagecan sustain in us.Like anyone with an appetite for reading and writing, for listening andspeaking, Freud is mindful not only of the enigmas of language – indeedof language itself as an enigma – but of its limits. Psychoanalysis, in itsdependence on words is, by the same token, an inquiry into whatlanguage can’t do for us, into what we can’t change about ourselves byredescribing ourselves (Freud often writes most interestingly aboutpsychoanalysis when he writes about why it doesn’t work). In Freud’saccount of modern people as animals of desire and of language, he is atonce struck by both their mobility and their paralysis. Freud’s modernindividual is staggeringly ingenious in his pleasure-seeking – and hisverbal ingenuity is integral to his hedonism; and ineluctably fixated,repetitious, self-frustrating. He is too often defeated by the desires thatanimate him, and driven by the self-hatred, the hatred and fear of his
own desire, that is called guilt. Adulthood, for many people, has becomea long hangover created by childhood. The modern individual whoclaims to want the new, to believe in progress, to want to grow anddevelop her self, is furtively
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