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 °'''lBllOliiiiiiSiliiSYi.i,!?,X., Maurice Nicoll. 
 
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DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
Published by the Joint Committee of Henry Frowde 
 
 and Hodder <fc Stoiighton, at the Oxford Press 
 
 Warehouse, Fakon Square, London, E.G. 
 
DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 MAURICE NIGOLL 
 
 B.A., M.B., B.C. (CAMB.), CAFT. (TEMP.) B,A.1I.C. 
 
 LONDON 
 HENRY FROWDE HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 OxFOED University Press Warwick SauARE, E.G. 
 
 1917 
 
PEDTTED IN GREAT BRITAIir 
 
 BT HAZBLL, WATSON AND VIKEr, TJO., 
 
 IiONDON AND ATLBSBURI. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The dream is so common an experience that it is 
 not surprising that the analytical spirit of the 
 present age seeks to understand it. The genius of 
 Hughlings Jackson, which has now begun to inspire 
 English neurologists, foresaw that the dream was 
 the key of approach to many problems of psychiatry. 
 In this country, in the early part of last century, 
 many observers, such as Dr. John Abercrombie and, 
 later, Dr. W. B. Carpenter, realized that the under- 
 standing of dreams was closely linked with the 
 investigation of mind. Frances Power Cobbe, in 
 her article on " Unconscious Cerebration " in Mac- 
 millan's Magazine (November 1870), pointed out 
 the myth-making tendency in dreams and gave 
 examples which suggest that she was approaching 
 the theory of compensation in the psyche. The 
 development of theories of cerebral localisation, 
 however, overwhelmed these tentative psychical 
 investigations, and psychiatrists and neurologists 
 became absorbed in anatomical considerations. 
 
 To-day the position is altering slowly, and purely 
 anatomical research is falling into its proper per- 
 spective. From the anatomical, through the physio- 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 logical, the spirit of enquiry has come again to 
 the psychological. A vast field of psychological 
 medicine has opened out in which there are already 
 enough keenly conflicting opinions to show that 
 there is intense vitality in this new region. 
 
 Within the last few years the Ziirich school of 
 analytical psychology under Dr. Jung has parted 
 company with the Viennese school under Professor 
 Ereud, the pioneer of dream analysis. The outlook 
 of the Swiss school differed so fundamentally from 
 that of the Austrian school that disunion was 
 inevitable. 
 
 In England and America many people are familiar 
 with the Freudian teachiugs. I shall feel justified 
 in produciag this book if it enables its readers to 
 regard the dream, in some degree, from Dr. Jung's 
 standpoint, and I desire to place on record here 
 the debt that I owe personally to Dr. Jung. 
 
 In the following pages I have attempted to pre- 
 sent, as simply as possible, a view of dreams that 
 is not purely deterministic. Interpretation must 
 necessarily be a personal matter, and therefore I 
 cannot claim that all the views expressed in this 
 book would be supported by the Swiss school. 
 
 Maurice Nicoll. 
 
 114 a Hasuiy Stbeet, 
 
 London, W. 
 
 March 1917. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FAQS 
 
 The Psyche 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Problem op the NEtTBOTio . 7 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 Mental Backgeotjnd . . . .12 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 Dbeams akd Cartoons .... 23 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 Interpretation ..... 34 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 Compensation 55 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTEE VII 
 
 PAQE 
 OVBE-COIIPENSATION 61 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 Undeiucompensation .... 64 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Fantasy and Rumoue . . . , 68 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Unconsciotts Motive and Interest '. 75 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 The Control of Interest . . . 103 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The Growth of Interest . . .119 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 Complexes 131 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 Extroversion 138 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 ix 
 
 Intro VEESION 
 
 CHAPTER ,XV 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 PAflur 
 . 14& 
 
 Balance . 
 
 Regression 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 . 163 
 . 16& 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The Nattjee of the Unconscious . .174 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 RESPONSrBILlTY 181 
 
 Bibliography 189 
 
 Index 191 
 
DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE PSYCHE 
 
 The dream arises somewhere out of the psyche, 
 and appears as a highly complex and often brilliant 
 and very dramatic structure, which no one in his 
 waking senses could imagine to himself, save after a 
 very laborious and prolonged effort. It would be 
 a somewhat exhausting undertaking to guarantee 
 to supply dreams to a man who dreamt every night. 
 But the tale of the dream is spun spontaneously and 
 without effort. The spontaneity and ^effortlessness 
 point to the existence of a workshop wherein the 
 tissue of the dream is woven. This part of the 
 psyche is called the unconscious mind. Without 
 much discussion it is possible to understand that 
 the dream is a very intimate product of the human 
 psyche, and that the questions that surround it 
 demand, for their answer, a very intimate kind 
 of investigation. The nature of these problems 
 is not a material one, and therefore not easy to 
 understand. They cannot be looked at through 
 1 
 
2 BEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 a microscope. They are problems of marginal 
 and unconscious psychology. They are concerned 
 with the attempt to push out into those shad- 
 owy realms that surround consciousness, iu which 
 a kind of thought and feeling life exists but dimly 
 apparent to the busy man. He may experience 
 their influence in the personal and natural up- 
 heavals that they bring about, but he remains 
 unconscious that they are really connected with him, 
 and continues to look at life as it is represented by 
 the dispositions of interest in consciousness. 
 
 The attempt to widen consciousness, to make 
 accessible to it stimuli which hitherto it has ignored, 
 is traceable in many fields other than medica 
 psychology. These attempts are the first gropings 
 after the interpretation of an inward, slowly growing 
 impulse. So far some of its results in music, art, 
 and literature, as well as in medicine, have been 
 sufficiently odd. But the impulse remains un- 
 affected by criticism. 
 
 Outside medicine there is discernible an increasing 
 tendency to look for the explanation of familiar and 
 recurrent experiences as much iq. the human psyche 
 itself as in the material situation. A man may be 
 unable to perform some task — such as the giving up 
 of cigarette smoking — and attribute the failure to 
 some objective, difficulty. But it is possible that 
 the explanation may be found in some inner com- 
 pulsion or hindrance which lies in the man's psyche 
 itself. The problem then becomes an interior one. 
 This shifting of the focus of blame from without to 
 
THE PSYCHE 3 
 
 the inner scene brings with it a new consciousness of 
 responsibility. As of old, it finds that the solution 
 of suffering and difficulty does not simply lie in the 
 amelioration of physical things, but in the under- 
 standing of those forces which exist in every being, 
 and upon which the ultimately decisive factor in 
 personality rests, as a boat upon the sea. A neurotic 
 patient may attribute his condition to the house he 
 lives in, or to the climate, or to the food he eats, 
 and think that if only these factors could be amehor- 
 ated, he would be healthy. But until he realizes 
 that he carries the roots of his malady in his own 
 psyche, until a new understanding of his malady and 
 a new consciousness of responsibility shine in him, 
 he will continue a neurotic and may ring the changes 
 upon housej climate, and food to the end of his life 
 in vain. 
 
 It is this lack of realization in the patient that 
 becomes the problem of the physician. The neces- 
 sities of the human psyche, the internal strains that 
 are set up by a wrong use of life, the damming back 
 of energy owing to false attitudes, with its conse- 
 quent deflection into abnormal channels, become 
 questions that demand his closest attention. For 
 every neurotic patient is an individual in whose 
 development something has gone wrong in a par- 
 ticular way, and it is the duty of the sincere physician 
 to find out how and when the mischief arose and 
 why it still persists. There is no fixed rule. It 
 would be a mistake to handle a man like William 
 Blake in the same way as a man like John Stuart 
 
4 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Mill. That seems evident. Their problems, as 
 neurotics, would have differed. Thus every patient 
 has his special and peculiar problem. But the real 
 problem is never found wholly in consciousness. 
 
 Although it is a very common view that the 
 human psyche consists of static memory and 
 dynamic consciousness — a layer of consciousness, 
 as it were, superimposed upon a mechanism of 
 memory — ^there are some familiar experiences that 
 might well deepen and widen such a conception, 
 and put the background of mind under suspicion. 
 Parents may protect a little child with the utmost 
 care from the tales of foolish nursemaids and from 
 fairy-stories with tactless pictures, and thereby 
 expect that no terror will creep into the child's mind, 
 nor nightmares. And they find that they do not 
 succeed. The goblins of the night spring out of 
 the sleeping senses themselves, as apparitions older 
 than the waking mind, as haunters older than the 
 haunted. They lie in the psyche itself. They are, 
 as Lamb has called them, transcripts, types, whose 
 archetypes are in us, and eternal. And he asks how 
 else should the recital of that which we know in a 
 waking sense to be false, come to affect us at aU ? 
 This question of the appeal that things make is of 
 peculiar importance. How, when we have no 
 theory of mental background, can we possibly 
 approach the question of appeal? A great many 
 things which are nonsense when viewed through, 
 reason, make a powerful appeal. The appeal and its 
 power is not found to bear any relation to its com- 
 
THE PSYCHE 5 
 
 prehension by reason, unless a negative one. The 
 appeal is not rational. Fairy-stories grip the mind, 
 but what they grip lies beyond consciousness. We 
 cannot explain, by simply studying what lies in 
 consciousness, why fairy-stories should exist at all. 
 Why should we be interested in a frog that turns 
 into a prince ? It is the same way with dreams. A 
 man experiences a dream that affects him strongly. 
 He reconstructs it and retains it. The reconstruc- 
 tive impulse may be so strong that he takes it to his 
 friends, although he knows perfectly weU they will 
 be uninterested. And the dream probably seems 
 the purest nonsense. He dreamed that his house 
 was on fire, or that he forged a cheque, or painted 
 the finest picture in the world. Or he dreamed he 
 was changed into a frog. 
 
 There is an anticipatory side that must be glanced 
 at in this question of appeal. What common ob- 
 servation has detected is summed up in the saying 
 that coming events cast their shadows before them. 
 That is putting the matter objectively. The saying 
 can be put in another way i that which is about to 
 become conscious influences the direction of interest 
 in consciousness. It attracts and deflects it like an 
 approaching magnet. What is at first only vaguely 
 connected with it makes an appeal ; then the more 
 closely related ; until at last the appeal is replaced 
 by the realization. You can see these early de- 
 flections preceding most of the typical developments 
 of life, long before the individual is aware of their 
 meaning. But this is a subjective way of looking at 
 
6 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 experiences as if they were movements or displace- 
 ments occurring within, from the realm of the un- 
 conscious through the marginal into consciousness. 
 It is only in this way that the anticipatory or 
 prophetic element in dreams — ^historically the earhest 
 to be recognized — is to be understood. 
 
 At the present moment there are several schools 
 of psychology concerned in the study of unconscious 
 activities, and the analysis of dreams, and the 
 theories of their bearing on the individual are con- 
 flicting. But it is possible to detect a basis of 
 general agreement. The dream is regarded -as 
 material of the first importance in the investigation 
 of the factors responsible for unusual states of mind, 
 and all schools look at it as a typical product of the 
 unconscious regions of the human psyche. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE PEOBLEM OF THE NEUROTIC 
 
 It is customary to think that functional nervous 
 disease is something unusual, and that is because it 
 is associated in people's minds with palsies and 
 convulsive seizures and other dramatic forms. But 
 that is only a small part of the picture. It is one 
 extreme ; and the other extreme is illustrated by 
 those quiet, undramatic disorders known as neuras- 
 thenia, or psychasthenia, or nervous exhaustion. 
 Between these two extremes we find an immense 
 number of people who, while not incapacitated, 
 are distinct variations from the normal. They do 
 not call themselves neurotic, and quite rightly so, 
 because it has become almost a term of abuse. 
 People think that if no cause can be found in the 
 body to account for a man's illness, then he is play- 
 ing some elaborate trick. They call him a neurotic. 
 But if a keen and hard-working young surgeon 
 gradually begins to have an unreasonable fear of 
 sharp instruments, if the idea grows in his mind 
 that he might do something sUly, or worse, with a 
 
 7 
 
8 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 knife, what are we to think of his malady ? He is 
 certainly *a neurotic. He suffers from a psycho- 
 neurosis.* Prom the physical point of view he 
 may be perfectly sound. And yet he is tormented 
 by these strange ideas to an extent which is diffi- 
 cult for the outsider to realize. 
 
 Now if we regard his neurosis with a shade of 
 contempt, we are guilty of a singular lack of insight. 
 For his neurosis clearly comes between him and his 
 ambition. He does not desire his neurosis. There 
 is nothing pleasing about it. One cannot imagine 
 that Kjng James willingly endured his torments 
 when he had to knight one of his subjects with the 
 naked sword. His feeling that he might stick it 
 into the kneeling figure was not a pleasure to him, 
 for he had to close his eyes and have his hand 
 guided. And i£ we say that these ideas are silly, 
 that they are absurd, grotesq^ue, fantastic, can we 
 for a moment suppose that we are helping the 
 patient ? He knows that they are siUy — ^fortunately 
 — ^but yet he cannot escape from them. However 
 impressively we teU him that the whole business 
 is pure imagination, and however large our fee 
 may be for this advice, we do not cure him. He 
 
 • It was recognized in Charcot's time that neurotic symptoms 
 have their origin in the psyche, and Janet showed that all the 
 symptoms that occur inhysteriacanbereproduced by suggestion. 
 Therefore all neuroses — ^that is, physical disabilities that arise 
 from causes in the psyche — are p<j/cAo-neuroses. However, it 
 has become the custom to speak of a psycho-neurosis where the 
 symptoms are chiefly in the psychical field, as in cases of phobia 
 and obsession. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF THE NEUROTIC 9 
 
 merely gives up seeking any help and fights a 
 silent battle. 
 
 Now when a man has an eruption on his body 
 we do not necessarily seek for the cause in the 
 eruption itself. We go beyond the rash and seek 
 for the cause in the blood-stream, or elsewhere in 
 physical background. If a man has an eruption 
 of grotesque ideas in consciousness, then we might 
 consider that the causes are not to be found in 
 consciousness but in mental background. It is not 
 only abstract theory. The attitude of the neurotic 
 himself supports it. 
 
 When a neurotic patient sits down and relates 
 as exactly as he can what is the matter with him, 
 he experiences a difficulty. The difficulty varies 
 in proportion to the definition of the neurosis 
 in the physical field. It may be totally unde- 
 finable in physical terms. Or it may be easily 
 definable in physical terms, but, when described, 
 demands various additions that are non-physical. 
 
 He may say that he fears to cross open spaces 
 and that rather than walk across a square he wUl 
 go round its margins. He may say he is un- 
 worthy to associate with his fellow-men ; or, that 
 he has an idea that he carries infection about with 
 him which will cause the death of other people. 
 He may describe some ritual of elaborate wash- 
 ing and disinfection ; or of some ceremonial bowing 
 and gestures which he is compelled to carry out in 
 order to relieve his mind of some intolerable tension. 
 But whatever form the neurosis may take, after 
 
10 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 describing it, he shows a tendency to proceed 
 further. 
 
 The tendency produces the impression that there 
 is always something left unsaid, although the 
 patient may have nothing clearly conscious in his 
 mind at the time. When a man has pneumonia, or 
 cancer, or a broken leg, whatever he says is final. 
 It is as full a statement of the case as he can give. 
 There is no impression of something being kept 
 back, or something shadowy that seeks expression 
 for which no words can be found. But what the 
 neurotic says of his neurosis is never final, nor does 
 it produce that impression. It sounds like an in- 
 troduction to something. 
 
 To what is it an introduction ? It is possible to 
 ignore the sense of the unfinished, and straightway 
 begin to prescribe and advise. But if this course is 
 not followed, and an attempt is made to explore the 
 situation and find out why the impression of some- 
 thing unfinished is left in the mind, it leads in- 
 evitably to a personal encounter. This cannot be 
 otherwise, for there is only one path left open, and 
 that is the non-physical or mental. Every physician 
 knows the sharp dividing line between questions 
 that deal with the body and those that deal with the 
 mind. It is easy enough to ask how long pain has 
 lasted or when it is worst. But immediately the 
 question impKcates personality, a tension arises 
 suddenly. The physician feels it before he puts the 
 question. Some bracing of self precedes it. It is 
 easier sometimes not to ask it. It is less exhausting. 
 
THE PROBLEM OF THE NEUROTIC 11 
 
 If you proceed with the case, you find yourself asking 
 questions that have nothing to do with the etiology 
 of recognized organic disease. You find that you 
 are beginning to gaze into the personality of the 
 neurotic, though you may have no clear idea of 
 what you are looking for. If this course is persisted 
 in, a check is soon reached. The patient gives no 
 further information. To your questions he begins 
 to give contradictory answers, and the closer he is 
 pressed, the more unsatisfactory are his replies. It 
 seems impossible to proceed any further. How else, 
 save through the conscious mind of the patient, can 
 his personality be probed 1 At first sight it would 
 seem that an unpenetrable barrier has been met. 
 And yet the sense of something unfinished remains ; 
 the sense that there is something still there, but out 
 of reach — ^in the background of the mind. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 MENTAL BACKGROUND 
 
 There is a method of looking at personality adopted 
 instinctively by all people. The story-teller, the 
 talker, the speaker, the witness — ^anybody, in fact, 
 who dominates the moment — ^is regarded by the 
 most innocent spectator from two absolutely distinct 
 points of view. What he says, and what he re- 
 members and adds as time passes, form one train of 
 interest. But the way he speaks forms another 
 and quite independent train of interest. The 
 witness is quite conscious of what he says, but he 
 is only partly conscious, or unconscious, of the 
 way he says it. The practical value of this lies in 
 the fact that although people know that he may be 
 unconscious, and readily accept the idea, yet his 
 unconscious gestures and mannerisms are regarded 
 as being of as much importance as the stream of 
 words issuing from his mouth. It is not perhaps 
 too much to say that often they are regarded as of 
 far greater importance. 
 
 What bearing has this on mental background ? 
 
 It means that there is a natural tendency for 
 12 
 
MENTAL BACKGROUND 13 
 
 people to look behind the conscious levels and 
 conscious processes for the whole understanding of 
 a man's actions. The eye instinctively focusses 
 itseK as much on mental background as on mental 
 foreground, and in looking at mental background 
 it sees some kind of activity at work that either 
 corroborates, or gives a denial to, the processes 
 occurring on mental foreground. How does this 
 activity reveal itself ? It reveals itself in a great 
 number of small ways in a language that is difficult 
 to describe and yet unmistakable in its meaning. 
 It is a curious minute language of gestures, hesita- 
 tions, attitudes, and changes in colour, voice, tone, 
 and expression. It is a language that shines through 
 speech itself. It is read by the kind of words used, 
 by the emphasis, by the reiterations or avoidanceSi 
 It is a language that speaks in many other ways, 
 some of which escape the power of words. Its 
 peculiarity is that it is understood by all human 
 beings, and apparently to a greater or less extent 
 by animals. The more finished a statesman or 
 diplomatist or man of the world is, the less easily 
 can the language be read. It is not the language of 
 conscious gesture. It is the language of unconscious 
 gesture. Perhaps it is the channel most used in 
 forming opinions of other people, and particularly is 
 it the source of first impressions. Now this lan- 
 guage, unconscious to the speaker, is read by the 
 listener unconsciously. Later on, by careful think- 
 ing, some of its symbolism may be brought into 
 consciousness, examined, and given an explanation, 
 
14 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 but that is not a common experiment, because it 
 seems unnecessary. I have used the term syTn- 
 bolism in describing this language. In this con- 
 nection a symbol can be defined as latent meaning. 
 Its meaning is latent only in relationship to the 
 intellect, because it appeals immediately to general 
 intelligence. It is understood apart from the in- 
 tellect. When the intellect is brought to bear on it, 
 it requires to be unpicked and spread out. It is 
 thus condensed as well as latent meaning. 
 
 The language of unconscious gesture is a language 
 of condensed and latent meaning. But though con- 
 densed and latent, its effect is very powerful. Let 
 us take an example as an illustration. A man is 
 called upon to propose somebody's health at a 
 public dinner, He makes a very adulatory speech, 
 and then lifts his glass. His gesture is only partial. 
 He raises his glass slowly, a little way off the table, 
 and announces the toast. His action at once sug- 
 gests a meaning. In spite of his words his en- 
 thusiasm is reluctant. The action at once fashes 
 this meaning into every one present. That meaniag 
 is grasped long before any conscious reasoning comes 
 into play. It may be designed 5 that is always 
 a possibility. But it may be quite unconscious. 
 The man may clumsily upset his glass at the 
 moment the toast oome§ ; the action produces a 
 sense of awkwardness. Something has occurred 
 that contradicts the outward spirit of the proceed- 
 ings. It arouses a kind of suspicion. Or, to quote 
 an actual occurrence, after an extremely friendly 
 
MENTAL BACKGROUND 15 
 
 speech the man raised an empty glass instead of a 
 glass of wine. He discovered his mistake and 
 apologized. Now the mistake and the apology left 
 behind them a curious flavour. The man's actions 
 belied his words. That is a common phrase, but it 
 sums up the position accurately. All these gestures 
 are symbolisms. They are eloquent in themselves, 
 but they convey meaning that is latent and con- 
 densed, or to use a better term, they contain un- 
 focussed meaning. If they are brought up into full 
 conscious examination they are capable of inter- 
 pretation. 
 
 Interpretation is the handling of symbolism by 
 the intellect. It is here that dififerences arise, be- 
 cause every man interprets with some bias — which 
 may be momentary or permanent — in one direction 
 or another. A friend will interpret the wineglass 
 symbolisms in a different manner from an enemy. 
 A believer in the future of humanity will interpret 
 the signs of the times — which are symbolisms with 
 prospective meaning — in a happier light than a 
 believer in ancient tradition, who sees the golden 
 age in the past. Now these disparities are funda- 
 mental, and are encountered whenever symbolism 
 is under discussion. Focussed meaning covers a 
 certain area which is reality. A bottle of ink or a 
 lamp or a jackal are things with a certain clear circle 
 of focussed meaning within which no argument 
 occurs. But the expression of a face, the con- 
 figuration of the stars, a poem or a dream are things 
 that contain no clear circle of focussed meaning. 
 
16 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Their meaning is blurred or unfocussed. They are 
 capable of various interpretations, and therefore 
 tend to belong to symbolisms rather than to realities. 
 Naturally, if realities — ^that is, things with focussed 
 meaning — are interrogated far enough, they lose their 
 definition and pass into symbols. If you pass out 
 of the clear circle of focussed meaning, you pass into 
 symbolism. The reverse process — ^the passage from 
 latent and blurred to clear and focussed meaning — 
 has been the main trend of mental development 
 recently and has made' modern science and the 
 machine age possible. 
 
 In this way it becomes possible to recognize in 
 some degree the relativity of symbolism, and the 
 recognition is important because it has become a 
 preoccupation of some people to attempt to draw 
 a sharp line of division between symbols and realities. 
 And at the same time it is possible to see how in- 
 terpretation, or the process of focussing in conscious- 
 ness some of the meaning latent in symbolism, is 
 influenced by personal considerations. No one, for 
 example, supposes that a Jew looks on the symbol 
 of the Cross in the same way as a Christian ; or that 
 in approaching symbolism in general he will ever see 
 eye to eye with the man who is not a Jew. 
 
 DifEerences in mental background must degrade or 
 refine the interpretation. A man who is lacking in 
 some typical human experience will never interpret 
 in quite the same way as a man who is richer by it. 
 
 Now we have so far considered mental background 
 in two aspects. In one, it seems responsible for a 
 
MENTAL BACKGROUND 17 
 
 certain language which we have called the language 
 of unconscious gesture. This is a language of 
 symbolism. In the other, it is responsible for 
 differences in the interpretation of these symbolisms, 
 and symbolisms in general. What bearing has all 
 this upon dreams and the study of the neurotic ? 
 
 It bears upon the problem of the neurotic directly, 
 because the neurosis is a creation of the mind, like 
 the dream. It is something which arises spon- 
 taneously, without apparent organic causes. A 
 man may suffer from morbid fear ; this is a kind of 
 emotional neurosis. His fear fastens on this or on 
 that, beyond his control. Or he may have a strange 
 dominant impulse to do something grotesque that 
 is quite out of the tenor of his normal life ; this is a 
 kind of ideational neurosis. It is some uncontrolled 
 force in himself fastening on a bad or primitive idea. 
 Or he may have some loss of function, a palsy, or a 
 loss of sensation, or an inability to act or think or 
 feel, that is beyond remedy by conscious control. 
 This is a kind of functional neurosis ; it cripples 
 efficiency. One can say that the neurosis always 
 cripples efficiency, and efficiency is not to be 
 measured in terms of action alone. It must include 
 the power of thought and feeling and instinct. li 
 may mean nothing but a loss of the power of enjoy- 
 ment. But this is a loss of efficiency as much as a 
 paralysis affecting a leg or arm, or a cramp affecting 
 the hand. 
 
 A man cannot sit down and manufacture a 
 neurosis for himself straight away by taking thought. 
 2 
 
18 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 He cannot produce a functional paralysis by thinking 
 of it. The neurosis shapes itself. It reveals itself 
 as something beyond the region of conscious activity. 
 Its growth is undetected and its appearance, like 
 the dream, may be one of dramatic suddenness. Or 
 it may distract attention gradually, with a ceirtain 
 subtlety, vanishing for considerable periods, and 
 then reappearing with fuller insistence, in the same 
 way as some dreams gradually shape themselves, 
 night after night, in a certain direction. It dis- 
 tracts attention as something coming in upon the 
 conscious field from without, something puzzling 
 and unthought-of . From what region does it come ? 
 It must come out of mental background. 
 
 The neurosis, then, can be regarded as a creation 
 of mental background. This does not mean that 
 mental foreground, or consciousness, has nothing to 
 do with its formation. We have seen that mental 
 background can be looked on as being responsible 
 for the minute language of unconscious gesture 
 which may contradict the processes occurring in 
 full consciousness. The operations of mental back- 
 ground are afEected by the operations of mental 
 foreground. If, then, the neurosis is a creation of 
 mental background, it does not follow that what is 
 occurring in mental foreground' never has anything 
 to do with its production. Mental foreground, by 
 causing mental background to react in certain ways, 
 might theoretically be wholly responsible for the 
 creation of the neurosis. But the responsibility 
 would not be a direct one. 
 
MENTAL BACKGROUND 19 
 
 The matter can be put into simple allegory. 
 If a stern master quite unwittingly starves a ser- 
 vant, and, by reason of his wretched state, the 
 servant commits an act of violence and robbery, how 
 do we look on the master ? As with the neurotic, 
 one feels in his presence a sense of bafflement. Who 
 is responsible ? The act of violence, Kke the neu- 
 rosis, has a complex origin, and one does not know 
 where to put the blame. It is a triangular problem. 
 The problem of the neurotic is also triangular, and 
 it can be compared to the problem of the master, the 
 servant, and the act of violence. At one angle is 
 the fact of the neurosis — a functional paralysis of 
 the legs, let us say — ^and this can be likened to the 
 act of violence. There is, at another angle, the 
 statement of the case, the patient's history and 
 explanations as given by himself, and this is the 
 point of view of the uncomprehending master. At 
 the third angle is the statement of the servant, and 
 this wiU not coincide with the master's account. It 
 will contain much that the master was unconscious 
 of, and incapable of realizing. 
 
 What is comparable to the statement of the 
 servant in the problem of the neurotic ? When the 
 physician Ustens to the account of the patient's 
 illness, he has, like everyone else, two points of view. 
 What the patient says forms one train of evidence. 
 The manner in which it is said forms another. In 
 other words, the language of unconscious gesture 
 gives him certain clues that the conscious estimate 
 of the patient does not give. The patient says, for 
 
20 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 example, that he is by nature cahn, good-tempered, 
 and broad-minded. Certain hasty gestures, facial 
 contractions, movements of the eyes, and phrases 
 contradict this statement. The patient is un- 
 conscious of them. Now all this can be compared 
 to the statement of the servant who, owing to his 
 master's ignorance, had been starved and finally 
 driven to an act of violence. It lies outside the 
 conscious — ^the master's — estimate. It belongs, so 
 far as the patient is concerned, to the unconscious. 
 But it does not belong to the unconscious in a static 
 or negative sense, but in a dynamic and positive 
 sense. It is an independent activity of which the 
 patient is unaware. It is unconscious activity. 
 
 The language of unconscious gesture is not the only 
 indication of this activity. The man who takes up a 
 pencil in a fit of abstraction, and finds some time 
 later that he has drawn a curious pattern, which 
 seems meaningless, is influenced by it. It is only a 
 step from this to automatic writing in which the 
 activities of the unconscious are led out in a definite 
 direction, or through a particular cerebral mechanism. 
 The post-hypnotic states afford illustrations of how 
 a suggestion, planted under conditions that are not 
 those of normal consciousness, affects the trend of 
 interest in a manner that is somewhat comparable 
 to the compulsion neurosis and also some of the 
 vagaries of memory. A pers on while under hypnosis 
 is given the suggestion that five minutes after he 
 wakes up he will sneeze. He is roused, and five 
 minutes later — the pecuUar accuracy with which 
 
MENTAL BACKGROUND 21 
 
 the lapse of time is calculated does not belong to 
 conscious estimation — ^his face is contorted and he 
 sneezes. He may not always sneeze ; the initial 
 contortion may only show itself, in which case 
 compulsion is replaced by tendency. Now no one 
 can make himself sneeze without some external and 
 suitable stimulus, and a suggestion to that effect, 
 given under normal circumstances, has no result. 
 The sudden appearance of the impulse to sneeze 
 which arises, so far as the patient is concerned, 
 apparently spontaneously — and, as the physician 
 knows, without organic cause — ^is comparable to the 
 sudden appearance in consciousness of the imperative 
 idea, or of forgotten events. The movements of 
 memory constantly suggest the influence of activities 
 beyond consciousness, and the control of memory, 
 like the control of the act of sneezing, does not 
 belong wholly to the conscious mind. 
 
 But the particular product that demands some 
 theory of unconscious activity for its explanation 
 and the one that concerns us here, is the dream ; for 
 it is by the study of this typical form of unconscious 
 elaboration that certain problems of the neurotic 
 become apparent. 
 
 Of what value is the dream when the problem of 
 "the neurotic is under consideration ? 
 
 The value of the dream lies in the fact that it is a 
 typical product related to that angle or aspect of the 
 problem of the neurotic which has been compared to 
 the statement of the servant. So far we have seen 
 that the language of unconscious gesture can be 
 
22 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 regarded as parallel to the servant's case in the 
 problem of the master, servant, and the act of 
 violence. This angle — ^the angle__Ql_]inooTiRciQus 
 activity — ^in the neurotic's problem cannot be' ap- 
 proached directly. If the comparison is extended, 
 let us suppose the servant were dumb and also 
 illiterate. In that case he could give his evidence by 
 gestures, and if he were something of an artist, he 
 might draw pictures as well to make his case clearer. 
 Now these pictures would correspond to the dreams 
 that are thrown up on the screen of perception 
 during sleep. The fact that these pictures were at 
 first sight meaningless, or only vaguely suggestive, 
 would not necessarily detract anything from their 
 value. A hasty observer might throw them aside 
 after the first glance. But that would arise out of 
 a disinclination to take the trouble to find out if 
 the illiterate artist were not drawing after a special 
 fashion of his own. 
 
 Moreover, if some complicated statement had to 
 be shown pictorially, the artist might be driven to 
 employ a complicated method which would require 
 a great deal of patient elucidation. In other words, 
 he might have to draw a complicated cartoon, the 
 interpretation of which might be a matter of great 
 difficulty. The dream, then, may contain valuable 
 material, and like the servant's cartoon, it may have 
 behind it a definite motive. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 DREAMS AND CARTOONS 
 
 To record an event by drawing the idea of it in your 
 mind is simple so long as the idea is simple. If the 
 idea is that the king of Assyria smote a certain city, 
 you have only to draw the city, and the king smiting 
 it. But if the idea is that monarchical government 
 is bad because it brings to an abnormal focus certain 
 necessary human passions that otherwise would re- 
 main diffuse and harmless, how wiU you draw it ? 
 Simple ideographs are useless ;, but there is a method 
 that is used for depicting such ideas. It is the 
 method of the cartoon, whereby form and thought 
 find a plane of contact. The political cartoon of 
 the week has some points in common with the 
 dream. It is a product which is more or less 
 meaningless save to a man who knows something 
 of the political situation. It is a pictorial sym- 
 bolism whose elements require a kind of inter- 
 pretation, and it does not conform to the pattern of 
 reality entirely. It drops continually into symbols, 
 and where it drops is at the point where meaning 
 escapes the power of simple direct portrayal. It is 
 
 33 
 
24 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 a mingling of focussed and unfooussed meaning, and 
 by this mingling, according to the skill of the car- 
 toonist, a significance results that requires a lengthy 
 explanation. It covers a wide area of thought. It 
 contains a condensation of meaning, and we have 
 already seen that the language of unconscious 
 gesture is a language of symboliBms that contain 
 meaning in a latent and condensed form. 
 
 The idea concerning monarchical government 
 could be rendered by this method. A king, with a 
 burning glass focussed on Europe and the sun over- 
 head with the name of his nation written across it, 
 might, for example, form the main symbols of the 
 cartoon. But what is apparent is that an immense 
 number of ways offer themselves to the cartoonist 
 when he seeks to portray abstract ideas. He is not 
 governed by the laws of the ordinary artist. His 
 only limitation is the necessity of remaining reason- 
 ably comprehensible. 
 
 This limitation does not operate in the case of un- 
 conscious activity, for even coherence is not typical 
 in the dream. Some conditions certainly favour 
 coherence. Times of great mental stress or moral 
 conflict are frequently accompanied by vivid dream- 
 ing and in a general way it might be said that vivid- 
 ness and coherence in dreams go hand in hand. But 
 this coherence is not relative to intelligibility, but 
 is rather a coherence in the sequence of events, 
 which are related to one another by a kind of natural- 
 ness. But when they are reviewed in the morning 
 they present a clear, well-knit picture whiohj unlike 
 
DEEAMS AND CARTOONS 25 
 
 a cartoon, is unintelligible. It may profoundly 
 intrigue the fancy, but how is it possible to handle it ? 
 If the analogy between the cartoon and the dream 
 is pursued, a possibility of handling the dream is 
 suggested by a consideration of the way in which a 
 cartoon is approached. The cartoon is the result of 
 circumstances affecting national life. To under- 
 stand it, these circumstances must be known. Now 
 if it be said that dreams result from certain circum- 
 stances affecting individual life, a prejudice must be 
 examined first before the larger issue of these cir- 
 cumstances can be freely undertaken. For some 
 people will say that the circumstances are well 
 known, and that they consist in physical dis- 
 turbances. A late supper, it may be contended, 
 constitutes the circumstantial cause of much dream- 
 ing, and that is as far as one need look for the whole 
 theory and explanation of dreams. The late-supper 
 school — ^that is, the school of physical causation — 
 does not, however, furnish a wholly satisfactory 
 argument. There is no doubt that late suppers and 
 other disturbances of physical equilibrium provoke 
 dreaming ; but if you were to say that they con- 
 stitute the explanation of dreaming you might as 
 well see in that recent shower of rain the whole 
 explanation of that green tinge that now covers the 
 desert plain. It is simply an example of a common 
 confusion in thinking. Either the activities that 
 underlie dreams are intensified by certain physical 
 disharmonies, or the awareness of dreaming is in- 
 creased by some lowering of threshold value ; but 
 
26 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 the physical disharmonies do not, in themselves, 
 explain the dream. They aot^ sensitizers. The 
 developing solution that flows over^aT^Eotographio 
 plate is not the explanation of the areas of light and 
 shade that appear on the white surface. It merely 
 reveals what was already there, and what was 
 already there depends on circumstances uncon- 
 nected with the developer.- 
 
 From what kind of circumstances, then, do 
 dreams arise 1 In looking at a political cartoon, it 
 is possible to imagine a great number of threads of 
 interest, national, social, and personal, converging 
 on to it and determining its symbolism. Now 
 though the dream is infinitely more complicated 
 than the cartoon, it has in the same way behind its 
 symbolism a great number of converging threads of 
 interest. This is very easily proved. The incidents 
 of most dreams cover certain episodes, places, and 
 people that are quite familiar. These elements, 
 brought together in an apparently haphazard way 
 in the dream, represent different threads of interest. 
 Each one is, so to speak, a gateway that opens 
 into a long avenue of recollections, feelings, and 
 thoughts. 
 
 You dream that an acquaintance is sitting in 
 your study wearing a khaki uniform. The acquaint- 
 ance, your study, and the khaki uniform at once 
 form three separate threads of interest. The dream 
 brings these threads together for some reason. A 
 dream, therefore, might be regarded as a patch- 
 work pattern of interest. The formation of the 
 
DEEAMS AND CARTOONS 27 
 
 pattern differs from the dispositions of interest in 
 consciousness ; the acquaintance may never have 
 been in your house ; he may never have worn a 
 uniform. Yet the dream, according to its peculiar 
 tendency, disposes these objects of interest in this 
 new formation. It produces a new, and unthought- 
 of, pattern, and this is a fact that people recognize 
 instinctively when they say, in the presence of the 
 unexpected or extraordinary event, that no one 
 would have ever dreamed it possible. 
 
 The dream, then, seems to arise out of individual 
 interests, in that its component parts are people, 
 events, and places that are familiar, but its method 
 of combining these parts is distinctive and full of 
 surprises. Looked at from this surface, it is a pro- 
 cess that handles the individual's interests in an 
 unexpected manner. Now what is unexpected 
 approximates to what is not thought of, or not 
 conscious. Therefore the dream is not only a pro- 
 duct of unconscious activity in the sense that it is 
 woven by something beyond conscious effort, but 
 it is also a presentation of interests in a form that 
 hitherto was unexpected and unthought-of : and 
 so unconscious to the individual. This point re- 
 quires to be made plain, and for this purpose I will 
 cite some dream examples. 
 
 1. "I was staying in a large hotel on the coast. 
 The hotel is one that I had often seen from the 
 outside, but I have never lived there or even been 
 inside. I was rather perplexed to find that it was 
 really a cathedral that had been adapted to accom- 
 
28 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 modate guests, and was chilly and uncomfortable. 
 The manager was a priest with an ascetic face, and 
 he carried a bell. The bell was the dinner-bell 
 belonging to my old home. He rang the bell at 
 intervals, and then pointed to a tablet on the wall. 
 Some Latin inscription was on it which reminded 
 me of an incident of my early school-days - when 
 the headmaster flung a book at me because I used, 
 in translating gome passage, the term ' arable land ' 
 instead of something more poetical. Then I noticed 
 the priest had become rather like the headmaster. 
 He took me by the arm and spoke earnestly to me 
 and pointed to the tablet again. I saw now three 
 shining objects on it, like stars. These merged 
 into one." 
 
 In the dream it will be seen how an entirely un- 
 expected and unthought-of pattern of interests is 
 produced. The new pattern is a presentation of 
 interests in a form that was unthought-of, or un- 
 conscious to the individual ; and it was woven by 
 an activity of whose processes and machinery the 
 dreamer was unconscious. It is worth while look- 
 ing more closely at the dream. I have said that a 
 dream seems to arise out of individual interests 
 and that its component parts are familiar. This 
 applies to the larger part of the majority of dreams. 
 But there are sometimes curious and unfamiliar 
 combinations, such as the three shining objects in 
 the above example, and these link up with familiar 
 interests only with difficulty. Like the new words 
 that so often crop up in dreams, they constitute a 
 
DREAMS AND CARTOONS 29 
 
 kind of ideational neoplasm. Sometimes they are 
 beyond solution. At other times — as in this case 
 — ^there are certain hints surrounding them, that 
 set up a train of interest, and so establish some 
 mental relationships. 
 
 Now this dream, although so many interests seem 
 confused and compressed in it, maintains out- 
 wardly a sort of coherence which we may compare 
 to the outer form of the cartoon. And like the 
 cartoon it has a certain neatness in its manner of 
 symbolism. A bell in the hands of the priest is 
 not unnatural. The dream adds to its significance 
 by making it the dinner-bell belonging to the 
 dreamer's old home. 
 
 By means of the tablet on the wall with its sug- 
 gestion of a Latin inscription, a channel of interest 
 is opened up reaching to schooldays, and this is 
 then reinforced by a likeness to the headmaster 
 becoming visible in the priest's face. There is also 
 a kind of theme, based on contrasts, running through 
 it. This is indicated at the opening by the fusion 
 of the hotel with the cathedral. It is again suggested 
 by the fact that the priest carries a dinner-bell. 
 The hotel and the dinner-bell form natural associa- 
 tions, on one side, while the cathedral and the 
 priest are related on the other side. The Latin 
 inscription is associated by the dreamer with a 
 certain failure to rise to an occasion in the past, a 
 failure to translate a passage in sufficiently poetical 
 language. This inscription is afterwards replaced 
 by three shining stars, a symbolism that need not 
 
30 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 be discussed here, and they are pointed out by the 
 priest-schoolmaster in an earnest manner. 
 
 In the dream, which I have given in the words 
 of the dreamer, there are certain parts which make 
 the dream and certain parts which belong to the 
 dream as after-thoughts, or associations, and the 
 whole constitutes the record as turned out by 
 the memory. It is only natural, from what we have 
 seen, that fringes of association should be added 
 to the actual material of the dream, since the 
 material is made up of individual interests and 
 these ramify endlessly. But if an attempt is made 
 to investigate the above dream more closely, a 
 method now reveals itself. It is the method of 
 association, which obtains in the cartoon, and not 
 only forms the symbolism but is the key to the 
 interpretation of the symbolism as well. Each 
 element in the dream represents, as we have seen, 
 a gateway leading into an avenue of interest. If 
 the gateways be traversed by asking the dreamer 
 to discuss, in the most candid manner, each inci- 
 dent and figure of his dream, then new significances 
 begin to take shape. As an example I will give 
 some observations made by the dreamer on two 
 separate elements in the above dream i 
 
 (a) The bell ; "It does not ring now. I think 
 it is cracked or lost. Its sound used to vibrate 
 through the small house and I was never glad to 
 hear it, as meals were more in the nature of a duty 
 than a pleasure to me owing to family quarrels. . , ." 
 
 The symbol of the bell, therefore, is a gateway 
 
DEEAMS AND CARTOONS 31 
 
 that leads up an avenue of unpleasant associa- 
 tions. It is also something more. It is connected, 
 not with pleasure, but with duty. Now this 
 symbol is in the hand of the priest with the ascetic 
 face. 
 
 (6) The priest : " His face reminded me at first 
 of Cardinal Newman. I had been reading Tolstoi's 
 conversion (motive of dream), and thinking of 
 Newman, and wondering who was the better man. 
 ... I would not have liked to know either of 
 them. . . . Tolstoi's home must have been un- 
 comfortable in later years . . . (this forms a link 
 with the bell and family quarrels at meals). Con- 
 version, if it means making everyone uncomfortable, 
 including yourself, seems to me a thing to avoid, 
 . . . yet I know it is inevitable for some. My old 
 headmaster was not ascetic-looking ... he was 
 down on me because I was idle, and I feared him. 
 . . . When I used that phrase ' arable land ' (con- 
 nection with main motive — ^land capable of fresh 
 cultivation) he raved and ended by saying I could 
 do better if I tried. I remember that sentence very 
 well, and the look of reproval, but I don't think I 
 grasped (compare earnest manner of priest) my 
 poetical lapse at all. It was a bit out of Virgil . . . 
 I have forgotten all my Latin. ..." The symbol 
 of the priest thus taps a considerable volume of 
 thought, of which I have given a synopsis. It 
 brings out the question of conversion — ^that is, a 
 complete change in one's attitude towards life — 
 and behind this a suggestion of individual in- 
 
32 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 adequacy. It is not my intention to elaborate on 
 the dream, but to use it only as an example of a 
 method of approach, whereby a wider significance 
 is given to the symbolism. The bearing of dreams 
 on the individual will be considered more intimately 
 in a later part of the book. 
 
 Another example may be cited here in order to 
 show the affinities that exist between the cartoon 
 and the dream ; 
 
 2. " I was in the presence of the Kiag. He was 
 about to confer some decoration on me. He pinned 
 on my breast a medal which was either the V.C. 
 or the D.S.O., but I noticed that the medal had 
 upon it the word ' whip ' upside-down." 
 
 In this example the scene is exactly comparable 
 to the atmosphere of a cartoon, and could be drawn 
 as it stands. An important function is delineated, 
 but an element of grotesqueness is introduced. 
 Some associations given by the dreamer were as 
 follows : 
 
 (a) Whip : "I had thrashed a native camp- 
 follower the day before for a self-inflicted injury. 
 The native struck himself with his brass feeding- 
 bowl on the head and drew blood. ... I have 
 no idea why the word should have been on the 
 medal." 
 
 (6) The King ; " The presentation of the V.C. 
 by the King is the highest honour one can obtain." 
 
 It is to the outward similarity between the 
 method of presentation of the dream and the car- 
 toon that attention is drawn. A cartoon that had 
 
DREAMS AND CARTOONS 33 
 
 as its object some shade of irony, some reflection 
 on an otherwise excellent character, might assume 
 a form that corresponded with this dream, the word 
 which appeared reversed on the medal giving the 
 clue to the nature of the irony intended. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 INTERPRETATION 
 
 In the dream, as in the cartoon, you survey a pic- 
 ture whose elements do not lie in the same plane of 
 focus. It is drawn, as it were, in three dimensions, 
 and the meaning of some of its features does not 
 lie on the surface, but in the background. One of 
 the methods by which you get into the background, 
 and gain the proper perspective, is the method of 
 association. The farther back the true perspective 
 lies, the more condensed and latent is the meaning 
 in the symbol that lies on the surface. The mean- 
 ing of a symbol may lie, like a sunken vessel, with 
 only the point of its mast at the surface and its bulk 
 in the deep ; or it may lie close under the surface, 
 like a tangle of seaweed. . 
 
 The intellect, which can only deal with meaning 
 on one plane at a time, has as its task the adjust- 
 ment of all these elements, lying in so many dififerent 
 planes, and the welding together of them into a 
 reasonably comprehensible form on one plane of 
 focus. This is the task of interpretation, for it is 
 the interpretation of the dream, and not the dream 
 
 34 
 
INTERPRETATION 35 
 
 itself, that is valuable. But when the symbolism 
 of dreams is studied, a great difference from the 
 symbolism of cartoons is encountered. The diEEer- 
 ence makes the interpretation of the dream a very 
 much more difficult task than the interpretation of 
 the cartoon. For the sources of the dream lie very 
 much deeper, and its symbolism is not always drawn 
 from the passing fashion of the age, but from the 
 foundations of the human mind. Thus, in the 
 dream, symbolisms are sometimes found that link 
 up with what is most archaic in human history. 
 To find parallels to them the pages of human devel- 
 opment must be turned back, and the fantasies of 
 the primitive mind examined. By reason of this 
 some have thought that the study of unconscious 
 activity, from the symbolism of dream, is only 
 regressive in trend, and implicates the spirit of the 
 past alone. It is not only in dreams that sym- 
 bolisms of an archaic nature are found, but also in 
 the neuroses. These intrusions of the primitive 
 past into consciousness occur beyond dispute. But 
 it is possible to take up the view that the activities 
 of the unconscious, while constantly revealing 
 elementary and primitive forms, do not necessarily 
 point to a theory that sees in them nothing but 
 tendencies that have been overcome and suppressed 
 in the history of human development and have no 
 prospective value. 
 
 It is necessary to look at one aspect of common 
 speech in order to find a parallel to the apparently 
 fantastic imagery that the dream sometimes shows. 
 
36 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Dreams are said to be nonsensical. Does not the 
 same criticism apply to slang, if slang 'is taken 
 literally, or if it be drawn ? Slang is full of imagery. 
 The medium in which the unconscious works in 
 dreams is essentially a profound one, and we have 
 seen how in drawing an idea, symbolism becomes 
 more and more necessary as the idea becomes more 
 complex. Now the following fragment has been 
 constructed from a paragraph out of a novel, the 
 idea being that it is an account of certain images 
 seen : "I saw a man, convulsed with laughter, 
 lying on the floor. Somebody was tickling him. 
 He seemed to die. I found myself taking a kick at 
 him. He was quite dead. Then the scene changed. 
 I was in a large theatre in the wings, about to go 
 on the stage. I had no part and could not think 
 what I had to say. Some people were at a card- 
 table near by and I joined in. I picked out a card. 
 It was the king of hearts and the others drew lower 
 cards. They began to play and left me out." This 
 is something like a chaotic dream. A number of 
 fleeting, half -constructed scenes are grouped together 
 in rapid succession. Now this is merely a record 
 of the imagery contained in a conversation, full 
 of American slang, in a novel. " Sir, he's tickled 
 to death and that's a fact. I'm the only one to 
 make a kick. I kind of reckoned on being allowed 
 to play a walking-on part in this drama, but I look 
 like being cut out in the new shuffle." It is in- 
 evitable that a great deal of scenery and incident 
 should be used if the slang of ordinary speech is to 
 
INTERPRETATION 37 
 
 be recorded in graphic form. The result is a sym- 
 boUsm, but it is not always a very deep symbolism. 
 The tendency that exists for common speech to 
 express meaning in the form of concrete illustra- 
 tion rather than in the abstract is similar to the 
 tendency of the unconscious to clothe its activities 
 in graphic form. In the former, the result is a 
 language of imagery ; this is seen particularly in 
 proverbs. Suppose the meaning it is desired to 
 express is that it is better to make sure of one 
 thing than to be uncertain of two. It is an idea 
 that finds expression in numberless proverbs amongst 
 most nations. It is the idea behind the saying 
 that a bird, in the hand is worth two in the bush 
 (English) ; or that a thousand cranes in the air 
 are not worth one sparrow in the fist (Arabic) ; or 
 that he who hunts two hares leaves one and loses 
 the other (Japanese). There are many other forms, 
 but the meaning remains central, and is extracted 
 from the symbolism by the intellect. Proverbs of 
 this concrete type are capable of graphic represen- 
 tation. A man might say that he dreamt he saw 
 a lot of birds in the sky and that he had one in his 
 hand. The dream would not be in any way un- 
 usual. If he had never heard of any proverbs that 
 resembled it, he would mention it merely as some- 
 thing absurd and fantastic, particularly if he rarely 
 dreamt. He would not see in it a resemblance to 
 that activity in the human mind that is prone to 
 cast human experience into allegory or symbolism 
 or myth. 
 
38 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Turning aside for the moment from the symbolism 
 of proverbs, there is another form of symbolism 
 that accompanies imagination. The imaginative 
 man sees relationships and correspondences which 
 are hidden from others. Now the imagination deals 
 in metaphor. An imaginative bit of prose or verse 
 is full of metaphor and allusion. This is a kind of 
 symbolism, in that, while the reality is circum- 
 scribed by a wealth of approximations, in itseH it 
 remains out of the picture. The focal point of 
 meaning is never visible as a primary experience to 
 the spectator, but it becomes visible as a secondary 
 experience through the spectator's own mind. In 
 other words, he interprets, and this perhaps is the 
 beginning of art. If the intellect were the only 
 quality of the human mind, the whole of symbolism 
 would not exist. Imagery, allusion, metaphor, 
 allegory, myth, rhythm, music, fantasy and poetry, 
 would be impossible. Literature would contain 
 focussed meaning only. Painting would be photo- 
 graphy. But such a speculation is idle, for the 
 intellect rests on that part of the human psyche 
 that contains the activities responsible for those 
 qualities, is fed by it, and out of it weaves its 
 special pattern. 
 
 We become accustomed to our fantasies, but we do 
 not become accustomed to our dreams. For in our 
 dreams we do things more strange and unexpected 
 than anything we do in fantasy. And while fantasy 
 seems intimate and closely linked with our lives, the 
 dream comes as if it were from a remote and un- 
 
INTERPRETATION 39 
 
 known region. But just as there are fantasies that 
 assume familiar forms, so are there dreams which 
 are shared by many people. The dream of missing 
 a train, the dream of flying, the dream of being 
 naked, or the dream of losing a tooth are not peculiar 
 individual products, but seem to be common to 
 humanity. It is on this fact that the popular dream- 
 book is founded in which a dream of a particular, 
 type must always have the same meaning. For 
 example, six people may dream that they are flying. 
 This may mean, according to a dream-book, that 
 happiness is in store for them, quite apart from their 
 various conditions of life. Now the idea that the 
 same dream must always mean the same thing is 
 exactly comparable to the idea that the same action 
 must always mean the same thing. But if six 
 people get into aeroplanes and fly, the meaning of 
 their actions may be entirely different. One may be 
 learning to fly, one may be flying for a wager, one 
 for pleasure, one for curiosity, one to overcome his 
 fear, and one to carry a message. 
 
 In the old views about dreams, it was recognized 
 that their values were symbolical and that they 
 required some kind of interpretation. The inter- 
 pretations that were given were teleological ; that 
 is, they were regarded as products with a purposive 
 and prospective aim. They were prophetic. But 
 in seeking to put a definite value on their sym- 
 bolism the help of the dreamer was not invoked, so 
 that interpretation became a matter of ingenuity. 
 When Daniel interpreted Nebuchadnezzar's dream, 
 
40 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 he did not question the king about any of its 
 symbols, but evolved the interpretation wholly out 
 of his own mind. Now there is an evident danger 
 in this kind of method. For two men may dream 
 of a horse, and one may connect the symbol with 
 money he has lost and the other may connect 
 it with a present he is going to give his wife. 
 The symbol then has a totally different value for 
 each dreamer, owing to the associations connected 
 with it. 
 
 Broadly speaking, associations may lead in two 
 directions. There are reductive associations, which, 
 like a chemical analysis, reduce the symbol ioto its 
 elementary parts. This is the Freudian method of 
 approach. On the other hand, there are con- 
 structive associations, which shape and develop the 
 symbol to fit in with the immediate life of the 
 dreamer, and so bring it on to the level of con- 
 temporary experience as a living thing. This 
 method is used by the Zurich school, under Dr. 
 Jung. 
 
 The following two dreams, coming from the same 
 source, will illustrate the two methods. " I was in 
 a cave. A long narrow passage through the rock 
 led iato the sea. I struggled through, and found 
 myself in the surf, battling for life. I got to a boat 
 and was helped into it by F. W." 
 
 The next dream is less definite, but its symbolism 
 is round the same theme. " I was in a ship on a 
 broad river. On deck was a baby, naked, curled up 
 in a curious way, apparently asleep, with its knees 
 
INTERPEETATION 41 
 
 bent up and arms pressed tightly to the side, with 
 bent elbows. Some one threw it into the water. 
 Then I saw a big ship with a great rent in her side. 
 Someone said, ' Oh, that often happens. It can be 
 repaired easily.' There was some wild manoeuvring 
 about the water, ships flying round in circles, and 
 then I awoke." 
 
 The symbolism of both these dreams is round the 
 idea of birth. A purely reductive analysis, which 
 was applied in the first example, led to an anatomical 
 significance of the symbolism in which even the 
 rudder lines of the boat found a place. The presence 
 of F. W. was not quite accounted for. The associa- 
 tions round F. W. were to the effect that he had 
 offered the patient a post, which the latter was not 
 willing to take. 
 
 Now F. W. may be left out of the dream alto- 
 gether as a superfluity, and the birth symbolism 
 alone examined. This was at first done, and the 
 associations pursued a fixed path along the patient's 
 knowledge of the birth process, down to the earliest 
 memories in this connection. This occupied a con- 
 siderable time. The patient revived his childhood 
 speculations on birth and the myths he had been 
 told ; he revealed his present-day reflections on the 
 subject. In the second example the figure of the 
 Uttle baby curled up, and apparently asleep, at once 
 brought associations dealing with the business of 
 birth. The dream is more hilarious than the first 
 one ; but it deals with the same object. What, 
 then, do these dreams signify ? It is possible to 
 
42 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 say that the unconscious of these patients finds 
 itself preoccupied with primitive wishes connected 
 with the mother, and to make the patients under- 
 stand this thoroughly ; but what application have 
 these products of unconscious activity to the 
 dreamer's life ? He may say that he never permits 
 himself to think of subjects so elementary as birth, 
 and then one may point out that it is a repression 
 of a normal preoccupation of the mind, and that it 
 expresses itself in the unconscious, and so finds a 
 secret satisfaction. By making the patient focus 
 his whole attention on one or another symbol we 
 may force out of him memories and thoughts, all 
 dealing with the subject of birth, dragged out from 
 the marginal shadows of his mind, until at length 
 the reductive analysis comes to an end in the purely 
 anatomical. The process is rather like picking all 
 the scarlet threads out of a Turkish carpet so as to 
 understand the reason of its existence. And what 
 is gained ? 
 
 What is gained is a certain insight into self that 
 to a certain type of objective — or extrovert — mind, 
 which possesses little self-knowledge, is always 
 useful. In the case of the subjective mind we have 
 usually only confirmed what was known already. 
 
 If these two dreams be handled from the teleo- 
 logical point of view, as products with a prospective 
 bearing upon the patient's life, the motive of the 
 unconscious becomes more comprehensible. In the 
 first dream F. W. and birth are brought together 
 by the unconscious. F. W. is a person who had 
 
INTERPRETATION 43 
 
 ofiered the patient a post. The patient at the time 
 was in difficulties, but refused P. W.'s offer. The 
 unconscious brings together these two interests in 
 the dream — the idea of a new post and a new birth. 
 It approximates that which the dreamer did not 
 approximate in waking life. It forms a new pattern 
 of interests. How is the idea of new birth, of a 
 person being born again, a metaphor common in 
 speech, to be put in pictorial form ? A cartoonist, 
 withheld by conventional considerations, would 
 scarcely portray such an idea in obstetrical sym- 
 bols. But the unconscious has no such limitations. 
 
 In the above cases the symbolism is of some 
 interest. The association of water with birth finds 
 many parallels in mythology. This is natural, fori 
 the sources of mythology and the sources of the' 
 dream are similar. 
 
 Dr. Jung has compared the reductive method to 
 an analysis of the bricks and mortar that compose 
 a cathedral in order to account for the reason of its 
 existence. We might add another illustration. A 
 theory of painting might be evolved based on the 
 chemicals lying on each canvas. Thus you might 
 say that, on analysis, pictures contain lead, 
 chromium, iron, copper, and cobalt. You might 
 then group the pictures in a gallery according to 
 the amount of one or other that they contain, and 
 thus seek to explain their differences. Dreams 
 handled by this reductive method lead to the con- 
 clusion that they have certain basic and unvarying 
 elements, just as pictures have certain basic pig- 
 
U DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 ments. Dreams often contain objects such as sticks, 
 lamp-posts, church-spires, masts, pillars, tall-hats, 
 trees, lamps, pipes, funnels, umbrellas, candle- 
 sticks, naUs, guns, and pillar-boxes. Now, all these 
 objects have a quality in common. They are longer 
 than they are broad. We might therefore say that 
 all these objects when they occur in dreams have 
 a similar significance. We could say that their 
 significance was phallic. This theory would then 
 correspond to the views of that school of psychology 
 which has grown up round the teachings of Freud. 
 The analysis of a dream according to this method 
 will always lead in the same direction. Like the 
 chemical analysis of a picture, it will invariably 
 discover certain ingredients. 
 
 By the constructive method of association, the 
 opportunities of interpretation are greatly increased. 
 Through it one escapes as it were from a confined 
 space into a region of wide issues. The disad- 
 vantages consist in the fact that interpretations 
 become more speculative. They can always be 
 adapted, in some degree, to satisfy the dreamer or 
 the interpreter. That is inevitable. The same may 
 be said of the ordinary method of interpreting 
 pictures in a gallery. The advantages of the re- 
 ductive method consist in the fact that, within its 
 narrow limits, it gives a definite and absolutely final 
 result. If you say that a picture of the dawn con- 
 sists of ten grains of chromium and thirty grains of 
 lead, then that is quite definite and final. And if 
 you say that a dream of two top-hats consists of two 
 
INTEEPRETATION 45 
 
 phallic symbols, then that is also definite and final. 
 You come, so to speak, to a dead end. You are 
 operating on one level of values and you have only 
 one point of view. In the case of the pictures, while 
 it is quite true that they could not have been painted 
 without pigments, you can only see art as an ar- 
 rangement of chemicals. And however seriously 
 people may argue with you, you have only to point 
 to the picture and ask them whether they deny that 
 this patch is chromium or that patch lead. If they 
 still argue, you can say that they refuse to see your 
 point of view because of some inner resistance. But 
 if you say this, you must remember that they have 
 an equal right to say that you cannot see their 
 porut of view because of some inner resistance. 
 
 Let us consider for a moment the dream of the 
 two top-hats. The first part of the dream ran as 
 follows ; "I was returning from the country to the 
 town and had an idea that I had been wasting my 
 time. The streets were dark and there was a light 
 rain falling. I had two top-hats and was endeavour- 
 ing to protect them from the rain. These two top- 
 hats gave me great trouble. I could only keep one 
 at a time out of the rain, and if I put one under my 
 coat the other became wet, and when I put the wet 
 one under, it became ruffed up. The idea crossed 
 my mind that it was absurd to bring back two top- 
 hats from the country, and I wondered what on 
 earth I was doing with top-hats at all," Now, the 
 first associations made by the dreamer to the top- 
 hats were (1) going to church on Sundays, (2) his 
 
46 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 professional work. We might, then, from the con- 
 structive point of view, say that one top-hat stood 
 for all that is contained in the idea of going to 
 church on Sunday in the dreamer's mind. The 
 dreamer said that he went to church to please certain 
 people, and that his professional work had caused 
 him to take a view of life which did not quite coincide 
 with orthodox teachings. He found difficulty in 
 reconciling what he thought were his duties to his 
 relations and his personal desire for honesty. At 
 the time of the dream he was about to return from 
 the country, where he had been having a prolonged 
 holiday, to resume his work. How, from the con- 
 structive point of view, can we apply this dream 
 to the dreamer ? Let us examine the second part 
 of the dream ; "I walked on wondering what I 
 should do, and then thought I'd better take a Tube 
 train so as to protect my hats. I turned a corner of 
 the street and came upon an open space where I met 
 a beggar. He was a very cheerful and robust- 
 looking beggar, and he wore a cap. He did not ask 
 me for anything, but I offered him sixpence, which he 
 took with a smile and went on. I continued my 
 search for a Tube, juggling with my hats and feeling 
 very annoyed that I had given the beggar sixpence, 
 because I realized that it was unnecessary." 
 
 In reflecting upon this part of the dream, the 
 dreamer remarked that the beggar was in a better 
 position than he himself was, because he wore a cap. 
 Now we might take the two top-hats as symbols of 
 two contradictory and possibly artificial sides of the 
 
INTERPRETATION 47 
 
 dreamer's life, which handicap him. His discomfort 
 is contrasted with the freedom of the beggar. The 
 beggar on the high-road is independent and pre- 
 sumably ready for all weathers. The dreamer finds 
 himself unprepared for even a light rain and con- 
 fused by reason of the burden of having two top- 
 hats — ^that is, probably, two unadjusted sides to 
 his life. I think I have said enough to indicate 
 that this dream handled along these constructive 
 lines gives promise of an interpretation of greater 
 practical value to the dreamer than an analysis 
 by the reductive method which would reduce the 
 whole dream to the sexual level. But it would be 
 a mistake to think that dreams are innocent of 
 sexuality. 
 
 At the beginning of the war a great many people 
 dreamed that enemy troops were in the back garden, 
 or down the street, and in the house, or knocking 
 at the door for admittance. They dreamed that 
 enemy aircraft were overhead, about to drop ex- 
 plosives on them. Many of these dreams were 
 nightmarish. Often they were so vivid that people 
 were troubled by them and half expected to see 
 their immediate fulfilment. It will be of interest, 
 perhaps, to examine some of these dreams and 
 through them approach the subject of symbolism 
 and interpretation with which the rest of this 
 volume is concerned. 
 
 I wiU give two examples out of those I collected 
 at the time. 
 
 1. "I was walking down the street where our 
 
48 BEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 house is, when suddenly some soldiers wearing 
 helmets came round a corner. They stopped me, 
 and one of them grasped my arm. I woke in terror." 
 2. " I dreamed I heard a noise and got up to look 
 out of the window. I saw soldiers in the garden. 
 The moonlight shone on their hehnets. They were 
 all round the house. I tried to call out for my 
 husband, but he was fast asleep, and I was so help- 
 less with terror that I could not make any sound." 
 These examples are taken from different sources. 
 The first is the dream of a girl of seventeen. The 
 second is the dream of a married woman. 
 
 In these dreams the theme is similar. A sudden, 
 unexpected, and alarming situation develops. In 
 the first dream a young girl walks down a familiar 
 street and suddenly encounters the unfamiliar. In 
 general that seems to have been the main feature 
 of many of these early war dreams. Enemy troops 
 suddenly invade familiar domestic scenes — ^the 
 house, the street, the garden. Two interests, totally 
 opposite, are fused together by the unconscious. 
 The resulting products might, to some, seem to con- 
 tain wish-fuMments, thinly disguised and sexual in 
 nature. That would be the Freudian view. But 
 other interpretations may be permissible. 
 
 Let us suppose that the fear of invasion had been 
 acutely conscious to the recipients of these dreams, 
 which, in point of fact, was not the case. How far 
 does this explain their dreams ? If that were the 
 case, then these two dreams would roughly repre- 
 sent what was a constant preoccupation of the 
 
INTERPRETATION 49 
 
 waking mind. They would merely be after-images, 
 presented in sleep, of thoughts that continuously 
 traversed consciousness during the day. One would 
 then say that this was perhaps quite natural ; that 
 if you think constantly of a thing it is natural that 
 it should repeat itself in sleep. But is this a fact 
 of experience,? 
 
 It is not a fact of experience. Dreams do not, 
 characteristically, deal with the thoughts of the 
 day in the same way as these thoughts have run. 
 There are always marked differences. It often uses 
 the incidents of the day for its symbolism, like the 
 cartoonist, and this has given rise to the belief that 
 dreams are simply confused recollections. But in 
 these cases, the thoughts of the day did not concern 
 the fear of invasion. In the second case, the 
 dreamer seemed, on the contrary, indifferent to 
 such a possibility. She had strong views about the 
 war at the time, and these views were negative. 
 The war had nothing to do with her or her husband. 
 Let those who want to fight, fight. She had other 
 things to do. In the case of the young girl, this 
 extreme attitude was not apparent. The war, to 
 her, was rather stimulating. It created excitement 
 and bustle, and a certain new enjoyment. It 
 opened up possibilities. 
 
 Now enemy troops may, of course, be taken 
 literally, and a literal meaning be put on these 
 dreams, in which case they may appear rather use- 
 less and purposeless. For the situations that they 
 depicted did not come to pass. As symbols they 
 i 
 
50 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 must have a common kind of meaning. They 
 represent danger. In the broadest sense, they 
 must stand for a menacing factor. Now if you take 
 people of any age, from early childhood up to 
 senescence, it will be admitted that there is always 
 to be found some menacing factor in their lives. 
 For a child must learn certain lessons of self-control 
 and behaviour from its nurse ; a boy must go to 
 school ; a girl must grow up and get married ; a 
 man must earn his living ; an old man must relin- 
 quish desire, and begin to adjust the past which 
 begins to emerge from the unconscious. There is, 
 in other words, a typical menace for a typical age, 
 and each of these menaces demands an adaptation. 
 A boy going to school comes up against his fellow 
 creatures for the first time without the support of 
 his mother. Life assumes a menacing aspect untO 
 the adaptation is made. Then life shows itself as 
 another and a new menace. This seems to be the 
 plan behind individual development. 
 
 When a national disaster like war arises, every- 
 one is implicated in the general menace, and every- 
 one has, in addition to the new public menace, what 
 we may call his own private and personal menace. 
 Both menaces demand adaptations. The two may 
 naturally link up. To a young girl of seventeen 
 there is a latent menace that is typical — ^the menace 
 of sex and its consequences. This is her private 
 and personal menace, and of it she may remain 
 only vaguely aware. It lies concealed as yet in 
 the background, but a great deal of her interest and 
 
INTERPRETATION 51 
 
 consequent action is indirectly connected with it. 
 It deflects interest, as we have seen when discuss- 
 ing the question of latent appeal, like an approach- 
 ing magnet. In dreams and reveries it may assume 
 a definite form that is anticipatory to the eventual 
 attitude in consciousness. When, therefore, a girl 
 of this age dreams that a menacing factor confronts 
 her suddenly, round a corner of the familiar path, 
 we may see in it something that is connected very 
 deeply with inner problems. The foreign soldier 
 who grasped her arm may be a symbol of life in a 
 certain aspect. The reason why such a dream 
 should come to her is to be sought for in mental 
 background, where the immediate future is ger- 
 minating. It is not to be sought for in the way 
 in which she regards the war only. That has a 
 lesser significance. The larger significance is that 
 she is on the threshold of life, about to confront 
 something unknown. These are dangers in some 
 degree comparable to the dangers that a soldier 
 confronts in a strange land. The excitement of the 
 war opened up new possibilities of quicker develop- 
 ment. A critical moment might arise at any time. 
 The dream shows such a moment arising. It there- 
 fore may be prospective in kind. It is a fore- 
 shadowing, and not a wish-fulfilment. 
 
 I have said enough to outline how it is possible 
 to understand the symbol of the enemy troops in 
 the first case. Superficially, if necessary, one can 
 see in the dream some more literal application, but 
 beneath it it is possible to see another motive that 
 
52 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 clothes itself in the symbols that it borrows from 
 the crucial position of the nation, and applies to 
 the inner personal situation. The dream touches 
 on a relationship between her position and the 
 nation's position. It sees in them something 
 identical and applies the factors of reality as symbols 
 of her life. 
 
 If we turn to the second dream, a most significant 
 feature is the lack of correspondence between it 
 and the conscious attitude of the dreamer. She 
 thought that she was uninterested in the war. It 
 concerned neither her nor her husband. How far 
 is such an attitude true or possible when individuals 
 are plunged into the cataracts of life ? To be in- 
 different, and to assume an attitude of indifference, 
 are two distinct things. The assumption of a par- 
 ticular attitude means that other attitudes are 
 possible and that one is chosen. The others are 
 excluded. Now when most of the incidents of 
 daily life, when indeed nine-tenths of the incoming 
 stimuli of the senses, are connected with war, to 
 keep the conscious mind busied with other things 
 must denote an effort of strain, avoidance, and sup- 
 pression. In such cases the activities of the 
 unconscious and marginal mind are interesting to 
 watch, for in sleep the checks that operate in waking 
 hours have not the same values. Marginal material 
 may become central. In her case there may have 
 been a reason for this attitude of avoidance, con- 
 nected with her husband. Let us examine the 
 dream in this light. It shows her in a familiar 
 
INTERPRETATION 53 
 
 domestic scene suddenly confronted by those forces 
 that she would seek to ignore and leave to others 
 for their solution. Her own garden is fiUed with 
 enemy troops. In the situation she instinctively 
 turns to her husband for help. He is asleep and 
 she has lost the power of calling him to her help. 
 She was very much attached to her husband and 
 he occupied a large part of her interest. The dream 
 shows a reversal of the dispositions of interest as 
 controlled by her in consciousness. That which 
 she chose to ignore is present in bulk. That which 
 she clings to — ^her interest in her husband — ^is cut 
 off from her. He is asleep and she cannot call him. 
 This reversal of the balance of interest must mean 
 something. The emotion that accompanies it is 
 one of helpless terror. Now what relation can we 
 find between her, the enemy troops, and the hus- , 
 band 1 We can find an immediate one in the fact 
 that the war might take her husband away on 
 active service. The marginal recognition of this 
 possibility, therefore, may have been at the bottom 
 of her conscious attitude towards the war. It was 
 an attitude that thrust away something full of 
 terror. It was an artificial compromise. The 
 dream might contain, and probably does contain, this 
 significance, in which case the enemy troops 
 symbolize the fact of war, and, in a large sense, 
 inexorable destiny. She is made to look at it, face 
 to face. 
 
 But it is possible to glance at deeper issues ia 
 the dream. It is evident that an attitude of arti- 
 
54 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 ficial suppression of certain aspects of life — of any- 
 thing that intrudes between the ideal and its attain- 
 ment — means a false outlook, for it is necessary to 
 assimilate and not to suppress. To shelter behind 
 someone in order to continue the artificial state, 
 and to summon that person immediately any com- 
 bination of events threatens to break the spell — ^to 
 expect the fact to be soothingly shaped into the 
 cherished ideal — ^is but to live a life that is merely 
 a lie. The dispositions of interest in such a person's 
 consciousness are like selected articles in a shop 
 wiodow. 
 
 A brief recapitulation may be given here. In 
 the girl's dream, the significance that was outlined 
 was a preparatory one. It was suggested that the 
 symbolism might be looked on as foreshadowing 
 the dreamer's passage from girlhood to womanhood. 
 She leaves her home, and life in the form of a 
 strange man suddenly comes on her while she is 
 near the old and familiar scenes and grasps her arm. 
 She awakes in terror. The second dream was given 
 a corrective or compensatory significance in the 
 sense that it was a reaction to a strain set up by 
 the woman's deliberate conscious attitude, both 
 toward the war and toward anything in life that 
 threatened her. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 COMPENSATION 
 
 It is possible to look on some dreams as if they were 
 compensatory. A man who experiences some dis- 
 location of affairs that renders him despairing may 
 find comfort in his dreams. What is lacking in 
 reahty, or what is lacking in waking consciousness, 
 may find expression in dreaming consciousness. It 
 may also find expression in the man's fantasies. 
 For example, the Arctic explorers, in the midst of 
 their hardships, when the deprivation of food was 
 great, noticed that they had fantasies of, and 
 dreamed of, certain articles of food, particularly 
 carbohydrates. Now, carbohydrates — ^tarts, cakes, 
 pastry.and soon — ^were lacking as facts of experience. 
 This can be looked upon as a compensatory effect. 
 
 The poor peasant-girl who day-dreams of the 
 prince who is to take her away to his castle, is also 
 giving expression to something which is lacking in 
 reality. The prince, and the cakes and pastry, 
 would thus seem to be called into existence under 
 similar circumstances. They are compensatory to 
 
 reality. If we glance for a moment at the mutable 
 
 55 
 
56 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 influences that surround people's lives, it is evident 
 that compensatory factors are continually at work. 
 Social considerations demand the deliberate use of 
 these factors, such as in the paying of compliments, 
 or when we seek to comfort people even though we 
 know that what we say is hardly true. One distorts 
 reality slightly, with a definite object, aU through 
 the business of life, on the side of the compensatory 
 factors. It is thought natural that a man should 
 slightly exaggerate his income, his social status, his 
 abilities, and so on. The persistence with which a 
 man or wdman will cling to these slight distortions 
 of reality might suggest that they are in some way 
 essential to them. When a man describes what he 
 has done in his career, his description is practically 
 always coloured. The best side is emphasized. 
 What was poor and mean is deliberately com- 
 pensated by an extension of what was praiseworthy. 
 This form of lying is not looked upon very seriously, 
 just as the day-dreams of the peasant-girl are 
 tolerated, because the total effect of this kind of 
 compensation works contrary to the mood of 
 despair. There is a powerful machinery in us that 
 is constantly engaged in this work of compensation. 
 But the extent of its working has a limit, beyond 
 which disaster is courted. 
 
 This machinery we can call the fantasy-building 
 system, because all these slight distortions of reality 
 are fantasies. Fantasy, then, in this sense has the 
 definite value of compensation. 
 
 What connection has the fantasy-building system 
 
COMPENSATION 57 
 
 with the dream ? K we find that the dream is 
 simply the fantasy-buUding system at work, then 
 night-dreams and day-dreams must have a similar 
 value. And if we say that a fantasy that com- 
 pensates a deficiency in reality is the same as the 
 fulfilment of a wish, then we might expect the 
 dream to contain always a wish-fulfilment (Freud). 
 But it may be asked why a compensatory fantasy 
 should be the same as a wish-fulfilment. If a man 
 goes to sleep in the middle of a swamp, with thunder 
 and lightning overhead and a demon-chorus of 
 jackals around him, and dreams that he is in his 
 wife's arms at home, are we to look on this as a wish- 
 fulfilment or as a compensatory effect ? It may be 
 said that the one is contained in the other. Which 
 is the greater ? If we take the view of wish-fulfil- 
 ment, we give to the dream a narrow significance. 
 We can say it is the fulfilment of a sexual wish. If 
 we take the compensatory view, we can say that the 
 dream in its primary aspect comes to counteract the 
 distress of physical conditions, and permit an adjust- 
 ment during sleep which is necessary to keep the 
 balance of life ; and that the wish-fulfilment is a 
 secondary aspect. 
 
 The period when fantasy is most active is during 
 childhood. In what way is this compensatory ? It 
 is possible to say that it is wish-fulfilment and 
 nothing more. But it is also possible to say that it 
 is wish-fulfilment, in a narrow sense ; and protective, 
 in a wider sense. For the fantasy-building system 
 surrounds the growing child like a dense cloud on 
 
58 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 whose outer margins fall the shocks of reality. As 
 the chUd grows the thickness of this cloud diminishes. 
 We might add here that the more sensitive an in- 
 dividual is, the more he requires compensatory 
 fantasies if he is to exist in reality. Tough minds 
 do not require this compensation in the same degree. 
 
 The main difference between the two views can be 
 expressed briefly. The wish-fulfilment theory of 
 Freud sees in the fantasy (and in the dream) the 
 gratification of a wish that is not to be fulfilled in 
 reality. The compensatory theory sees in the 
 fantasy an attempt to provide that which is lacking 
 in reality, and it is protective in meaning. That is 
 taking a teleological view. Thus, a woman whose 
 husband is reported to be missing at the front, and 
 who, in spite of all facts of the case pointing to his 
 death, constructs an elaborate theory that he is 
 alive, can be regarded from two points of view. Her 
 fantasy can be looked upon as the fulfilment of a 
 wish, and this from the Freudian standpoint would, 
 I suppose, spring from a sexual source. Or we can 
 say that her fantasy is the outcome of a com- 
 pensatory system in her psyche whose object is 
 protective. It protects her, perhaps, from insanity. 
 
 But a larger view still may be taken of fantasy. 
 In the unattractive peasant-girl's fantasy of the 
 priiice we can see, besides effects which are com- 
 pensatory to her deplorable surroundings, an impulse 
 that is valuable to her. As a result of the beautiful 
 picture which her fantasy paints she might possibly 
 be led to improve herself. It might act as a bait. 
 
COMPENSATION 59 
 
 The fantasy that is common to poor people is based 
 on society. The prince, the earl, and the lord are 
 symbols of what they consider to be a better life. 
 The poor — and others — ^work through these symbols. 
 A society that contains earls and lords will be stable 
 just for so long as earls and lords have a symbolical 
 value and stand for supreme factors in the fantasies 
 of the mass. When the early Pilgrim Fathers sought 
 to throw off this fantasy, they went to America. 
 Their descendants are still aware of this fantasy, but 
 it is more in the nature of an interesting curiosity to 
 them rather than a serious motive. The fantasy that 
 has become serious is that of riches in which the 
 millionaire is the supreme symbol. It is through 
 this symbol that the American people work. In 
 England, nowadays, people work through both the 
 symbol of the lord and of the millionaire. One 
 might be tempted to say that in France a very 
 powerful symbol is that of the woman ; to the 
 Russian people the aristocratic symbol in its pilrest 
 form was until recently effective. But over the 
 whole West, the symbol of the machine is potent. 
 Now the value of all these symbols round which 
 fantasy works lies in the fact that they furnish the 
 means through which the activities of the people are 
 called into play and progress is made. They 
 galvanize the people, and hold the social fabric 
 together. If you could take away, by some magical 
 process, all value from the symbol of the lord and 
 the symbol of money, what would happen to the 
 people of England ? To some people it would make 
 
60 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 no difference. But to others it would render life 
 totally meaningless, and they would cease to work. 
 In the case of the peasant-girl, if we took away her 
 fantasy of the prince and did not replace it by any 
 other fantasy, we would be doing her a tremendous 
 injury. For we would be taking away the means 
 whereby at that age progress is possible to her. If 
 we could replace that fantasy by one that was 
 rehgious — ^and this is problematical — ^then she would 
 still have the means of progress, but along a different 
 path. It is impossible to over-estimate the danger 
 of destroying an individual's fantasies. 
 
 It must be recognized that there are fantasies 
 within fantasies. In the case of the Arctic ex- 
 plorers, their fantasy about carbohydrates would 
 have led them home i£ it had been the only fantasy. 
 But it was overshadowed by the greater fantasy of 
 discovering the pole. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 OVER-COMPENSATION 
 
 The protective influences in the mind diSer from the 
 protective influences in the body, in the sense that 
 they are capable of greater abuse. The woman 
 whose husband is missing may by some conscious 
 process permit the compensatory fantasy that he 
 is alive to attain such a degree of stability that it 
 upsets her sanity. That is, the very thing provided 
 to preserve sanity may destroy it. Thus fantasy 
 has a double aspect ; it is benevolent and malevolent. 
 
 There are many professional strengtheners of 
 fantasy, especially in war-time. The woman seeking 
 to consolidate her fantasy might consult a medium. 
 Her condition would be comparable to that of a 
 man who having taken alcohol during a period of 
 great strain — ^when it was perhaps beneficial — goes 
 on taking it to excess. 
 
 But why should the woman consult a medium ? 
 In her state of increasing over-compensation there 
 must be some force in her mind which seeks to break 
 down the fantasy and against which she strives to 
 fortify herself. This force might reveal itself in 
 
 61 
 
62 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 dreams. What she seeks to keep out of her con- 
 sciousness may find expression in dreams. In such 
 a case the system that wove the dream would be 
 working against the fantasy-building system, and 
 this condition of affairs would be caused by the 
 excessive degree of over-compensation. 
 
 Let us take an actual example. A young man 
 began to paint pictures during a period when it was 
 impossible for him to pursue his normal line of 
 work. He achieved a minor degree of success, and 
 gradually conceived the fantasy that art was his 
 true vocation. His normal work followed a difficult 
 path. Art, on the other hand, seemed to him easy 
 by comparison. His fantasy-building system wove 
 pictures of a large studio, pleasant surroundings, 
 easy-going companions, and unscheduled hours. In 
 this state he experienced the following dream. " I 
 was at an exhibition of pictures ; some of my own 
 were hung in a corner. The room was empty. A 
 man entered, wearing a fur coat, and I seemed to 
 know that he was a millionaire and a great con- 
 noisseur. He began to examine the pictures. He 
 came to the corner where mine were hung and 
 passed on with scarcely a glance at them. . . ." The 
 dream went on to deal with other matters. The 
 point that concerns us here is that this fragment as 
 it stands might be taken as an expression of an 
 impulse in the dreamer's psyche that acts in opposi- 
 tion to the fantasy that had gone beyond the point 
 of normal compensation. The taking up of painting 
 was a compensation under the existing circum- 
 
OVER-COMPENSATION 63 
 
 stances, but the idea of taking up art as a vocation 
 was pushing the fantasy too far. The dream shows 
 a wealthy connoisseur taking no notice of the 
 dreamer's pictures, as if, in his opinion, they were 
 totally worthless. Fantasy operating in conscious- 
 ness had built up the idea that the pictures were of 
 value. The dream, springing from levels below 
 consciousness, seems to contradict this. But why, 
 it may be asked, should the dreamer experience this 
 dream 1 We might see in it another attempt at 
 compensation — ^an attempt to correct the over- 
 compensation of the fantasy-building system. If 
 this be the case, we obtain a glimpse into the work- 
 ings of the human psyche that may be valuable. 
 For we see, underlying the compensatory system on 
 the conscious levels, a more deeply-lying com- 
 pensatory system which operates from unconscious 
 levels. 
 
 Now the pseudo-artist in his over-compensated 
 state was like an extreme optimist. He took an 
 excessively optimistic view of his artistic powers. 
 Something deeper within him appeared to take a 
 correspondingly pessimistic view. If we regard ex- 
 treme optimism as over-compensation on conscious 
 levels, then we must regard extreme pessimism as 
 under-compensation in the same sphere. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 TINDER-COMPENSATION 
 
 In the morbid and pessimistic person there is some- 
 thing wrong with the fantasy-building system. It 
 does not furnish a constant supply of pleasant and 
 beneficial illusions, but it seems in some cases to 
 work in an opposite manner. The fantasies it con- 
 structs are negative. They increase the difficulties 
 of reality instead of masking them. A man in 
 whom fantasy has this form is in a state of continual 
 under-compensation on conscious levels. Let me 
 take an example. A man was called upon to take 
 up a business post with considerable responsibilities. 
 He was of the under-compensated type. Fantasy 
 did not immediately present him with a picture of a 
 successful career, of himself as rising swiftly to a 
 position of great importance in which he would 
 control the destinies of thousands of people and 
 handle immense sums of money. On the contrary, 
 it showed him a vision of tremendous responsi- 
 bilities which he would be unable to meet. He saw 
 himself as a total failure. His fantasy expended 
 itself in building up images of what people would 
 do and say when defeat came. 
 
 64 
 
UNDEE-COMPENSATION 65 
 
 Now at this time he experienced a dream which I 
 will give here, because it is possible to extract a 
 meaning from it without any elaborate theorizing 
 about symbolism or interpretation. " I was behind 
 the scenes in a large theatre. The second act was 
 about to begin and it seemed that I was to take the 
 leading part in it. I was very upset at this dis- 
 covery, for I had no idea what I was supposed to do. 
 The other actors seemed confident, however, and 
 told me that I was to dress up in the costume of a 
 pirate, with sea-boots, frogged coat, pistols, cocked 
 hat, and cutlass. Then I seemed to be in this 
 costume. I swaggered on to the stage brandishing 
 my cutlass and using strange sea-oaths. I was a 
 little timid, but felt sure that if I made sufficient 
 noise and showed that I didn't care what the 
 audience thought I would pull the part off success- 
 fully." In this dream we might see an influence 
 that is compensatory to the actual fantasy in con- 
 sciousness. The dreamer, instead of being a shrink- 
 ing, pessimistic, dubious character, is shown in the 
 part of a swaggering, blustering, self-assertive pirate. 
 The picture is painted in high lights, which form a 
 striking contrast to the half-tones in consciousness. 
 With the deeper symbolism we are not concerned 
 here. 
 
 Now if we consider the conscious fantasy of the 
 man concerning the business post, and the over- 
 drawn character in the dream, we might come to 
 the conclusion that they are both psychic products 
 neither of which expresses the right attitude for him 
 5 
 
66 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 in this matter. Fantasy is too negative, the dream 
 is too positive. They are at opposite poles. Truth 
 lies somewhere between them. When, therefore, we 
 say that the system responsible for the dream works 
 against the system responsible for fantasy it must 
 not) be thought that they are antagonistic so much 
 as paradoxical. And the paradox consists in the 
 fact that the dream and the fantasy seem to centre 
 round some ideal mean. Let us suppose that the 
 fantasy had been very near to the correct attitude 
 that the man should have taken up. Then, theoretic- 
 ally, the symbol of the pirate in the dream would 
 have undergone modification because there would 
 have been no psychic necessity to have called it 
 into existence. In other words, there would have 
 been nothing so extreme as a pirate in the dream. 
 The following case will serve as a further illus- 
 tration. A married woman received news of an 
 extremely depressing nature. She was of the 
 under-compensated type. For her, life was always 
 serious, and the news produced a mood of extreme 
 despair. She went to bed with a fantasy in her 
 mind in which life appeared as a black picture of 
 hopelessness. All effort seemed vain. The only 
 condition worth thinking of was total extinction. 
 She experienced a dream of a peculiarly vivid 
 character. " I was seated under cover of some- 
 thing which seemed to be a table, and gradually 
 became aware that a figure was approaching me. 
 It was a man. He came from the side so that I 
 could not see him clearly, but I felt his presence 
 
UNDER-COMPENSATION 67 
 
 very distinctly. He seemed to radiate an atmo- 
 sphere of love, which increased in strength as he 
 approached. I became filled with an ecstasy of 
 peace and joy. The feeling was so strong that it 
 remained with me after waking up and lasted for 
 several days." 
 
 In this dream we can see a concentration of those 
 emotions that were lacking in her conscious life. 
 The compensatory effect, moreover, was not tran- 
 sient, but persisted for some time. Without probing 
 the symbolism, we can see from the most superficial 
 point of view evidence of compensation. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 FANTASY AND RUMOUR 
 
 Fantasy has a peculiarity that distinguishes it from 
 rumour. Fantasy is private ; people do not speak 
 of their fantasies save under very special conditions, 
 for there is some check in consciousness that forbids 
 it. There are forms of insanity in which the patient 
 lives entirely in his fantasies and in some cases he 
 utters them aloud. Rumour, on the other hand, is 
 public and is eagerly discussed. But the connection 
 between fantasy and rumour is very intimate. 
 
 Rumour, either good or bad, is communal fantasy. 
 Under what circumstances does it arise ? It is 
 possible to regard good rumour as arising under 
 exactly the same circumstances as optimistic fan- 
 tasy.. It arises out of psychic necessity, as a com- 
 pensatory product, when to the community as a 
 whole, or as an isolated part, reality assumes a 
 threatening aspect. For example, before the land- 
 ing at Suvla Bay, rumour was vague, ill-defined, and 
 neither good nor bad. After the landing, as the 
 psychic necessity grew out of the material situation, 
 it assumed a definite form. It became increasingly 
 
 68 
 
FANTASY AND EUMOUR 69 
 
 optimistic and called in more and more agencies 
 that did not belong to the immediate environment. 
 It went farther and farther afield, until it implicated 
 the Bulgarians, Roumanians, Boers, and Japanese, 
 all of whom, it said, were hastening to relieve the 
 situation. Now it was impossible to estimate upon 
 what the system responsible for the dream was 
 engaged during this time. But if we take an 
 analogy from the case in the last chapter we might 
 suppose that it was compensating this over-com- 
 pensated attitude in consciousness, or, in other 
 words, that it was tending to swing to the opposite 
 pole, the pole of pessimism. Now there must be a 
 point in over-compensation when, unless reality 
 modifies itself favourably, something must occur. 
 Over-compensation cannot go on increasing in- 
 definitely, without driving reason wholly from 
 consciousness. If it does this, then fantasy domin- 
 ates the whole conscious field and the man or the 
 community live in fantasy and are therefore mad. 
 This can occur in individuals, but it is less likely to 
 occur in communities nowadays, though in medieval 
 times it was not rare. If reason asserts itself and 
 pricks the swelling bubble of fantasy, it breaks. 
 And what takes its place ? What inflow are we to 
 expect to fill up the vacuum ? If we look for an 
 infiow from the deeper psychic levels, we must expect 
 an inflow of those forces that were compensating 
 the over-compensated attitude in consciousness. In 
 other words, it will be an inflow of extreme pessimism 
 and the fantasy-building system will now weave 
 
70 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 rumours of a sinister kind. That is exactly what 
 happened at Suvla Bay. The same thing was seen 
 in Mesopotamia. Before the fall of Kut rumour was 
 buoyant. It spun the most wonderful tales up to 
 the very last minute. Then Kut fell ; and reality, 
 and not reason, pricked the bubble. The inflow 
 from the deeper psychic levels occurred, and rumour 
 changed her mask. If for a further illustration we 
 look at the rumours in England during the war we 
 might see in the first year a stage of over-compensa- 
 tion in fantasy arising out of the psychic necessity 
 of the situation. In the second year a stage of 
 under-compensation in fantasy ensued. This was 
 brought about by the moving up, and becoming 
 conscious, of psychic material from the deeper 
 levels ; and this material was compensatory to the 
 over-compensation of the first year. Its tone was 
 therefore pessimistic, and rumour tended to be 
 sinister on the whole. By the third year rumour 
 had ceased to play practically any part at all save 
 in a few individuals. People did not now buy 
 newspapers to feed or confirm their fantasies. A 
 state approaching to the ideal mean was reached as 
 regards the realities of the war. But fantasy is 
 never idle. When one thing has been adjusted in 
 consciousness, fantasy is already dealing with 
 another thing. 
 
 So far we have been looking on the activities of 
 the dream system as if they were secondary to the 
 activities of the fantasy-building system. We have 
 given examples of dreams that might be looked upon 
 
FANTASY AND RUMOUR 71 
 
 as products that are compensatory to the conscious 
 fantasies. It would perhaps be better if we spoke 
 about the fantasies in consciousness rather than the 
 conscious fantasies, because people are not always 
 fully aware of the fantasies with which they are 
 preoccupied. We have regarded fantasy as a 
 psychic product that intervenes between the in- 
 dividual and reality, and the dream as something 
 which comes as a corrective to fantasy when it is 
 excessive. But this view is only partial, for it is 
 possible to look on the matter from another angle. 
 It is not only possible but necessary to do this for 
 the following reasons. When communal fantasy, in 
 the form of rumour, spreads and keeps alive tales, 
 like those concerning the Russians passing through 
 England in the early part of the war, it is seeking to 
 compensate some deficiency in the community. 
 But what is it that recognizes this deficiency ? 
 There must be something in the communal con- 
 sciousness, and therefore in the individual con- 
 sciousness, that recognizes the inherent weakness 
 of the material situation, for how otherwise could 
 the compensatory rumours arise ? It may be said 
 that the people themselves recognize it fully in 
 consciousness. If this be true, then it must follow 
 that those persons who were most enthusiastic 
 about the Russian rumours were the persons who 
 were most clearly conscious of the weakness in the 
 military situation. I do not think that this will be 
 granted. In fact, the reverse is more true. At 
 Suvla Bay, when the rumours of coming aid were 
 
72 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 rife, there was no conscious admission of failure. 
 The adjustment to reality had not taken place, for 
 as long as rumour is rampant no such adjustment 
 can possibly have taken place. From whence] 
 therefore, comes the recognition that lies behind the 
 rumours that seek to mask it ? Presumably from 
 psychic levels that underlie full consciousness ; that 
 is, from marginal or unconscious regions of the 
 psyche. . 
 
 In this connection we can consider for a moment 
 the case of the woman whose huebaiid has been 
 reported missing, which we discussed in a preceding 
 chapter. Her recognition of the fact that he is 
 probably dead does not lie fully in consciousness. 
 It is precisely the thing that she will not admit. The 
 recognition is unconscious, rather than conscious ; 
 it is marginal rather than central in her mind. But 
 the recognition exists somewhere in the psyche, for 
 otherwise the fantasies around the idea of his being 
 alive would not arise. They protect her, therefore, 
 just as much from something in herself which seeks 
 expression, as from the situation in reality. 
 
 Thus we can conceive of fantasy as something 
 which intervenes between what is conscious and 
 what is seeking to become conscious. A double view 
 of the functions of fantasy is thus gained. It inter- 
 feres with, modifies, or distorts, what is coming 
 from without, from reality, and also what is coming 
 from within, from the unconscious. Thus we might 
 see between what is called reality and what is 
 called the unconscious some kind of identity. 
 
FANTASY AND EUMOUR 73 
 
 If we wish to understand how recognition can be 
 unconscious we must examine the most typical 
 products of unconscious activity. We must ex- 
 amine the dream. At the beginning of the war — 
 and in some cases it would seem before the war — 
 there was a dream of a particular kind that was 
 experienced by many people. It was concerned 
 with the idea of war and with the idea of something 
 old-fashioned, medieval, or even archaic. I was 
 fortunate enough to obtain through patients, and 
 others, several examples. At the time I was in- 
 clined to look on them as compensatory products 
 to the enthusiasm of the war. The idea of war 
 seemed to be belittled, as if it were something 
 totally out of keeping with the spirit of the age. 
 But they may be looked on as examples that illus- 
 trate the kind of unconscious recognition which we 
 found necessary to account for the Russian rumours. 
 The following example may be taken as typical. 
 
 " I was in some street in London, a military pro- 
 cession was coming along. As it passed I was 
 astonished to see an extraordinary and fantastic 
 crowd of soldiers. Some seemed to be mounted on 
 elephants, some on camels, some were pike-men, 
 some carried blunderbusses. There was a curious 
 old cannon, and throughout the whole procession, 
 which seemed of great length and very disorderly, 
 there was not one modern soldier. But it was a 
 wonderful scene, extremely vivid and full of colour." 
 
 It would be possible to see in the dream of this 
 patient a symbolical picture in which the military 
 
74 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 unpreparedness of himself, and therefore indirectly 
 of the country, was compared with a procession 
 of undisciplined and medieval troops. If such an 
 interpretation were accepted, then it would be 
 necessary to regard this dream as coming from a 
 region of the psyche that recognized what conscious 
 mind did not recognize. For the patient took an 
 extremely sanguine view of the war and thought 
 that a few weeks would see the end of it. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 
 
 We iaust now consider dreams in a more intimate 
 manner. We must look for motives that are more 
 personal. 
 
 The unconscious motive behind the dream is com- 
 parable to the conscious motive behind an action. 
 If a man walks down the street and bows to every 
 letter-box, people at once try to interpret the mean- 
 ing of the action. They act on the assumption that 
 there is a motive behind it. If they can find none, 
 they may look on him as a madman. That is 
 taking up the view that there is no motive behind 
 the actions of a madman. In the madman, the 
 normal interaction between the conscious and un- 
 conscious psyche is disturbed, and an intrusion of 
 latent or unrefracted material occurs. It is this 
 same nascent material that forms the dream. It 
 must contain a motive in the sense that it is a 
 psychical force ; it tends to go in a certain direction. 
 It makes the madman do or say or think certain 
 things ; it shapes dreams in a particular mould. 
 These may 'seem chaotic as long as they are taken 
 
 75 
 
76 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 literally. The actions of a man going through some 
 elaborate symbolic ritual, like that of a Moham- 
 medan at prayer, appear chaotic in a similar way 
 to an unsympathetic observer. 
 
 To understand the unconscious motive it is neces- 
 sary to understand the symbolism in which it clothes 
 itself. In handhng a dream the aim is to discover 
 the motive of the unconscious. This motive is 
 significant to the dreamer, for it represents a ten- 
 dency or force, or bias that exists in himself. In the 
 case of the neurotic it reveals what is going on 
 behind the scene, and if we look on the neurotic as 
 a person in whose psyche many abnormal strains 
 and coujiter-strains exist, which he does not under- 
 stand, it is evident that its discovery is very valuable ; 
 and it is not only valuable in the case of the neurotic. 
 In looking for the motive in the dream one has to 
 look at the same time at something else. To recall, 
 for a moment, the allegory of the master, the servant, 
 and the act of violence, it is natural, if we wish to 
 understand the motive behind the act of violence, to 
 seek to understand the attitude of the master to- 
 wards the servant. The attitude of the conscious 
 mind, which was compared to that of the master, 
 requires to be understood by examining the un- 
 conscious motive, and simultaneously the attitude 
 of the conscious mind is made clearer as the un- 
 conscious motive reveals itself. The whole question 
 centres round the expression of interest. It con- 
 cerns the sources of outlet that interest finds through 
 the conscious. 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 77 
 
 We may criticize a man on two counts. One is for 
 some kind of excess : a too great vanity, or talkative- 
 ness, or avarioiousness, or sensuality, or diligence, 
 or piety. The other is for some deficiency : he is 
 stupid, or mean, or narrow, or shy, or lazy. If these 
 qualities be turned into terms of interest, we can say 
 that in a general sense we criticize a man either for 
 an over-expression of interest in some form, or for 
 an under-expression. A theory of interest becomes 
 possible. That force that reveals itself as interest 
 can be called, for short, interest* It flows in many 
 directions, and the directions in which it flows make 
 a man what he is. The using of the term interest, 
 instead of life-force, or elan vital (Bergson), or 
 libido (Freud), is open to objections, in that it is 
 unscientiflc. It may be said it is a vague term, and 
 that the idea of the libido is more concrete. But 
 there is a certain danger in using a term like libido, 
 because it helps to strengthen a one-sided view of 
 life. Its advantages may consist in the fact that it 
 constantly reminds us that sexuality enters very 
 much into life, which we are apt to forget at times. 
 We have only to look at academic text-books of 
 psychology to realize this. But it may remind us 
 too much of this, and so exclude other sides of life. 
 The ideal word has yet to be found. If it is said 
 
 * The use of this word interest was suggested by ClaparSde 
 to Dr. Jung [Analytical Psychology, p. 348). Dr. Jung haa 
 suggested. the use of the term hormi, the Greek word dpin-Zi, 
 meaning wjre. He still retains the use of the word libido, how- 
 ever, but houses it in the sense of Bergson's elan vital aa a life- 
 energy that expresses itself in every form of human interest. 
 
78 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 that to speak of interest and to treat it as an energic 
 conception which can cover all the aspects of life is 
 unscientific, because it is too vague, it is possible 
 to reply that this is the kind of thing that may 
 be needed in psychology. We need a central con- 
 ception that constantly reminds us that, in psy- 
 chology, though we may discover approximations 
 that are useful and serve as outlines for theories, 
 and are supported by practice, nevertheless no 
 theory will ever imprison and fix life in a rigid 
 formula. And the reason of that is psychological 
 itself, and can be given now, although it anticipates 
 part of our thesis. For no sooner do we make the 
 fact whoHy conscious, and apply a sharply cut 
 definition, than it becomes possible for nascent 
 material to form below consciousness ; it is owiog 
 to this that treatment is possible in psychological 
 medicine. It is for this very reason that the purely 
 scientific spirit in psychology continually under- 
 mines the rigid structures it erects . For the nascent 
 formations below consciousness do not correspond 
 to what is isolated and circumscribed in conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 In order to develop the theory of interest some 
 brief dream-examples can be cited. A spinster, who 
 lived a sohtary, emotionless Ufe and rarely went out, 
 although perfectly healthy, experienced a recurring 
 dream. She dreamed that she saw pools of stagnant 
 water. It was always stagnant water in some form, 
 never running water. How can we look on this 
 symbolism ? When it is said that a man's Ufe is 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 79 
 
 stagnating, it is meant that such a person takes 
 little or no interest in things. Like the servant in 
 the parable, he keeps his talent wrapped in a napkin ; 
 it may be for fear of losing it, or for other reasons. 
 
 What is stagnating ? Interest is stagnating, 
 which should flow out through some channel of 
 expression. Of a person who stays indoors ab- 
 sorbed in studying mathematics, one does not say 
 that he is stagnating. His interest flows along 
 an inner channel of expression. There is constant 
 movement in hia mind. But a person who stays 
 indoors and does nothing is certainly stagnating. 
 Interest, in such a case, is held up ; it is dammed 
 back. It flows nowhere ; it lies, we might say, in 
 stagnant pools like water. We might see in the 
 dreams of the spinster a symbolism that represents 
 an inner situation. It represents the state of that 
 force that reveals itself as interest. It is stagnant 
 interest. 
 
 But it may be said that a great many spinsters 
 stay indoors and do nothing and never dream of 
 stagnant water or of anything at all. That is 
 perfectly true. A great many people have little 
 interest to draw upon under any circumstances. 
 The potentiaUty for interest is' not the same in 
 different people ; it may be satisfied by looking after 
 a parrot and wrangling with a servant. The full 
 development of interest in a yokel is not similar to 
 its full development in a cocfaiey. There is no rule 
 to be laid down, save that there is no rule. The 
 study of dreams and symbolism and their bearing 
 
80 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 on one particular individual does not necessarily 
 throw any light on the dreams of another individual. 
 
 The symbol of water in dreams has frequently a 
 significance similar to the one suggested in the above 
 case. Another example can be given. It was the 
 dream of a schoolboy. At the time he was in a form 
 presided over by a man of whom he was in great 
 terror. His terror interfered with his progress, and 
 he remained in the form because his natural capaci- 
 ties were paralysed. The position was one from 
 which he despairingly thought there was no escape. 
 He imagined he would remain for ever at the bottom 
 of that form. 
 
 " I dreamed that I was in a swimming-bath fuU of 
 water. My form master stood on the edge, in a red 
 bathing-suit, and pushed me away with a long pole 
 whenever I tried to climb out. I swam round and 
 round in despair." 
 
 That the symbohsm of the dream has something 
 to do with his position is not difficult to see. But 
 what does the water represent ? It is water con- 
 fined in a small space, and on the confines of that 
 space stands the form master, whose stupid buUying 
 is the cause of the lad's backwardness. What is the 
 confined thing in the dreamer's self ? It is pre- 
 sumably his interest which cannot flow out and 
 contribute to the growth of his mind and character. 
 The boy brooded over his position with that peculiar 
 absorption only possible in sensitive types. The 
 tougher mind is constantly detaching itself from 
 alarming problems, and keeping a requisite amount 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEEEST 81 
 
 of free interest in hand. The sensitive mind has a 
 much greater difficulty. It fails to detach itself 
 without help, and accumulation begins round the 
 nucleus from which it cannot free itself — ^in this case 
 the problem of the form master — and the accumula- 
 tion may proceed until an abnormal amount or 
 potential, of unexpressed or nascent interest is held 
 up, as a stream is held up by an obstruction and 
 forms a lake. A s3^mbol such as a swimming-bath 
 filled with water might express the inner state of 
 afiEairs in such a case. To the schoolboy we might 
 proffer the useless advice that he should try to 
 forget all about it ; that is, that he should take his 
 interest off the matter. But this is only half-way 
 advice. The way of forgetfulness must be shown 
 to him. Forgetting in this sense means the re- 
 moval of an abnormal and useless accumulation of 
 interest and comes only by drawing it off into 
 another channel. The water in the swimming-bath 
 required to be drawn away. His cure did not lie 
 in mere negation, however passionate, or in a direct 
 attack on his fear ; he was not equal to that. It 
 lay in an active process, inseparable from growth. 
 For so long as such a dream was possible,^o long did 
 he remain in a state of arrested development. The 
 pent-up interest, symbolized as water, represented 
 that force that should have gone to personal de- 
 velopment, and which then lay useless in confine- 
 ment. 
 
 I have drawn together these two dreams, coming 
 from divergent sources, because in each the symbol 
 6 
 
82 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 of water appears with a similar significance. It must 
 not be thought that the symbol of water in a dream 
 always denotes the same thing. There is no fixed 
 symbolism. There is only a tendency, found also 
 in art, music, Uterature, and common speech, to use 
 certain symbols for expressing certain meanings. 
 There is a symbolism that stamps each age, and 
 while the spirit of that age remains uniform, its 
 sjmibols retain a fairly constant value. The same 
 thing might be said of individuals. But there is a 
 gradual ebb and flow of interest round each symbol, 
 for no one remains stationary, so that a man may 
 interpret in one way when he is thirty, and in 
 another way when he is thirty-five. The symbol 
 of the Cross has a particular value now. That is, 
 interest of a certain kind surrounds it. Two thou- 
 sand years ago it had no such general value. Two 
 thousand years hence it may have another value. 
 A chemist might dream of water and associate it 
 with a coming experiment ; a soldier in the trenches 
 might associate it with suffering ; a theologian might 
 see in it a mystical essence. And by the very fact 
 that we give some fringes of conscious definition, 
 through association and thought, to a symbol, we 
 thereby alter it in some degree for ever in its 
 personal application. It can never be quite the 
 same. The balance of interest between the con- 
 scious and the unconscious has been tilted, however 
 imperceptibly. A new adjustment has set in. 
 
 The idea of interest being comparable to water, 
 in that it may run as a current, or be held up in 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 83 
 
 stagnation, gives us a valuable key to the under- 
 standing of problems of personality. For it is then 
 like electricity that runs through the subways of a 
 city, and spreads out into a thousand visible ex- 
 pressions of force. It is like the steam that works 
 a factory full of the most varied machinery. The 
 conception belongs to the energic view of human 
 faculties. The old idea of the facultative school 
 was that the faculties were primary and irreducible 
 quahties. But this view looks on the various 
 faculties displayed in man as being the various 
 manifestations of one force, just as the briUiance of 
 the arc lamp, the coolness of the fan, the heat of 
 the radiator, and the noise of the telephone bell are 
 all expressions of electricity. We have, as it were, a 
 number of instruments through which primal energy 
 runs. We have various interests, and behind them 
 all Ues the same force — the force that reveals itself 
 as interest. 
 
 This view, though it may seem simple, and one 
 that is borrowed from physical science, is of the 
 greatest value in practical work, for it is at once 
 apparent that interest flowing excessively in one 
 direction necessarily means a deficiency in another 
 direction. It gives a firm basis for all analysis, 
 and it makes possible the formula that there is 
 only one problem in hfe — ^the 'proper use of interest. 
 It is with the utilization, expression, and applica- 
 tion of interest that the unconscious continuously 
 concerns itself. For we can conceive of the force 
 that reveals itself as interest always welling up from 
 
84 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 the deep levels of the psyche beneath consciousness, 
 and seeking some outlet, like spring water through 
 the fissures and crannies of the ground. 
 
 With this brief outliae of the theory of interest, 
 the meaning of what has been called the unconscious 
 motive becomes clearer. The unconscious motive 
 must centre round the question of the outlet of 
 interest. A man who watches water bubbling up 
 through the ground does not know what secret 
 pressures and strains, or what cisterns and occlusions 
 exist deep beneath the surface. He has no means 
 of estimating. But in the human psyche the case 
 is different, for the dream comes through the multi- 
 tude of conscious affairs as a kind of estimate of the 
 relative tensions of interest below the surface. It 
 has its own kind of emphasis and symbolism, and 
 by a proper approach it throws light on interior 
 problems that would otherwise remain obscure. 
 
 I will give two examples of dreams and endeavour 
 to outline the unconscious motive that is central in 
 them. An inclusion of meaning within meaning is 
 found in every unconscious motive. The outer 
 layers of meaning only will be attempted. 
 
 1. "I was walking with my wife. It was dark, 
 and I went on ahead. Some people passed me, and 
 one of them made some remark that I did not catch. 
 Then I looked back and saw that they had accosted 
 my wife. I flew into a rage and took a leap towards 
 them. To my astonishment I soared high up into 
 the air, so high that I became very nervous. Under- 
 neath me was a hedge, and on this I landed with a 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 85 
 
 crash. When I got up the strangers had vanished 
 and my wife was looking at me with a startled 
 expression." 
 
 What possible bearing can this dream have on the 
 dreamer ? As it stands it appears an absurdity. 
 Without considering the outward form that it 
 possesses, we will approach it directly by the method 
 of association. 
 
 The dreamer gave his first associations in the 
 following way : Walking out with my wife. " When 
 I am at home I do this every evening, as a rule, in 
 fine weather. I insist on her accompanying me. 
 She is too fond of sitting about the house." I went 
 on ahead. " I believe I often walk too fast for her. 
 She is rather slow. Her slowness is sometimes very 
 aggravating." They had accosted my wife. " I have 
 a horror of anything like that happening. It never 
 has happened, but the idea that it might makes me 
 careful, especially when I pass noisy people." / 
 ftew into a rage. " Very unusual. I very rarely lose 
 my temper. I am careful in keeping all my emo- 
 tions under control." / soared high up into the air. 
 "This was absurd. I do not understand what it 
 means." A hedge. "It was similar to the hedge 
 that surrounds my garden at home." A startled 
 expression. " An expression I am very familiar 
 with. Whenever I give her an order, or suggest 
 some improvement, she looks at me in this way. 
 She takes in new ideas very slowly." 
 
 These associations, if they do not immediately 
 explain the dream, throw an interesting light on the 
 
86 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 dreamer. The patient, who was suffering from 
 insomnia, was an extremely irritable, nervous man. 
 His associations show that his idea of himself was 
 otherwise. He prides himself on his self-control. 
 Now the dream selects an incident that he fears 
 extremely as its main theme, and weaves its story 
 round this. On the question of the soaring into the 
 air, the dreamer can give no information. He says 
 it is absurd. It is, of course, absurd in any literal 
 sense. But there is an interesting association in the 
 record of the dream, in which the patient says he 
 flew into a rage ; this is followed by an action that 
 suggests flying. He soared into the air. The effect 
 of this was to call his attention away from his wife 
 on to the question of his own safety. He seemed 
 in a perilous position, owing to his outbreak of 
 temper, and when he lands with a crash in tke 
 hedge, the combination of circumstances which 
 called forth his rage has now dispersed, and nothiag 
 remains but his startled wife. 
 
 It is now necessary to consider what factor called 
 forth this dream. At the time of its occurrence the 
 dreamer was some hundreds of miles from home. He 
 had received the day before a letter from his wife, 
 the first for a considerable period. On the same 
 day he had been riding ; and getting into difficulties 
 with his horse he had lost his temper, with the result 
 that the horse bolted and threw him into a sort of 
 hedge. Now it is natural to suppose that the letter 
 from his wife revived the memories centring round 
 her, and therefore touched in some degree the fear 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 87 
 
 that he always experienced when he walked out with 
 her. It is not necessary that this fear should have 
 presented itself in consciousness during the day 
 previous to the dream. It may have remained 
 marginal or totally unconscious, but the whole 
 system of ideas, feelings, and experiences — the com- 
 plex — connected with his wife must have received 
 a stimulus through the reading of the letter. They 
 had, as it were, been thrown into vibration. The 
 accident with the horse, according to those who saw 
 it, was due to the rider's nervousness and temper. 
 He gave way to a temper that was unnecessary, and 
 this led him to disaster. The hedge appears in the 
 dream. It was, however, not the hedge that actually 
 received the rider, but a hedge that he associates 
 with home. There is nothing in the dream that he 
 directly associated with his riding accident. 
 
 Now there is some relationship between the kind 
 of accident the rider experienced and the accident 
 that forms the nucleus of the dream. As a rider he 
 was nervous, and his nervousness causes him to take 
 too extreme measures. In the dream he finds him- 
 self in a position that he has long viewed with 
 nervousness. The dream shows him some strangers 
 accosting his wife. He at once goes towards them, 
 but in so violent a manner that he flies up into the 
 air and a note of ridicule is struck. Owing to his 
 too extreme manner of approach, his purpose mis- 
 carries, and he finds himself momentarily in an 
 absurd and awkward predicament. The dream 
 winds up with the picture of l^is wife regarding him 
 
88 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 with a startled expression, which he is quite familiar 
 with, and this expression follows the extreme and 
 grotesque behaviour of the dreamer. This link 
 suggests that the startled expression in the wife 
 is called forth by a too extreme and violent be- 
 haviour on the husband's part. Of this he is not 
 conscious, as far as his associations go. Irritability 
 causes interest to be deflected in a particular manner 
 on to particular objects. The patient did not con- 
 sider himself irritable. He thought he was con- 
 trolled. A controlled man approaches an unusual 
 situation quietly. The dream shows the patient 
 approaching an unusual situation in an extra- 
 ordinary manner. Of what is this symbolical ? 
 How can the act of leaping high into the air be 
 interpreted ? 
 
 It is possible to interpret it as a representation in 
 graphic form of an explosion of energy, so violent 
 that it defeats its own purpose, and carries the man 
 off the surface of the earth. It suggests a typical 
 experience. The patient, however, denied that he 
 was irritable, or that he gave way to temper. This 
 denial was contradicted by personal contact with 
 him. The situation, therefore, was as follows : the 
 patient constantly expressed himself in certain 
 directions, in irritable outbursts of temper, and of 
 these he was unaware ; the dream portrays ia 
 symbolism what the value of these outbursts was. 
 It shows them as valueless, in that they did not effect 
 their purpose, and put the dreamer in an absurd 
 and dangerous position. Now we -can sum up the 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 89 
 
 situation under the phrase that it was a non^realiza- 
 tion of expressed interest. 
 
 This brings us to a consideration of what can be 
 meant by non-realization in general. In the above 
 case a man was constantly thinking in a certain 
 direction and acting in a certain manner without 
 realizing it. He did not realize how he expressed 
 himself in the eyes of other people. That, in some 
 degree, is characteristic of everyone. What I have 
 called the non-realization of expressed interest is, 
 for example, typical of people some of whose interest 
 drains off in peculiar mannerisms. They are un- 
 aware of them. A man's estimate of himself is 
 usually faulty ; it is often totally erroneous as far 
 as he appears to others. Particularly does this tend 
 to be the case when the man has some extreme bias. 
 
 The man's interest runs strongly into the bias and 
 finds expression through it, but the man remains • 
 unaware that this is so. Objective minds frequently 
 show this to a very great degree. 
 
 There is another kind of non-realization. It is 
 the rum-realization of unexpressed interest. This 
 may sound paradoxical at first, but it concerns that 
 attitude of mind that is found in an undeveloped 
 person. It is detected, as in the former case, by 
 the observer. The unexpressed interest may be 
 any typical development that is lacking. A youth 
 may remain iadifferent to the other sex and grow 
 into the age of manhood in this state. His interest 
 in women has never been awakened : it is unex- 
 pressed interest. Now he may, and in such case 
 
90 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 usually does, remain unaware that there is anything 
 unusual about him. This is the non-realization of 
 unexpressed interest. 
 
 The two possibilities of non-realization continually 
 form motives for the dream. They form the motive 
 of the unconscious, or, in a briefer phrase, the 
 unconscious motive. In the case of the insomnia 
 patient the non-realization of his emotional out- 
 bursts forms the unconscious motive of the dream. 
 
 The second example of the non-realization of 
 expressed interest is the case of a young man who 
 began to take morphia. He was not a morphino- 
 maniac. He merely took morphia. The reasons 
 for this were complex and in part imitative, but this 
 ,does not concern us here. The point that is im- 
 -portant is that he denied he was in any way a slave 
 to the drug. He was certain that his position was 
 not dangerous. He experienced a dream shortly 
 before he was sent for treatment, and the dream is 
 iftteresting because it illustrates the fine shades of 
 meaning that are included under the heading of 
 the non-realization of expressed interest. In the 
 grossest sense it indicates what has been shown in 
 the previous example — ^that is, a complete non-rea- 
 lization of a mode of expression that was habitual. 
 In this case the issue is more subtle, but it is in- 
 cluded under the same category. 
 
 The dream was short and vivid, and had remained 
 in the patient's mind, so that when asked if he had 
 experienced any dreams within recent times, he 
 recorded it at once. 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 91 
 
 " I was hanging by a rope a short way down a 
 precipice. Above me on the top of the cliff was a 
 small boy who held the rope. I was not alarmed, 
 because I knew I had only to tell the boy to pull, 
 and I would get to the top safely." 
 
 It so happened that the discussion of the dream 
 with the patient gave rise to a diflfioulty which 
 might as well be recorded at this point, because it 
 touches on interpretation. He gave no associa- 
 tions. The boy was unknown to him. The preci- 
 pice he had never seen. He made no connection 
 himself between the symbols of the dream and any 
 facts of his experience. 
 
 What course, then, is to be pursued when asso- 
 ciations are not forthcoming ? One can simply 
 make a note of the fact and attribute it to intense 
 resistances. Mere stupidity and lack of imagina- 
 tion win then come under the heading of an intense 
 resistance, and a man whose mind resembles a 
 piece of wood wiU be regarded with grave suspicion 
 as a person concealing a mass of highly sexual 
 material. It is simpler, and perfectly legitimate, to 
 see in such a case an inability to link up the abstract 
 with the concrete. A literalj narrow mind has this 
 constant difficulty. Correspondences make no com- 
 prehensible appeal. Allusion and metaphor is not 
 caught. He argues, for example, that he has 
 never hung over a cliff, and therefore the dream 
 has nothing to do with him. Of course, you may 
 take the view that this way of arguing is aU due to 
 inner complexes and repressions. In some cases 
 
92 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 it certainly is. But when a man with a perfectly 
 flat occiput, a high narrow forehead, and small 
 bright eyes that rarely move, sits before you, it is 
 possible that one is dealing with a type that has 
 natural limitations. We are at liberty, then, to 
 take the dream into our own hands, and see how 
 it can be applied to the patient's situation. I have 
 said the patient was not what is called a morphino- 
 maniac. He took morphia partly because of a 
 spell of insomnia induced by war-strain. But he 
 refused to give it up, not seeing the sHghtest danger 
 in his position. He had used morphia for about a 
 couple of months, and the nightly dose had not 
 increased. What is the unconscious motive in the 
 dream ? I propose to discuss the dream at greater 
 length than the preceding one, as it bears on the 
 theory of interest, and might seem possibly to 
 illuminate, in some degree, the problems of free will 
 and necessity. 
 
 The boy holds the rope, from which the dreamer 
 is suspended over the void. The boy is small ; if 
 he let the rope go^ presumably the dreamer falls. 
 Therefore, with these considerations, we may say 
 the symbol of the boy stands for something small 
 which intervenes between the dreamer and certain 
 disaster. Now the patient observed at one point 
 in the first interview that without morphia he 
 could not sleep. The boy, then, may symbolize the 
 small excursion into morphinism, in which case the 
 precipice would symbohze the danger of insomnia. 
 Sedatives frequently prevent mental breakdown. 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 93 
 
 That is a fact of experience. But to this rendering 
 of the dream there is an objection. 
 
 To look upon morphia as something necessary to 
 the" patient, as something so essential that with- 
 out it he would meet with certain disaster — as 
 a result of insonmia — is to take a view that 
 corresponds exactly with the view expressed by 
 the morphinist in the course of conversation. He 
 thought it absurd that his relatives had made a 
 fuss, because he knew that he was in no danger 
 from the morphia itself, but that if he gave it up 
 — which he could quite easily do — he would get 
 no sleep and without sleep he could not remain 
 sane. The strain of the war, he was sure, had 
 made him a nervous wreck. Morphia was his sal- 
 vation. This was the conscious estimate. 
 
 It would be useless to deny the possible truth of 
 this interpretation of his position ; but if we take 
 the meaning of the dream in the manner suggested 
 above, we find it is nothing more than a condensa- 
 tion of his conscious opinion into a symbolic picture. 
 Had he been given the hint that the little boy 
 might symbolize the young habit of morphia, he 
 would probably have eventually grasped the sug- 
 gestion and allowed his thoughts to flow with 
 sufiScient freedom to cover the meaning of the 
 dream as a whole. The dream would thus be 
 a triumphant vindication of his position. The 
 objection therefore to this interpretation is its 
 correspondence with the fully-expressed — ^if not the 
 over-expressed — ^attitude in consciousness. What 
 
94 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 is fully expressed in consciousness cannnot be said 
 to belong to the unconscious. 
 
 If the dream is approached by the symbol of the 
 precipice, the most natural explanation is that it 
 signifies the danger of morphinism. The precipice 
 is a familiar, universal, instinctive metaphor for 
 moral danger. The dreamer is shown to be some 
 way down the fatal precipice of morphinism, but 
 not yet out of reach. He is connected by a rope 
 with the top. Now it would be possible to inter- 
 pret the dream in a very simple way by saying 
 that it emphasizes the dreamer's danger from the 
 drug by showing him that there was very Uttle 
 between him and disaster. The little boy would 
 stand merely for the equivalent of something Uttle. 
 But this interpretation, although probably nearer 
 the truth than the first, does not satisfy all the 
 aspects of the dream. It does not explain the 
 impression of the dreamer that he could command 
 the little boy to pull him up into safety. But there 
 is one condition that it does fulfil. It shows an 
 estimate of the dreamer's position that differs 
 entirely from the conscious estimate. It is a 
 symbolic picture of values that were not represented 
 in the morphinist's consciousness. He was not 
 haunted by a vision of incurable morphinism, but 
 viewed his habit as something salutary, and, I 
 fancy, a little romantic. 
 
 The dreamer does not connect the boy with any 
 objective individual. This observation may have 
 two meanings. It may indicate that the little boy 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 95 
 
 symbolizes something unknown to the dreamer, or 
 it may simply indicate that the little boy has no 
 objective signification. Supposing that the little 
 boy at the top of the cliff had been a great friend of 
 his. Then it is obvious that the friendship would 
 have some important bearing on the safety of the 
 morphinist, and the dream would have, to a certain 
 extent, an objective significance ; or at least it 
 would contain an important objective significance 
 in its first application. But no such objective 
 significance is hinted at. The little boy is un- 
 known to the dreamer, and not clearly seen ; he is 
 dimly outlined, and manifests himself chiefly as a 
 poiut of fixation for the upper end of the rope. 
 Though the symbol has no objective connection, 
 it is not meaningless. Its value may be wholly 
 subjective. It may be an expression of something 
 in the dreamer's self. 
 
 To the outside observer the position of the 
 patient seemed clear^ He required to make an 
 effort of will for a short time to overcome the still 
 nascent state of morphinism. His case was not 
 deeply pathological. A tentative value may there- 
 fore be placed on the symbol of the little boy. He 
 may, in some way that requires close examination, 
 be connected with what is commonly known as an 
 effort of will. 
 
 Certain peculiarities at once attract the atten- 
 tion if this interpretation is allowed. The symbol 
 is shown as situated on the top of the cliff apart 
 from the dreamer, and it would seem that it was 
 
96 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 powerless to act save when told to do so hj. the 
 dreamer — or rather, by that person or part of the 
 dreamer which hangs down the precipice and is 
 the B^cij^ent of the dream. Moreover, a httle boy 
 n^^l^lsjaccounted an odd symbol to have any con- 
 nefiti^'- with' the will. This last peculiarity may 
 be dealt with first, because it opens up a subject of 
 considerable importance in symbolism. The basic 
 symbol of the dream is the precipice, and the scene 
 is worked up round the theme of the force of gravi- 
 tation, which represents the attractive power of 
 morphia, ^e other symbols take form as famiUar 
 adjuncts to t"he fundamental plot. The unwritten 
 law of metaphor or parable or cartoon is that the 
 figures or symbols utiUzed must bear a natural 
 relationship to one another. If one compares 
 youth, by a figure of speech, to springtime, it is bad 
 art to speak in the same sentence of old age as an 
 hour-glass from which the sands have almost run. 
 It is bad art because it violates a natural tendency 
 of the mind which expects spring to be contrasted 
 with winter. If a cartoonist wished to represent a 
 situation in which the downfall of the government 
 was certain unless it acceded to the irritating de- 
 mands of a small party, he might use the symbol 
 of the precipice over which was suspended the 
 leader of the government. But it would be in- 
 conceivably bad art to represent the small and 
 irritating party at the other end of the rope by the 
 sjnnbol of a mosquito, or a drop of croton oil, 
 although both these objects are small and irritating. 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 97 
 
 It would be a violation of the spirit of the cartoon. 
 Such sjrmbols might satisfy objective values but not 
 the intrinsic demands of the newly created picture, 
 which like every creation becomes more than the 
 sum-total of its constituents in that it exhales an 
 atmosphere or personality. In the same way the 
 dream is a new creation, and the symbols, besides 
 having to satisfy the objective and subjective 
 values of the "things they stand for, must to a cer- 
 tain extent modify themselves to satisfy the evolv- 
 ing spirit of the dream. Or, to put it in another 
 way, the medium in which any creation is cast 
 makes certain definite demands of its own, and 
 thus compUcates and even distorts the creative 
 impulse behind it. The extent to which the demand 
 is satisfied in dreams varies, and depends, perhaps, 
 on the strength of the creative motive from the 
 unconscious coupled with the degree of the tran- 
 quiUity of the conscious mind. At times there may 
 be great confusion of symbolism in dreams, especi- 
 ally in states of exhaustion or excitement, just as 
 there may be great confusion of metaphor in the 
 speeches of exhausted and excited orators. But in 
 a clear, cool, and vivid dream, the symbolism shows 
 a strong tendency towards naturalness and coher- 
 ence. It remaias on one level of values. 
 
 In the dream under consideration the man and 
 the rope demand a point of fixation at the top of 
 the clifE. A tree or post or rock would satisfy the 
 medium of the dream, but apparently an inanimate 
 object does not satisfy the creative motive behind 
 7 
 
98 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 the dream. A living figure is demanded, and a 
 human figure is most natural to the scene. Thus 
 it is perhaps possible to see in the human figure at 
 the top of the cliff a symbol that is the outcome of 
 two forces and represents the most suitable com- 
 promise ; the two forces being the creative motive 
 which seeks to condense its meaning into symbols, 
 and the resistant medium of the dream itself which 
 seeks to satisfy its own demands. 
 
 The symbol that we have tentatively assumed to 
 be connected with the wUl is shown apart from the 
 dreamer on the top of the cliff. A little boy, in 
 actual life, could scarcely be expected to support a 
 grown man hanging over a precipice, and yet the 
 dream suggests that this is possible. This in itself 
 suggests a symbolic value in the figure. The idea 
 that this might simply be in the nature of an artistic 
 exaggeration, to emphasize the danger, has already 
 been mentioned, and is inadequate. ' It is possible 
 to view the discrepancy in another light. If the 
 symbol contains the idea of the will, the rope repre- 
 sents the link between it and the dreamer. 
 
 The problem to be investigated can now be stated 
 thus : it is necessary to examine the manner in 
 which the unconscious portrays what is commonly 
 known as an effort or act of will, and explain why 
 the figure at the end of the rope should be a little 
 boy, and not simply a full-sized figure. 
 
 When a sane man makes an excursion into vice, 
 or permits himself to embark on a course of self- 
 indulgence deliberately, he usually sets himself a 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 99 
 
 limit. He says to himself that he will go so far, and 
 no farther. If he sets himself no limit, and goes 
 farther and farther, a stage arrives when his friends 
 say that he has gone too far, implying that any 
 return is now problematical if not impossible. 
 
 The phrases of common speech, which arise in- 
 stinctively out of the depths of the mind, find 
 frequent parallel in the symbolism of dreams, sug- 
 gesting that they have some common source of 
 origin. If a man deliberately says he will go so far 
 in acme escapade, he means — unconsciously — ^that 
 he wiU go a certain distance from some point or 
 base, but not far enough to lose all communication 
 with that point or base. What is that point or 
 base ? It represents the fulcrum of his normal life ; 
 his- customs, conventions, and morality ; the stan- 
 dard of what is established in him as proper, prudent, 
 and social. It is the fort in the midst of the wilds, 
 and the man is careful, when going into the wilds in 
 search of adventure, not to lose sight of it. 
 
 But the metaphor of the fort only expresses a very 
 superficial aspect of what happens, when compared 
 with the symbolism of the dream. The dream 
 shows that the morphinist has gone a certain way 
 from the top of the cliS — ^the position of normal 
 safety — down the side of the precipice, but he is 
 still in contact with that which remains on the top. 
 That which remains on the top is now relatively 
 small, but is not inanimate, like a fort, but alive ; it 
 is a force operating from the level of normal safety. 
 This force is holding the dreamer back from the gulf. 
 
100 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 but that is all. It is for the dreamer himself to say 
 the word if he wants to be pulled up. It would 
 therefore seem that the ultimately decisive factor of 
 the dreamer's personality has the choice of events ; 
 moreover, it is shown as attached to or resident in 
 that part of the dreamer which is going over the 
 precipice. A deduction of some value in prognosis 
 might be made. The morphinist is deliberately a 
 morphinist. 
 
 When the common phrase is used that a man's 
 wUl is weakening as he goes along some path of in- 
 dulgence, it implies that something is strengthening. 
 What is strengthening is the attractive power of the 
 vice. But in the dream, the attractive power of 
 morphia is represented by the force of gravitation, 
 and the force of gravitation is a constant force ; it 
 does not increase or diminish appreciably at any 
 surface point of the earth. 
 
 But there are certain variable elements in the 
 dream. The position of the figure over the cM can 
 vary, and with it the length of the rope. The size 
 of the figure at the top of the cliff might also vary 
 without in any way violating the spirit of the dream. 
 If, then, we examine the length of the rope and the 
 size of the figure on the cliff-top in the light of 
 relatively variable factors, the explanation of the 
 amallness of the figure on the cliff-top may be found 
 to lie in the length of the rope, as if the rope drew 
 itself out of the figure, and so caused it to shrink. 
 
 Now the figure at the top of the cliff is on firm 
 ground, and may thus symbolize the forces of sane 
 
UNCONSCIOUS MOTIVE AND INTEREST 101 
 
 habit and oustom that exist in the morphinist and 
 from which he has departed over the edge of the 
 cliff, but which still hold him back from disaster, 
 although they are now shrunken. The attractive 
 power of the morphia is not increasing, but the 
 interest the morphinist takes in morphia is increasing ; 
 that is, something in himself — a force, let us say — 
 is increasingly passing over to find its most satis- 
 factory expression in indulgence in morphia, and 
 the force is being drawn out of the figure at the top 
 of the cM. A picture of the balance of interest in 
 the morphinist is thus given, and the dream shows 
 that the part of interest situated on the cliff-top is 
 now being drawn increasingly over the precipice. 
 A condition of straiii is being set up, one stream of 
 the interest seeking to go one way, and another 
 resisting and being gradually weakened, as it were 
 by deserters passing over to the other side. 
 
 The ultimately decisive factor in personality is 
 shown as still able to cause the morphia interest to 
 flow back to the old and safe position by a command 
 addressed to those interests at the top of the cliff. 
 This rather burdensome analysis, therefore, suggests 
 that the ultimately decisive factor in personality 
 can only work through a certain potential of in- 
 terest. 'To gain a new or old position an adequate 
 outpost of interest must exist there already, and 
 the self, by a command, can cause the flow of 
 fresh interest to reinforce what was already there. 
 The decisive factor in personality commands, and 
 interest shifts its balance and an act of will is 
 
102 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 consummated. But one cannot work without the 
 other. Thus to talk of will as free is only correct in 
 so far as it can operate through the dispositions of 
 interest. Interest, always attracted, always push- 
 ing out in every direction under its own impulse, 
 may reach a spot where the decisive factor in 
 personality will follow and summon more interest. 
 Or upon interest some new position may be imposed 
 (by education), and that may or may not be rein- 
 forced. But when there is no disposition of interest, 
 the decisive factor cannot operate. When the figure 
 on the cliff-top has wholly shrunk into the rope, all 
 interest belonging to levels of safety will be gone, 
 and then the decisive factor cannot by any com- 
 mand get back, as the mechanical considerations 
 of the symbols show. The point of fixation will 
 vanish and the rope come to an end, and man and 
 rope will drop to another level of values. 
 
 I have given a possible explanation of the un- 
 conscious motive in the dream, and it is offered ia 
 a purely tentative spirit. The conclusion that could 
 be drawn from it is that choice is a prerogative of 
 self, but is limited by the field, or patterns, of the 
 force that reveals itseK as interest ; and beyond 
 that is totally ineffective. The patterns of interest 
 are formed by education and by chance. 
 
 New patterns are also formed during a psycho- 
 logical analysis. It is upon these new patterns, and 
 the patients' will to reinforce them, that treatment 
 depends. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE CONTROL OP INTEREST 
 
 Conditions may arise in the psyche in which in- 
 terest is held up abnormally. The will strives in 
 vain to direct it along a particular path, and the 
 cause of failure is not manifest to the conscious 
 mind. The following case may serve to illustrate 
 this state of affairs. 
 
 The conscious estimate of the patient R. of his 
 condition requires to be studied before the problem 
 of his dreams can be taken up. It can be con- 
 densed in the following terms. He had a strong 
 impulse to perform a certain task, but as soon as 
 he began it, a check occurred. His interest would 
 not flow along the desired channels, his ideas weak- 
 ened and faded, and he fell into a kind of reverie 
 state or mental blackness. The sense of a loss of 
 confidence in his intellectual powers grew on him. 
 He became absent-minded, apathetic, and irritable, 
 and eventually wondered if some brain deterioration 
 had set in. He could not give the task up : the 
 impulse to attempt it remained, but the results of 
 these attempts became increasingly unsatisfactory. 
 
 103 
 
104 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Four salient points can be selected from this 
 brief account. (1) The impulse continued in the 
 patient R. all through his troubles. (2) Although 
 the impulse was there, adequate control of attention 
 and interest failed him. (3) When the patient began 
 to work in obedience to his impulse, his conscious 
 field became a blank ; what had existed in it, 
 rapidly faded. (4) He had no explanation of the 
 cause of his state, save that it was due to some 
 obscure physical condition. I do not propose to 
 enter more fully upon a discussion of the conscious 
 estimate of R., because the features essential to an 
 initial estimate of the significance of his dreams 
 have been compressed into the above account. But 
 it is worth pointing out perhaps that the state of 
 mind R. found himself in, though not rare as a 
 temporary experience, is one that might possibly 
 have caused serious mischief if it had persisted. A 
 persistent impulse strongly felt but incapable of 
 adequate realization or comprehension — ^that is, in- 
 capable of being led out into the light — might 
 suggest something akin to a compulsion-neurosis, 
 which is one of the most troublesome to deal with 
 amongst the psycho-neuroses. Broadly speaking, a 
 compulsion-neurosis is an imperative impulse behind 
 an irrational or anti-social idea. It is a kind of 
 abnormal fixation of interest ; but in this case there 
 was nothing necessarily irrational or anti-social in 
 the impulse which did not play through any cir- 
 cumscribed area of conscious ideas, but remained as 
 an indefinite irritant in the marginal psyche. 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 105 
 
 During the period of his trouble he experienced 
 unusually vivid dreams. I propose to record and 
 discuss three of these, in the order in which they 
 occurred. 
 
 I. "I was in an upper room surrounded by a 
 crowd of ancient philosophers in flowing robes. 
 Amongst them I saw B. They were all talking at 
 once, with pompous gestures. In the centre of the 
 room was my writing-table, and at it sat someone 
 whom I did not see clearly, as his head was in his 
 hands. I gathered that the noise around him inter- 
 fered with his work. Then I found myself in the 
 room below. It was a dirty kitchen. A fat, ugly 
 cook, with bloodshot eyes, as ugly as Socrates, came 
 in. She was friendly and demanded a drink of 
 beer and stout. I had some beer in a bottle in my 
 hand, but I could not find any stout. I became 
 embarrassed. At last I found some on a shelf, 
 amongst the dirty crockery. I poured her out a 
 mixture and she took it, fixing me all the time with 
 a humorous, leering look. Then she nodded and 
 winked, and raising the glass said, quite distinctly, 
 ' You must always mix the clear with the muddy,' 
 and began to drink. At that moment the floor 
 above us collapsed and there was a mix-up, but I 
 was not hurt. I caught a glimpse of one very tall, 
 empty room. The cook and the philosophers had 
 aH vanished." This dream forms a good example 
 of the semi-rational atmosphere in which the dream- 
 conceptions of the sleeping mind are cast. It is 
 well constructed but apparently quite absurd. We 
 
106 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 may assume that it contains marginal or unconscious 
 material — that is, material inadequately realized, 
 or not realized, by the dreamer. 
 
 If the above dream is carefuUy examined as it 
 stands, there are some interesting points to be found 
 in it. The dream opens with the dreamer standing 
 in the upper room, among a throng of ancient 
 philosophers, and there he sees his own writing- 
 table at which sits a shadowy figure, who is pre- 
 vented from working by the noise round him. 
 The anamnesis has already told us that the patient 
 himself, so soon as he sits down to write, is over- 
 taken by a mental condition that prevents him 
 continuing. 
 
 On his descent from the upper room, when the 
 dreamer finds himself in the lower room, he has in 
 his hand a bottle of beer. Here he undergoes a 
 remarkable experience, and feels embarrassed — ^the 
 only emotion felt in the dream — ^because he has no 
 stout. This would seem, taken Hterally, to be 
 totally absurd. The cook, however, does not say 
 that he has to mix beer with stout, but that he 
 must always mix the clear with the muddy. 
 
 If we glance at the contrasts suggested by the 
 words of the cook that occur in the dream, the 
 upper room can be regarded as a contrast with 
 the lower room, not only in the matter of position, 
 but in the nature of the inhabitants. Above is the 
 philosophical atmosphere peculiar to intellects of a 
 dead world ; below, in the person of the cook, is a 
 very human and contemporaneous philosopher. 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 107 
 
 who, though not exactly an intellectualist, is far 
 from being a negligible factor in life. 
 
 The remaining point of interest is found in the 
 sequence of events which follow on the mixing of 
 the b6er with the stout. The two rooms become 
 mixed up — emerged into one tall room — ^and, curi- 
 ously enough, neither cook nor philosopher remains. 
 What remains is only vaguely seen. 
 
 Before continuing the investigation of this dream, 
 a second one may be given which, though it 
 occurred later, forms a sort of introduction to the 
 above example, and helps in the understanding of it. 
 
 II. " I was aiming at a target. It was placed 
 high up. I had a nice rifle, weU-made save in one 
 respect. The sights were not properly adjusted. I 
 could only see the bull's-eye along one sight. Neither 
 of the sights was properly shaped, but seemed 
 lumps of metal clumsily fastened on the barrel. 
 After several attempts I grew irritable and took a 
 chance shot at a bird flying overhead. I hit it and 
 it fell. It was a very bright-eyed bird not yet 
 full-grown, and I felt sorry." 
 
 The essential plot or theme in this dream seems 
 to lie in the matter of the unadjusted sights. The 
 dreamer can see along only one sight ; and both 
 sights are not clearly cut pieces of metal, but lumps 
 clumsily attached to the barrel. A fine fashioning 
 of the sights, which is necessary to accurate shoot- 
 ing, and a fine adjustment of them in proper align- 
 ment, constitute the only deficiencies of the rifle. 
 In a way, this might be regarded as a small matter. 
 
108 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 and one capable of remedy without much expense 
 or difficulty, but at the same time they render the 
 rifle unsuitable for aiming at a target. Only bUnd 
 shooting is possible. When the dreamer indulges 
 in this, he brings down a curious kind of bird. 
 
 If the substance of the dream were to be cast 
 into a single phrase, it might be legitimate to put 
 it in this manner : " You cannot hit the buU's-eye 
 of the target because your sights are not finely 
 enough fashioned, and they are unadjusted." If 
 the phrase is compared with the remark of the cook 
 in the previous example — " You must always mix 
 the clear with the muddy " — a certain similarity is 
 seen. In the one an adjustment of two things is 
 suggested ; in the other a minghng of two things. 
 The second dream gives no indication of the nature 
 of the two things, but it contains a hint that with 
 the rifle in that condition, only fledglings can be 
 hit, and not buU's-eyes. The first dream, though 
 suggesting that the society of old-world philosophers 
 impedes the figure at the writing-table, deals in a 
 more elaborate manner with the nature of the two 
 things that must be mingled. And it concludes 
 with a dramatic minghng of the clear medium 
 of intellectual theory with the muddier medium of 
 vulgar humanity, which follows on the mixing of 
 the clear beer with the muddy stout. Stout, by 
 the way, is perhaps naturally associated with fat 
 cooks. 
 
 It must be remembered that the patient was 
 suffering from an inabiUty to achieve a task he had 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 109 
 
 set himself, and was unable to understand why he 
 failed in so notable a manner. I will now develop 
 the anamnesis and reference to the material in the 
 first dream. The patient stated he had attributed, 
 in a minor degree, his failure to a lack of scholar- 
 ship, and had been re-reading the early philosophers, 
 particularly those of ancient Greece and Rome. 
 He did not derive much help from this, and was 
 forced to go over the matter several times before it 
 made any lasting impression. Experience may be 
 put in terms of the question of inward appeal, which 
 was touched on in the first chapter. The ancient 
 philosophies made no real appeal to him. They 
 linked up with nothing behind consciousness ; they 
 dwelt momentarily in consciousness unreinforced. 
 Some reading- has this effect, lying barren and 
 swiftly withering in consciousness ; while other 
 reading acts as a powerful fertilizer, and brings up 
 to the surface a multitude of ideas. This, I think, 
 will be granted ; that such events must depend on 
 the elements that lie beyond consciousness — ^in the 
 under-soil of the mind — ^and belong to the category 
 of inward appeal. The patient, acting on the 
 behef that lack of scholarship was partly behind 
 his inability to make headway with his work, did 
 what he could to focus attention on the philo- 
 sophical systems of a bygone age. In the dream, 
 in the opening scene, he is depicted as being in a 
 room containing ancient philosophers — ^that is, a 
 pictorial presentation of his actual situation is given 
 — ^but a touch of ridicule is suggested by the way 
 
110 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 these are represented ; there is a hint more of the 
 cartoon than of the picture. He is then trans- 
 ported to the lower room, where he has his singular 
 encounter with the cook, and receives her cryptic 
 advice. In passing, it may be noted that the 
 dreamer made a spontaneous association between 
 the cook and Socrates. 
 
 Association suggests, among other things, simi- 
 larity ; there is something in common between the 
 cook and Socrates ; in this case it seems to be the 
 quality of ugliness. That is the superficial link of 
 association ; it may contain a deeper significance. 
 Socrates, it must be remembered, was not a mere 
 intellectual theorist dwelling in an upper room. 
 He taught in the streets, in the mud, in the heart 
 oi the crowd, in the arena of human experience. 
 A cook of the type depicted approaches life in the 
 Socratic spirit in that she gains whatever sagacity 
 and wisdom is hers by the process of actual con- 
 tact with life, and not by theorizing in an upper 
 chamber. Is it legitimate, then, to conclude that 
 some advice, of value to the dreamer, is contained 
 in these dreams ? The patient could not control his 
 interest. He strove to force it in certain directioi^s 
 and failed. There was some internal check, the 
 nature of which was a mystery to him. That force, 
 which reveals itself as interest, was not vitaUzing 
 the elements represented in his consciousness, so 
 that they could produce an adequate effect in 
 reality. It would be possible to say that the force 
 that reveals itself as interest was exhausted, and 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEEEST 111 
 
 the patient's condition was comparable to that of 
 an accumulator that has run down and can give 
 only a brief, and rapidly failing, current at intervals. 
 In that case we should be reverting to an old- 
 fashioned view, and prescribe tonics, rest, the 
 electric battery, massage, and even radium, and 
 think no more about it. It is a view that has 
 something to be said for it. It saves an immense 
 amount of trouble. It saves the physician trouble 
 as well as the patient. But the tendency to-day is 
 to presume that vital force, like all force, must 
 manifest itself somewhere, though it may change 
 its point of application. A person may be extremely 
 interested in athletics, and spend his days enthusi- 
 astically in the fields ; a change may suddenly 
 occur, and he shuts himself up in his study and 
 reads from morning to night. His interest has 
 shifted. His old companions may say he has lost 
 all interest and does nothing. But that is surely 
 wrong ; the force that reveals itself as interest has 
 gone elsewhere ; its point of application has shifted 
 inwards. It is the same force. But a savage, who 
 did not know that writing and reading were possible, 
 while watching him in his new phase might think 
 his interest had gone and that he was exhausted as 
 he sat in his chair motionless and absorbed. Before 
 it can be concluded that the patient R.'s interest 
 was exhausted, an exploration beyond the reahn 
 of the immediately obvious must be made, lest 
 unwittingly a point of view is taken up like that of 
 the inexperienced savage. 
 
112 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 It will at once be said that if an interpretation is 
 put on these dreams that they contain valuable 
 advice as to the path interest should be allowed to 
 flow along — ^which for the moment I wiU call muddy 
 experience as contrasted with clear intellectualism 
 — ^it means that dreams have a kind of intelligence 
 behind them concealed under a curious and fan- 
 tastic symbohsm. It has been remarked that a 
 good test of any theory is to ask whether it lessens 
 a man's sense of personal responsibiUty in the con- 
 duct of hfe, and that if it does — ^if in any way it 
 casts doubt on the supremacy of his powers of 
 reasoning and judgment — ^then it is a bad theory. 
 If the theory is advanced that dreams have a kind 
 of inteUigence behind them capable of giving advice 
 that the conscious powers of the mind fail to give, 
 then many people may condemn it instantly as a 
 bad theory. An old antagonism is here opened up, 
 and the main discussion of it can be deferred to a 
 later part of the book. There are certain deduc- 
 tions to be made, however, from premises already 
 given which may throw some Ught on the ques- 
 tion, and they can be touched upon at this 
 stage. 
 
 The dream appears complete, and totally unfore- 
 seen, in the mind as a product of unconscious 
 activity. No one would venture to suggest that 
 consciousness contains all possible attitudes. A 
 candid friend, for example, will reveal many defects 
 of character and opinion to us, of which we were 
 unaware. That is his particular genius and am- 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 113 
 
 bition. He does not concern himself with what we 
 are conscious of in ourselves (and here let it be said 
 that many typical actions and attitudes that we 
 constantly make use of may be unrealized) so much 
 as with what we are unconscious or semi-conscious 
 of ; and this produces a curious but characteristic 
 effect. We defend ourselves feverishly, although 
 we may dimly perceive the truth of his statement. 
 But if we perceive the truth of the statement the 
 realization must come from something latent in 
 ourselves. We are not really defending ourselves 
 from the candid friend so much as from what is 
 trying to enter consciousness from the marginal or 
 unconscious psyche. The candid friend may make 
 an accusation that is wholly untrue. Nothing re- 
 sponds in ourselves ; that is, it appeals to nothing 
 latent in the psyche ; it finds no system of inward 
 strain to set in vibration. We do not react to it. 
 We do not become indignant. 
 
 Now if we examine the statement that dreams, 
 because they arise from the unconscious,, must 
 necessarily contain unrealized or inadequately 
 realized material, we see that this implies that a 
 dream, when looked at through consciousness — that 
 is, when unravelled and reknit into the patterns of 
 conscious thinking — ^must have a significance of an 
 extremely unusual and personal kind. It must offer 
 a kind of criticism ; or we can be more cautious, and 
 say that what it offers, when considered consciously, 
 might be constructed into a kind of criticism by the 
 rational powers. The criticism, then, would be un- 
 8 
 
114 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 intelligent and only rendered intelligent by secondary 
 elaboration in consciousness. 
 
 However that may be, we may assume at this 
 point that a kind of criticism, or a peculiar point of 
 view, wUl be of necessity contained in the dream if a 
 suitable method of handling its material is attaiaed, 
 so that it can be worked up into a significant form. 
 Our task is now to find into what form, significant to 
 the patient, the two dreams can be worked up. Do 
 they seem to have any kind of bearing upon his 
 problem — a problem which he failed to solve by 
 conscious judgment ? 
 
 The criticism that can be extracted is contained in 
 the idea of some inner failure of adjustment. The 
 prominence that is given to the ugly humorous cook, 
 and the fact that it is she who is selected to give the 
 advice of mingling the clear with the muddy, suggest 
 that she represents in a condensed, and therefore 
 symbolic, way something that the dreamer lacks. 
 I have already put a tentative meaning on this 
 symbolism, indicating that it is strongly contrasted 
 with the semi-ridiculous philosophical atmosphere 
 of the upper chamber, and that the spontaneous 
 association with Socrates might point towards 
 another way of approaching life. The individual 
 who gleans the nature of humanity from books does 
 not build into himself the character that experience 
 affords. It is impossible to replace action by 
 thought and get the same result. 
 
 In the case of the patient R. his task was a difficult 
 one — a hint perhaps contained in the symbol of the 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 115 
 
 high target — ^and it required an adjustment towards 
 life that he did not possess. The sights in the rifle 
 are clumsy. He can only bring down with it a 
 young, but bright-eyed, bird. What do the two 
 sights symbolize ? What two points of view must 
 be brought into alignment before accurate shooting 
 is possible with the instrument destiny has furnished? 
 The sights seem to be symbolized under another form 
 in the first dream, as philosopher and cook. Life 
 as a theory is one point of view. Life as a fact is 
 another. It cannot be denied that the proper 
 mingling and alignment of these two points of view 
 constitute for most persons a very big and a difficult 
 task. The second dream suggests that, both sights 
 — both points of view^-are immature. And the first 
 dream, by its slight shade of ridicule thrown over 
 the^ scene in the upper room, suggests that life as a 
 theory, to the patient, was not free from the charge 
 of absurdity, 
 
 I have said sufficient to outline in the reader's 
 mind the kind of criticism, and the nature of the 
 advice, which can be found in these dreams. The 
 patient had reached a position, by his use of life, 
 in which matters had gone beyond his control ; in 
 which some deep reaction had occurred. Interest 
 had drifted increasingly away from his conscious 
 plan, and lay in him as a potential force under the 
 symbol of the cook in the du-ty kitchen. 
 
 The third dream, and the last that I shall give 
 concerning this case, made a more vivid impression 
 on the dreamer than either of the foregoing ones. 
 
116 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 He described, while relating it, an atmosphere of 
 expectation and raystery. The previous examples 
 contained the emotions of sorrow and embarrass- 
 ment. This dream was accompanied by a sense of 
 adventure. 
 
 III. "I was on some exploration into an un- 
 known country. There were either three others 
 with me, or in all we made a party of three. I am 
 uncertain of this. My companions were shadowy 
 and vague. Our journey was strange. We had to 
 get across marshy land, then over ice and weed- 
 covered water, then we swam across a wide sheet 
 of clear water, and down a kind of aqueduct, where 
 the water became shallow. We stepped on to the 
 shore, where two strangers were standing. We 
 seemed to be introduced, or introduced ourselves, 
 and bowed very formally. The two strangers began 
 to converse, and one said to the other that it was a 
 great pity that travellers who reached that shore 
 lost so much of their sense of humour and behaved 
 so stiffly, and how it always had happened in that 
 way. For some reason I became annoyed and said 
 they must remember we were in an unknown coun- 
 try. They looked at me intently while I spoke. 
 I woke up feeling that the strangers were not hostile, 
 and T should have been friendly." 
 
 In this dream the main plot turns about the 
 dreamer's mode of behaviour in the unknown 
 country that he sets out to explore. He is not at 
 ease. It is suggested that he loses his sense of 
 humour, and that he is not the only one who has 
 
THE CONTROL OF INTEREST 117 
 
 acted in a stiff and formal manner on reaching that 
 shore. If we look for any correspondences with the 
 previous dreams they are found in the behaviour of 
 the philosophers, whose declamations were stiff and 
 pompous, and in the cook, who was humorous and 
 friendly. The pompous manner is coupled up with 
 the atmosphere of intellectual preoccupation. The 
 humorous and friendly manner is coupled up with 
 the cook. The dreamer, when he overhears the 
 conversation of the strangers, reacts sensitively and 
 speaks up with wrath. Humour does not come to 
 his aid even after he has been given the hint, and 
 he wakes regretting his behaviour. 
 
 In the case of this dream, the patient R. associated 
 the allegory of the venture into an unknown country 
 with his own attempt to achieve the task he had set 
 himself to do. One hesitates to go so far as to say 
 that the intellectual mood in general tends to exclude 
 humour and friendliness, but in this particular case 
 it is suggested. 
 
 In these three dreams there is a great variety of 
 symbolism and scenery, and I have only attempted 
 to pick out those similarities which bring them into 
 line with one another, and give them an initial inter- 
 pretation. The material lying behind them, as I 
 conceive it, has been traced in the broadest outline, 
 without any detail. My aim is to show that these 
 three dreams have a theme in common, and a kind 
 of meaning or criticism that does bear directly on 
 the problem of the patient R. 
 
 If this meaning or criticism has a purpose, it would 
 
118 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 seem to be a particular purpose, whose object is to 
 open up another and new channel, foreign to the 
 dreamer, along which interest should flow. It would 
 appear that the unconscious had gathered itself into 
 a definite attitude, and was throwing it upon the 
 dream-stage in many forms and varieties of sym- 
 bolism, and laying the emphasis on different as- 
 pects, but always in a comparatively veiled way. 
 
 A point must be remarked on here. The patient 
 began to dream more vividly and coherently than 
 usual after the onset of his trouble ; that is, after his 
 adequate control of interest had left him. When 
 the force which reveals itself as interest deserted 
 conscious levels, the activity of the unconscious, as 
 shown in the dream-life, became distinctly increased. 
 The damming back of the force, or the checking of it, 
 acted as a stimulus to unconscious activity. This 
 might be expected on the principle that force must be 
 somewhere, in some form ; if it leaves the theatre of 
 conscious application, it would be not improbable 
 to find it active in the unconscious psyche, behind 
 the scenes. The dream-psyche began to weave a 
 number of unusually clear pictures, which, as we 
 have seen, might be given a special and purposeful 
 interpretation, the purpose being to get rid of, or 
 eject, that dammed-back force in a particular direc- 
 tion shunned by the patient. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE GROWTH OF INTEREST 
 
 We have seen that a possible view of the case of the 
 patient R. is that interest was no longer under his 
 control, but was controlled by a region of the pyeche 
 beyond consciousness. This can be called the un- 
 conscious control of interest. This implies a theory, 
 and means that the force that reveals itself as interest 
 may be under a double control. It can be deflected 
 in a certain direction in consciousness, but at times 
 the power of deflection is overshadowed by an op- 
 posing power, operative in the unconscious. We 
 have also seen that the second control, though it 
 cannot be investigated by a direct examination of 
 the contents of consciousness, can be got in touch 
 with through the dream which springs up in the 
 sleeping mind as a product of the deeper levels of 
 the psyche. 
 
 In the case of the patient R. the results of this 
 unconscious control did not reveal themselves in any 
 physical symptom. The check operated in the 
 psychical field, causing a rapid fall in what might 
 be called the pressure of ideas, and a consequent 
 state of mental blankness, which gradually produced 
 
 119 
 
120 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 a sense of loss of confidence and general inadequacy. 
 At the same time there was an impulse that con- 
 tinually urged him to work — that, at least, was his 
 interpretation of the force. 
 
 The next case to be considered affords an example 
 of a similar condition with one difference. The 
 check set up by the unconscious control of interest 
 did not reveal itself in the mind but in the body. 
 The patient 0. suffered from writer's cramp. That 
 is, so soon as he took a pen in hand, the muscles 
 necessary for the movements of writing became 
 contracted, and the contraction was beyond his 
 conscious control. His work was of such a nature 
 that writing was an essential, though not a constant, 
 occupation. 
 
 The conscious estimate of his position was as 
 follows. He saw no reason why he should give up 
 his work. As is common in this disease, there were 
 brief periods of improvement. Sometimes he could 
 write quite easily ; at other times writing was so 
 laborious that it was practically impossible. Yet he 
 felt a cure was possible, and he had already tried 
 various devices, such as special pens, new positions 
 of the hand and elbow, as well as writing with the 
 ' left hand. He fancied his left hand also had a 
 tendency to spasm. I propose to discuss one dream 
 that he experienced. 
 
 " I was in the desert. Before me was a tremen- 
 dously taU wall or rampart. I was cowering at its 
 foot in terror." 
 
 This short dream was vivid and apparently had 
 
THE GROWTH OF INTEREST 121 
 
 impressed the patient. In a half-laughing way he 
 remarked that he was certainly " up against it." 
 There was no possibility of getting over or round that 
 wall. The nature of the symboKsm employed is 
 interesting. The scene is cast in the desert — that 
 is, in a barren, unproductive spot. The wall is of 
 tremendous proportions — that is, some kind of 
 emphasis is suggested. The wall bars all progress. 
 Finally, the dreamer is in terror. Why should he be 
 in terror ? Presimiably, from a consideration of the 
 dream itself, because he cannot proceed and realizes 
 that the wall is insurmountable. 
 
 Before estimating the significance of the dream 
 there are a few points that can be added to what 
 has already been given in the conscious estimate of 
 the patient. It is always valuable to note those 
 circimistances under which the neurosis of a patient 
 improves. In the case of the patient 0. there were 
 times when the control of the muscles employed in 
 writing was adequate, and even normal. The 
 patient had noticed that this happened particularly 
 when he was in a position of authority in the concern 
 in which he worked — that is, when those over him 
 were away and the management of afEairs became 
 his own. Another point is that the patient was in 
 some respects a disappointed man, in that he had 
 hoped for, and had been led to expect, a far better 
 position at his time of hfe than he actually had, and 
 this appeared to be due to no fault of his own. The 
 kind of work he did was invaluable to the business, 
 and a substitute would have been difficult to find. 
 
122 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Apart from work he led a quiet and rather solitary 
 life. He showed by his manner that he dreaded 
 the idea that he might have to give up his work. It 
 has already been mentioned that he felt a cure was 
 possible. He clung to that idea. It was a kind of 
 impulse comparable, possibly, to the impulse that 
 existed in the patient R. 
 
 In the light of this anamnesis the dream can now 
 be given some significance. The wall he is up 
 against suggests a symbolic way of putting some 
 powerful force acting counter to tl^e conscious striv- 
 ing : it emphasizes a non-realized or inadequately 
 realized factor. In this case the half-laughing way 
 in which he observed that he was certainly "up 
 against it " suggests it was an inadequately reaUzed 
 factor. The laugh prevented the serious considera- 
 tion behind the phrase. It might be thought that 
 if this factor required such a striking symbol to 
 represent its power, the outlook for the patient was 
 sinister. But emphasis is required in proportion to 
 the refusal to realize ; if a person refuses to entertain 
 a certain idea, the force required to change his view 
 must be proportionately exaggerated. In short, the 
 exaggeration of the symbol might be looked on as 
 due to some correspondingly exaggerated denial in 
 the conscious attitude. That, at least, is a tentative 
 explanation of some kinds of emphasis in dreams. 
 It does not explain all. In the dream of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar, the immense tree whose branches covered 
 the whole earth was an emphatic way of representing 
 an emphatic and relatively actual state of affairs. 
 
THE GROWTH OF INTEREST 123 
 
 It was simply a graphic summing-up of a situation 
 that had gone beyond some limit, or of an over- 
 development in some particular direction. As a 
 further illustration I may be allowed to introduce 
 the following example at this point. It was the 
 dream of a young man whose interest seemed to 
 consist largely in matters of dress. He dreamed he 
 was in his bedroom which had assumed gigantic 
 proportions. His wardrobe towered high above his 
 head, and piles of clothes hedged him in. The 
 dream was a nightmare — that is, it was accom- 
 panied by a helpless sense of terror. We might see 
 ia this simply a graphic way of representing an 
 actual situation ; a symbolism portraying vividly 
 the application of his interest in one direction, and 
 suggesting it was very much too emphasized to be 
 normal, by introducing the emotion of fear. 
 
 In the case of the patient 0. the wall is not quite 
 so easy of interpretation, and must be approached 
 simultaneously from several points. The common 
 expression that a man is running his head against a 
 brick wall when he persists in some foolishness is, 
 like most slang, a piece of intuitive symbolism. It 
 is relevant in some degree here. The kind of situa- 
 tion which the phrase usually describes, is one in 
 which a man persists in going along a path that 
 leads nowhere ; it refers to a certain mixture of 
 dogged obstinacy and narrow vision. The posses- 
 sion of these quailities make it very difficult for a 
 man to reverse a decision, or deviate from a pathi 
 It therefore favours the condition of staleness. 
 
124 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Staleness cannot be directly controlled. A man 
 who does the same thing everlastingly becomes 
 stale; however keenly he strives to avoid it. The 
 only way to avoid it is to do something else. It 
 is possible to distinguish two kinds of staleness. 
 There is the staleness that is accompanied by full 
 realization, and a cessation of all interest in that 
 direction : an example of this is the staleness that 
 afflicts a man when he has overtrained ; or when 
 he has worked too hard at one subject ; or when he 
 has, as an actor, appeared too often in one part. It 
 is a kind of one-part staleness that is easily recog- 
 nized, and there is no impulse to continue. 
 
 But there is another variety, and this is a non- 
 reaUzed staleness. The candid friend may reahze 
 it ; the victim does not. In a sense the patient R. 
 was a victim of staleness. But it was a more subtle 
 kind of staleness connected with the non-realization 
 of unexpressed interest. 
 
 To avoid this vaster and more subtle staleness, 
 which is a sort of starvation or arrest of growth, 
 there is a certain standard arrangement that is found 
 in most spheres of work. It consists simply in the 
 fact that as a man works on he rises higher, and by 
 rising higher becomes capable of a wider, or at least 
 different, range of interests. This is normal de- 
 velopment. But when it is hindered, and a man 
 works on and remains stationary, the second kind 
 of staleness is a possibiUty. It is a possibility that 
 depends, as far as one can judge by observation, on 
 the type of individual ; and if it develops it can be 
 
THE GROWTH OF INTEREST 125 
 
 regarded as a sign that the man is superior to his 
 destiny. By this I mean that a limited and me- 
 chanical mind may develop no great staleness, al- 
 though the character of the work remains unchanged 
 to the end. But a more impressionable and reflective 
 mind may become a victim of it at an early stage. 
 
 When a man works on and rises in his work he 
 gains some kind of authority. Authority is difficult 
 to define, but its effect is definite. One aspect of its 
 effect is a certain inner gratification ; it responds 
 to and satisfies some inner demand. There is a 
 school of psychological medicine (Adler) * that takes 
 this as the central pivot of Ufe, and traces all 
 disturbances in the psyche to this source alone. 
 It is a sense that is developed far more, in some 
 than in others, and I do not think it false to say 
 that authority of all kinds is not a necessity to 
 some individuals. The growth of self and authority 
 are two different things. t)ne may be an inner 
 experience, and have no visible relation to the 
 world ; the other belongs to the world only. But 
 the magnification or amplification of self does 
 constitute an essential experience, even though it 
 means nothing but a small rise in salary, or an 
 extra servant, or a motor-bicycle. It is the outward 
 and visible sign of growth. 
 
 Now when a man has forked hard and sincerely, 
 
 with some ambition behind him as regards material 
 
 prospects, and finds nothing happens save in the 
 
 sense of promises, he is up against a force in himself 
 
 * tjher den nervoeen Charakter, (Wiesbaden 1912). 
 
126 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 just as much as he is up against an adverse com- 
 bination of affairs in the world. It is not the adverse 
 combination of affairs that produces the neurosis in 
 such a case. It is the demand in himself. It is the 
 starvation, or thwarting, of something in the man 
 himself that causes the physical disharmony that 
 begins the neurosis. We have seen in the case of the 
 patient 0. that when he was in aposition of authority, 
 his neurosis was in abeyance ; he could write with 
 greater ease. But when he was not in a position of 
 authority, which was his right according to his inner 
 sense of right, his neurosis prevented him. He was 
 inferior to himself in such a position, and, in the 
 deepest sense, a wronged man. 
 
 Authority, with its wider responsibilities, often 
 cures a man of petty defects. That is a fact of 
 experience. Some people say that war has cured 
 Europe of neuroticism. That is untrue. It has 
 produced probably as many neurotics as it has 
 cured. But the idea behind this statement is per- 
 fectly sound. Responsibility, when it puts a man 
 in a position where he can be equal to himself, 
 may effect a cure by widening the conscious horizon 
 and letting interest flow in hitherto unopened or 
 unused channels. But responsibility may act in a 
 reverse direction when it puts a man in a position 
 that makes him too superior to himself. Adjust- 
 ment may become no longer possible, and a neurosis 
 may theoretically result. If the neurotic is a 
 neurotic because of some failure in conscious 
 development, then there must theoretically exist 
 
THE GROWTH OP INTEREST 127 
 
 an ideal combination of circumstances in which his 
 cure would be most likely, and the neurotic usually 
 feels this as a vague impulse of restlessness. It is 
 like finding a key to fit an obscure and hidden lock. 
 But it does not follow, supposing the key, in the 
 sense of the external combination, be found, that 
 it wUl turn the lock. That turning depends on 
 something which is not always mechanical, nor can 
 it be forced by another hand. The finding of the 
 key is the aim of psychological medicine. When 
 found it may turn automatically ; sometimes it 
 wUl not. 
 
 Since the neurosis of the patient 0. appeared to 
 vanish when he was in a position of authority, it 
 suggests that the key lay in this new combination 
 of circumstances. In his case the key turned 
 automatically. It might be a temptation to speak 
 of his case as a kind of mechanical neurosis. It 
 imphcated the physical most distinctly, while the 
 neurosis of the patient R. implicated the psychical. 
 But that would imply a simple mechanisin in the 
 neurosis involving the physical, such as the 
 neuralgias and paralyses, and this is not found in 
 actual experience by any means. 
 
 But the fact of importance is the vanishing of the 
 muscular cramp when the patient dwelt momen- 
 tarily in a new altitude. How, then, does the 
 dream comment on this state of affairs ? It affords 
 no obvious clue to the path along which the patient 
 should travel, as the dreams of the patient R. 
 suggested. It seems to present only a static future, 
 
128 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 an emphatic estimate of the actual condition. Its 
 criticism seems to indicate that the patient was in 
 a barren and unproductive situation, that an im- 
 passable wall was before him, and the only thing 
 he could do was to go back or die where he was. 
 So runs the allegory. It is necessary to consider 
 the element of fear that was so strongly repre- 
 sented. The sense of helpless terror — ^the dreamer 
 cowered in terror at the foot of the wall — is the 
 emotion common to nightmares. Nightmares have 
 a certain peculiarity in their symbolism. I believe 
 I am right in saying that the symbolism of night- 1 
 mares is always a very condensed symbolism. AI1| 
 symbols are, as we have seen, condensed meaning, 
 that is, they are capable of being loosened and 
 unpicked into a much wider meaning in conscious- 
 ness, but the symbols of nightmares tend to be 
 very condensed. As a rule nightmares are very 
 short, and they produce their characteristic effect 
 very swiftly, leaving a vivid recollection behind that 
 is not common in ordinary dreams. They also tend 
 to assume typical forms, shared by children and 
 adults alike, but especially by children. They are, 
 in other words, special Muds of dreams. The study 
 of dreams reveals the presence of many other special 
 kinds of dreams, but the nightmares contain, I 
 believe, the most compressed symbolism of any. 
 This is not the place to discuss the significance of 
 the helpless terror that pervades nightmares in 
 general, but I will venture so far as to suggest that 
 its explanation is very similar in all cases. It is a 
 
THE GROWTH OP INTEREST 129 
 
 terror that links up with the deepest issues of life. 
 We may gain some idea of its significance by ex- 
 amining the elements in the dream now under 
 consideration. 
 
 Initially we might see in it nothing but a reflec- 
 tion of the dread that was discernible in the patient 
 at the prospect of having to give up his work. It 
 was suggested that this was marginal ; it was half- 
 looked-at, and half-avoided. Superficially, it is 
 just a fear of change, or a fear of inability to con- 
 tinue owing to iU-health, a fear that, in a narrow 
 sense, centres about the prospect of a small income. 
 But when this fear is considered in conjunction with 
 the factors that caused the neurosis to vanish, it 
 begins to take a deeper significance. It is a fear 
 connected with growth and expression and fulfil- 
 ment. Fruit of some sort must be borne by every 
 living thing. It is a biological necessity, as some 
 call it ; or one of the imperative tendencies in life. 
 It is as much a biological — ot spiritual — necessity 
 that some kind of fruition should crown labour in 
 human affairs. The results of a man's work are as 
 much creation or fruition as his children. This 
 patient had no children ; the only branch that 
 could bear fruit in his life was his work. Interest 
 did not flow in any other direction. His danger, 
 and the danger of all people whose sap vitalizes 
 only one branch, becomes apparent. If no check 
 occurs, the sap flows on and some kind of fruition 
 comes ; if a check does occur, the prospect is that 
 of a complete cessation of development. In his 
 9 
 
130 ]i)EEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 case, checks had occurred, first in the material 
 aspects of his situation, so that fruition was im- 
 possible, and then in himself in the form of a neurosis. 
 The neurosis struck at a vulnerable point ; its full 
 development meant that he must give up his work 
 and either retire or do something else. The dream 
 described what may be called, in a stilted phrase, 
 the psychological situation, and since it concerned 
 the deepest issues of his life, its symbolism was 
 terrible. The dreamer's terror was the terror that 
 should belong to the realization of arretted develop- 
 ment, and the thwarting of those potential forces 
 in a human beiag that crave for expression in a full 
 life. I have said enough to outline the significance 
 of the nightmare, and the reason why it haunts 
 childhood, that period when so many demands are 
 made of vital importance to the future man or 
 woman, and when interest is begimiing to send out 
 those small but vitally important shoots that will 
 grow into great branches in maturity. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 COMPLEXES 
 
 When a mass of ideas and emotions collects round 
 a common nucleus in the mind, a system is formed 
 which will react in a particular way to incoming 
 stimuli. This system is called a complex. The 
 conception of complexes is due to the work of Dr. 
 Jung, and he has shown how the reactions of the 
 psyche are influenced by the presence in it of com- 
 plexes. If a man commits a murder and says 
 nothing about it, there collects round the murder- 
 nucleus a mass of thoughts, ideas, and feelings. A 
 complex is formed. The existence of this guilt- 
 complex will produce an acute situation in the 
 man's mind. What is he going to do with it 1 It 
 wiQ find itself in opposition with other complexes 
 that centre about social duties and good conduct. 
 He may solve his conflict in various ways. 
 
 He may push the guilt complex out of con- 
 sciousness into the unconscious. In this case the 
 guilt-complex will manifest itself in dreams. We 
 may expect him to experience nightmares in which 
 
 the incidents of the murder will be revived. He 
 
 131 
 
132 DEE AM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 may /follow another course in which he thrusts out 
 the acquired moral complexes, from consciousness 
 and dwells alone with the murder-complex. This 
 will mean a profound degradation of the conscious 
 life, and he will experience in his dreams a return 
 of the banished moral complexes in powerful sym- 
 bols. A third course is possible. Fantasy may 
 play a leading part in the attempt to reconcile 
 the conflicting complexes. It may, for example, 
 construct a theory in his mind that he never 
 committed a murder at all. This fantasy may 
 become very elaborate and gradually extend over 
 the whole conscious field. The murder-complex and 
 the acquired moral complexes will pass into the 
 unconscious as the fantasy grows, until at last the 
 man will live wholly in his fantasy. He will be 
 insane. The sources of his malady will be the two 
 powerful and opposing complexes in the unconscious 
 which will feed his fantasy. 
 
 There are complexes common to everyone. 
 Round the idea of the father and round the idea 
 of the mother — or those people who stand in the 
 place of the father and the mother — ^the child col- 
 lects a great mass of memories, feelings, and thoughts. 
 These will form respectively the father-complex 
 and the mother-complex. In typical cases these 
 complexes are not wholly compatible when they 
 exist together in consciousness, for they are asso- 
 ciated with two different views of life. These com- 
 plexes, which are normally found in everyone, may 
 develop to an abnormal extent. A person may 
 
COMPLEXES 133 
 
 possess a father-complex that dominates him. He 
 is, as it were, not his own master. What he, as an 
 individual, seeks to do, and what the father-com- 
 plex makes him do may be two very diSerent 
 things. A person may practically live in his or her 
 father-complex, in which case there would be a 
 corresponding identification with the father in 
 reality ; or if the father be dead, an identification 
 with aU the political, religious, and social views that 
 he expressed in life. Such a person is an imitation. 
 Provided that the conditions under which the 
 father lived still exist, the imitation may be effec- 
 tive. If the conditions alter and new ideas 
 permeate the environment, the person will be unable 
 to make an adaptation to them unless the father- 
 complex is moved from its central position in con- 
 sciousness. It comes about naturally that people 
 who are completely dominated by the father-com- 
 plex continually look into the past and not into 
 the future. They may become conscious of the 
 father-complex and separate themselves from it. 
 In such a case, although the complex still exists, 
 a life of personal independence becomes partially 
 attainable. 
 
 When a person lives entirely in a complex he 
 appears to other people to be biassed. He is the 
 man of one idea and of one book. The expression 
 of interest wiU be only possible through one pattern. 
 This may not always be bad, because the complex 
 may be connected with a progressive idea. The 
 man may conceive of some injustice existing in 
 
134 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 society and amass round this idea a great quantity 
 of thoughts and feelings. If, then, he lives in this 
 complex solely, he may bring about some reform 
 that is valuable to humanity. But people will 
 regard him as biassed. 
 
 The influence of complexes upon the reactions of 
 the psyche was studied by Dr. Jung by means of 
 the association method. If a person is asked to 
 give an immediate association with a word, a 
 certain time elapses before the association is given. 
 If a man is asked to give an association with the 
 word rose, he may, after the space of a second, say 
 red. But if he is in love with a girl of this name, 
 the word will cause the whole system of feelings 
 and ideas centred round the girl to vibrate. This 
 may cause him to blush or stammer or hesitate. 
 He may be at a loss to find any single association, 
 and the result will be that a considerable time will 
 pass before he says anything. This delayed re- 
 action of the psyche will point to the existence of 
 a complex. It is thus possible by selecting a list 
 of test words and asking a patient to make associa- 
 tions with each one in turn to gain some idea of 
 the main complexes in his psyche. The disadvan- 
 tages of this method lie in the land of inquisitorial 
 atmosphere it produces between the patient and 
 the physician. The use of any method that borders 
 on the mechanical gives an unnatural result. Some 
 investigators have sought, by the aid of electrical 
 and clockwork devices, to record the reaction time 
 of associations with minute accuracy, without 
 
COMPLEXES 135 
 
 taking into consideration that by this method they 
 interpose machinery between themselves and the 
 patient. 
 
 At different times of the day different complexes 
 tend to enter into the conscious field. In general 
 the morning brings the business or practical com- 
 plexes into a central position, and interest dis- 
 charges itself through them. In the evening social 
 complexes dominate the field, and interest flows 
 through them. The process is comparable to 
 different shdes being put into a magic lantern alter- 
 ing the pattern of the light-energy on the screen. 
 It is like different stencils intervening between the 
 ink and the paper. But it must not be thought that 
 a complex is shallow ; its roots lie deeply in the 
 psyche, and its revelation in consciousness is only 
 partial. When a complex is in a central position 
 and interest is discharging itself through it, any 
 incident that tends to push it out into a marginal 
 position may cause irritability. Thus a gourmet 
 at diimer when he is expressing himself successfully 
 through his food-complexes, is likely to be annoyed 
 if he is called away on business. The outpouring 
 of interest is suddenly checked. Another complex 
 obtrudes on consciousness, through which interest 
 flows with difficulty. Tension must then occur, 
 and this the man experiences as a sense of irri- 
 tation. Or, if a man with large social complexes 
 goes out to dinner and finds that the conversa- 
 tion is dominated by a professor who explains the 
 differences between the skull of the chimpanzee 
 
136 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 and the skull of palseolithic man, it is only natural 
 that he should get irritable. He has no compara- 
 tive-anatomy-complex through which he can express 
 himself. His outflow of interest is checked, save 
 through the channel of food. He therefore devotes 
 himself to eating in his endeavour to drain off 
 part of the tension, while the other part manifests 
 itself in him as irritability. Now supposing that 
 the man had been invited to dine with the professor 
 alone. What would his feelings have been duriog 
 dinner 1 I think I am right in saying that, in such 
 a case, he would not feel irritable, but only extremely 
 bored and wearied. At the end of dinner he would 
 feel relief. But at the end of the dinner-party he 
 would stiU feel irritable. 
 
 If we look at this from the point of view of 
 complexes, what explanation is to be found which 
 will account for these two differiag sensations ? 
 Why should it arise that we sometimes feel weari- 
 ness and sometimes feel irritability in positions 
 where the outflow of interest is checked ? 
 
 In the case of the man with the large social 
 complex his irritability is caused by the fact that 
 a certain expected outflow of interest is baulked. 
 Expression through the social complex is checked 
 by the professor's conversation. But for the pro- 
 fessor the environment of the dinner-party is 
 favourable to an egotistical expression, in the form 
 of personal success with the other guests. On the 
 other hand, in the case of the dinner with the 
 professor alone the environment is not favourable. 
 
COMPLEXES 137 
 
 It does not call up any complex in the man's psyche. 
 He cannot express himself egotisticially. We can 
 see, then, that one explanation of irritability may 
 lie in the existence of a complex which the environ- 
 ment stimulates, but cannot satisfy. And in the 
 case of weariness we may see a situation that 
 stimulates no complexes and therefore affords no 
 familiar channel of expression. These conclusions 
 may appear obvious, but they may serve to illus- 
 trate one aspect of complexes.* It affords a rich 
 field of interest to anyone, whether neurotic or hot, 
 to study outbursts of irritation in the light of 
 complexes. 
 
 * The idea of the complex has been recognized in various 
 psychological systems. Herbart postulated apperception-masses. 
 William James described the many ae^ues within the personality. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 EXTROVEESION 
 
 The pushing out of interest on to life is termed 
 extroversion by the Ziirich School. The study of 
 the difficulties that hedge about successful extro- 
 version constitutes one of the main tasks of psycho- 
 logical medicine. These difficulties vary in their 
 character at each distinctive phase of individual 
 development. Special tasks are concealed in the 
 environments that surround the successive stages 
 of growth, each one demanding a special adapta- 
 tion of that force which reveals itseM as interest. 
 If there is failure, then the failure can be looked 
 upon either as a partial arrest of growth or as a 
 persistence of a pattern in the individual that 
 should be obsolete. A pushing out of interest 
 means a coming-into contact with life. A new toy 
 attracts a child. The child's interest flows out in 
 cries of joy and activity ; after a time interest wanes. 
 Then the toy as a source of extroversion becomes 
 inadequate. Potential interest accumulates and 
 sets up tension which the child shows by irritability 
 and fretfulness. A new toy comes along", extro- 
 
 138 
 
EXTROVERSION 139 
 
 version once more occurs and the child is radiant. 
 The fact that we get used to a thing necessitates 
 that channels of extroversion must be continually 
 found. As we become more settled in our habits, 
 the channels become more permanent, and with 
 the wider range of interest that they command in 
 maturity sufficient outlet is more probable than in 
 the case of a child with a toy. 
 
 Extroversion to some people presents no diffi- 
 culties. They come in contact with life eagerly, 
 spontaneously, without preparation or plan. If 
 they show any timidity at all, the slightest encour- 
 agement has an immense effect upon them. They 
 are that large group of people who are sociable and 
 who accept social values unquestioningly. They 
 are fond of amusement and are not greatly burdened 
 by the problems of this world. They flow out into 
 action and into emotional contact very easily ; 
 they express sympathy, delight, sorrow, apprecia- 
 tion, disgust, indignation, and jealousy without any 
 difficulty. There is plenty of emotional play about 
 their facial expressions and gestures when they are 
 talldng. They love movement, bustle, and excite- 
 ment, and respond to what is going on around them 
 with great facility. Studied closely, it is possible 
 to see that between their feelings and the expres- 
 sion of these feelings there is little or no barrier. 
 
 The most perfect example of natural extroversion 
 is seen in the behaviour of a lively young fox- 
 terrier. There is a complete emptying process going 
 on ; one might almost call it evaporation rather 
 
140 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 than extroversion. This natural capacity to extro- 
 vert spontaneously is found in the great majority 
 of young growing things during the imitative and 
 play periods. 
 
 When adults are studied who possess this natural 
 capacity, a definite type begins to take form which 
 Dr. Jung calls the extrovert. The secret of their 
 character seems to lie in the slightness of the 
 barrier that intervenes between feeling, and its 
 expression. 
 
 The life of emotional experience is one in which 
 the effect of things plays a much greater part on 
 the individual than the meaning of things. It is 
 essentially a surface-life, but what it may lack in 
 depth and analysis it gains in breadth and syn- 
 thesis. The extrovert, because of the littleness of 
 the barrier between feeling and its expression, is 
 always destined to undergo a series of typical 
 experiences. He must constantly plunge into 
 situations where previous thought would have 
 deterred him ; he does not regret it, because it is 
 by this method that he learns. He must feel, not 
 once, but constantly, that he is right and everyone 
 else is wrong, because he is being guided by his 
 feelings. These feelings he may throw out into 
 rough-shaped thoughts, although it may be in bril- 
 liant phrases. He must do deeds of valour, of 
 madness, of sheer impossibility because he feels 
 an immense impulse to act and because any remark- 
 able situation draws him into the heart of it as an 
 ardent co-operator and not as a cold spectator. 
 
EXTEOVERSION 141 
 
 In a sense he never attends anything. He assists 
 at everything — as the French say. He rarely does 
 anything so cold and detached as merely to attend 
 a function. He assists at a spectacle, at a speech, 
 at a party, because he feels it all without any check 
 to the expression of his feelings. He is constantly 
 employed in devising fresh forms of activity. He 
 Ukes to see before him a number of engagements ; 
 he likes to tell people that his free hours are 
 entirely booked up, but that, if possible, he will 
 try to squeeze in their invitation. And this is 
 because he confirms the sense of his own existence 
 to himseK solely by his activities and feelings. 
 
 There are naturally extroverts of all grades and 
 abilities, and amongst them are found some of the 
 most capable and useful public characters of the 
 day. The great actresses, most of the great popular 
 actors, all the great rhetoricians, and the majority 
 of the great preachers are of extrovert psychology. 
 They are essentially public people ; they are in 
 contact at once with the crowd. They work up 
 their audiences without difficulty, without knowing 
 how they are doing it, and almost without prepara- 
 tion. They speak what they feel, rather than what 
 they think, so that if anything occurs to change 
 their feelings while they are speaking they may 
 appear to contradict themselves. They form, in 
 their best expression, ideal agents for bringing about 
 change in the world. Because of the brilliancy of 
 their feelings when they think a wrong exists they 
 move heaven and earth to get the wrong righted. 
 
142 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 The danger of this may perhaps be found in the 
 fact that they rarely go to the root of anything. 
 Their intense life of feeling entangles them in outer 
 aspects. It is for this reason that their lives in- 
 variably show inconsistency, often to a remarkable 
 extent. 
 
 A constant study of the typical extrovert pro- 
 duces the impression that they judge of themselves 
 by what they see of themselves reflected in their 
 audience. They have little self-knowledge from the 
 analytical point of view. They know themselves 
 by the effects they produce in the external world. 
 In this they show a kind of hiatus in their psy- 
 chology ; a blind spot, as it were. This is one of 
 the profoundly important peculiarities in extro- 
 vert psychology. 
 
 It may be asked how it comes about that the 
 extrovert should ever be successful in life if feeling 
 plays the main part in determining his actions. 
 For to most people feeling must seem a capricious, 
 if not a blind, guide. But there are qualities of the 
 mind inextricably linked with feeling, and these are 
 instinct and intuition. Instinct, in its limited area, 
 is a sure guide. Intuition, in its infinite area, is a 
 much subtler force. If we make it too conscious 
 and mix it with intellectual processes, the resulting 
 product will be confusing. But in some individuals, 
 particularly in high types of extroverts, intuition 
 plays a supreme part. The highly developed 
 extrovert, although he may not think consecutively, 
 is aware of some activity which is equivalent to, 
 
EXTROVEESION 143 
 
 and swifter than, pure intellectuality. The startling 
 things he sometimes does, whether it be in the 
 selection of the precise moment for action, of the 
 exact phrase to win the mob, or of the right man 
 for the job ; whether it be in invention, policy, or 
 business, are not the outcome of thought. They 
 are the outcome of a certain feeling, very finely 
 graded, which impels him ia a certain direction. 
 These feelings arise suddenly and spontaneously as 
 inspirations, and when they arise the extrovert is 
 constrained by them even when they lead him to 
 do apparently rash things. 
 
 Because of their inability to see themselves, 
 average extroverts are able to live in intimate con- 
 tact with remarkable inconsistencies. It is only 
 the extrovert who can get up on a platform and 
 appeal to the audience for a subscription of a 
 hundred pounds for a charity, and speak passion- 
 ately for an hour, when his own income is a hundred 
 thousand a year. Their value in holding certain 
 weak and faulty parts of the social fabric together 
 is thus apparent. 
 
 It is amongst extroverts that we must search for 
 the prodigious, the amazing, and the incredible in 
 history. The great adventurers, the great bluffers, 
 the great squanderers and humbugs, the people 
 who seem to stand beyond the reach of reason and 
 logic, are extroverts. Argument does not touch 
 them. Their serenity and invulnerability in cer- 
 tain classical cases are little short of miraculous. 
 
 The attitude of the unconscious towards those 
 
144 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 whose psychology is typically extrovert is definite. 
 The conscious situation is one in which the out- 
 pouring of interest, in the form of feehng and 
 action, is too easy. The compensating action of 
 the unconscious, therefore, theoretically will seek to 
 put a check on this kind of excess. The following 
 dreams illustrate the nature of this attitude. 
 
 A woman of great activities and many interests 
 who was constantly engaged in organizing meetings 
 and never spared herself a journey or visit if there 
 was a chance of obtaining a recruit for one of her 
 many societies, frequently experienced this dream. 
 " I am in a room in the midst of packing. I have 
 to catch a train and the floor is covered with many 
 things I want to pack. I cannot get them all into 
 the trunk, and in a state of agitation I run out 
 into the street. There is a great crowd of people 
 outside, and I realize that it is hopeless to attempt 
 to get to the station in time." 
 
 The idea contained in this dream is one of 
 numerical excess. There are too many things to 
 pack and too many people in the street. She is 
 called upon to catch a train, and it is revealed to 
 her that she cannot do so owing to these multi- 
 plicities. Excessive extroversion in the form of too 
 many activities and interests is symbolized by the 
 articles on the floor and the people in the street, 
 which prevent her from getting near her true object. 
 She misses the train. 
 
 Another dream will serve as an amplification. 
 It is recorded in a book of travel which deals with 
 
EXTROVEESION 145 
 
 the North American Indians. The writer came 
 across a chief wearing women's clothes. On inquir- 
 ing for the reason of this he was told that the chief 
 had been a great warrior and many scalps had 
 fallen to his hand. At the height of his fame he 
 had gone on an expedition and brought back a large 
 number of fresh scalps. On going to sleep he 
 dreamed that the great White Spirit came to him 
 and told him he was to become a woman. The 
 chief, impressed by this vision, assumed the dress 
 and life of a woman. 
 
 It is possible to see in this dream an attitude of 
 pure compensation taken up by the unconscious. 
 Extroversion along the line of scalping and forays 
 had reached an extreme point. To become a woman 
 is a symbolical way of suggesting a line of behaviour 
 opposite to the one on which he had been engaged. 
 The chief took tHe dream literally. He assumed 
 the dress of a woman. He did not modify his life 
 according to the suggestion contained in the dream, 
 but leapt from one extreme to the other. 
 
 In practical work it is necessary to distinguish 
 the extrovert. In the hysteric we can see an 
 extreme extroversion. In the next chapter we will 
 discuss the introvert, but it must be pointed out 
 at this stage that a recognition of type is invalu- 
 able in the practical handling of cases. It is of 
 value in the upbringing of children and also in 
 educational work. 
 
 10 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 INTROVERSION 
 
 The withdrawal of the interest from life is termed 
 introversion. Life is not regarded with confidence, 
 but with suspicion. The assault on life does not 
 occur naturally, as a joyous impulse towards ex- 
 pression ; but in place of it a defence against life 
 is prepared. Such people are called introverts, 
 and they correspond in some degree to the under- 
 compensated type discussed in the eighth chapter. 
 The form of extroversion that characterizes these 
 people is through a plan or scheme. The extrovert, 
 as we have seen, is a type that finds life acceptable, 
 and assumes it is only fitfully hostile to him. The 
 opposite type, the introvert, finds life difficult at 
 all stages, and tends to assume that it is continually 
 hostile. He is not backed up by social feelings. 
 His emotions are not practical. The childhood of 
 these types is quite distinctive. The extrovert 
 child needs little encouragement, accepts the casual 
 explanations of the moment, and seems to assume 
 naturally that the world and everything in it was 
 made for its personal enjoyment. The introvert 
 
 child needs a great amount of encouragement and 
 
 146 
 
INTROVERSION 147 
 
 careful explanation ; and its attitude will often 
 suggest that it thinks a mistake was made in 
 sending it to this particular planet. 
 
 The individual whose psychology is fundamentally 
 introvert finds that his main problems lie in dis- 
 covering a means of extroversion. Interest per- 
 sistently turns inwards, away from the contact of 
 the world, and finds its easiest and most natural 
 utilization in thought. To get out into life it has 
 to pass through thought as through a stencil, and 
 thus it comes about that some plan is necessary to 
 get into touch with reality. Unless this extroversion 
 is made, the individual, in some cases of extreme 
 introversion, gets completely out of touch with 
 life and lives in a fantastic world of his own thoughts. 
 That is always his tendency and danger ; he prefers 
 infinitely to read of a thing rather than experience 
 it. He is capable of being an authority on an 
 aspect of life that he has never witnessed or felt. 
 The attitude of the unconscious in such cases is 
 one that demands a return to the world. 
 
 The introvert type, in its most characteristic 
 expression, is reserved, outwardly cold, guarded, 
 watchful, and difficult to understand. Unlike the 
 extrovert, who hides little, the introvert hides 
 .everything because he dreads the exposure of his 
 emotions, because they are too raw and intense. 
 They have not been worked up into useful feelings. 
 Emotion, in itself, is not practical. It requires 
 to be moulded into feeling before it can help any- 
 one. Thus the introvert tends to be helpless when 
 
148 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 in an atnaosphere of strong feelings. He may have 
 admirable sentiments, but he forgets to act up to 
 them. He reveals himself only to his most intimate 
 friends, and then only in part. He is thoroughly 
 aware of his inner life, and is a keen and serious 
 critic of himself. His tendencies lie in the direction 
 of self-depreciation, which he often counterbalances 
 by an outer air of self-appreciation. His approach 
 to everything is critical and suspicious. The extro- 
 vert welcomes the fresh features of existence without 
 criticism. The introvert looks at them from a dis- 
 tance, dubiously weighing them up, weapon in hand. 
 Anxiety is a constant state of mind with him ; he 
 is anxious about the future and anxious about the 
 present. Fear is the predominant factor behind his 
 psychology, and this causes him, when in a position 
 of responsibility, to leave nothing to chance. His 
 plans are exhaustive and cast with an eye con- 
 tinually fixed on the possibility of failure. In this 
 his organising powers exceed those of the extro- 
 vert, who rushes into plans confident of success 
 and impatient of the suggestion of failure. I 
 recall at this point the type of intellectual fantasy 
 indulged in by an elderly introvert as an aid to 
 sleep : he would plan the fortifications of a district 
 with minute distinctness. The extrovert will exist 
 happily in positions of great danger, serenely un- 
 conscious or serenely confident, seeing only the 
 omens that herald success ; the introvert sees the 
 danger-signals to the exclusion of the possibilities 
 of success, unless he is well-balanced. 
 
mTRO VERSION 149 
 
 This picture only portrays one aspect, but that 
 a familiar one, of introvert psychology. There are 
 introverts of as many grades and qualities as there 
 are extroverts ; and the introvert who has learnt 
 his weaknesses and balanced his fears may be as 
 daring and original a leader as the high type of 
 extrovert ; indeed, he may far surpass him, as in 
 the case of Napoleon. But the point of importance 
 to remember, in contrasting him with the extro- 
 vert, is that he knows himself, if he knows nothing 
 else, whereas this is one of the last things that the 
 extrovert learns. To accuse an extrovert raises a 
 storm of protest ; he is so blind to himself that he 
 will vigorously deny motives behind the most 
 obvious and damning actions. If the introvert be 
 accused, he tends to be too ready to feel the truth 
 of the accusation. This peculiar diSerence renders 
 it difficult for the extrovert to understand the 
 introvert. To the introvert the extrovert is a source 
 of amazement ; while to the extrovert the intro- 
 vert is an object of impatient speculation and 
 uncertainty. 
 
 As I have said, the attitude of the unconscious 
 towards the introvert is one which urges a pushing- 
 out of interest. In the case of the extrovert the 
 unconscious teaches a doctrine of cutting down of 
 activities, of withdrawal, or, in short, of introver- 
 sion. To the introvert it presents a policy of 
 extroversion. The following dream, which was 
 experienced by a man showing a fundamentally 
 introvert psychology, will serve as an illustration 
 
150 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 that contrasts with the dreams given at the end of 
 the last chapter. 
 
 "I was in an amphitheatre. Tiers and tiers of 
 seats rose steeply to a considerable height. I found 
 myself in a seat high up, which was so constructed 
 that it was a matter of some difficulty to maintain 
 my balance. Below me, at a distance of about a 
 hundred feet, I saw the arena. It was sanded, and 
 two bulls were fighting in it. I saw the dust rising, 
 and the buUs goring each other, and some figures 
 running about. I felt great fear — ^the fear that I 
 always associate with heights — and clung to the 
 framework of the seat in case I would fall straight 
 down into the ring below. Then there was a kind 
 of earthquake, and I fell and struck something on 
 the way. I found myself lying on a plank looking 
 down at some women who were doing something 
 to a tub full of water. I think they were catching 
 some fish or animal hidden there." 
 
 The following are extracts from the associations 
 the patient made upon the dream. " I am afraid 
 of heights. I remember when I was quite small 
 climbing up a bank and becoming paralyzed by 
 fear when I looked back and saw how far I had 
 gone. It seemed like a sheer precipice. Only a 
 short time ago I revisited the place and saw the 
 bank ; it was scarcely six feet in height, and not 
 at all steep. I have never seen a bull-fight of any 
 description ; it was not an ordinary bull-fight. 
 Bulls are strong, stupid brutes. I never cross a 
 field that contains a bull." The estimate of the 
 
INTROVERSION 151 
 
 unconscious is that he is avoiding the bull-aspect 
 of life ; he hangs above it, in a perilous position, 
 watching the dust of the fray below. The fish, or 
 animal, in the tub of water produced a curious 
 association. He remarked 5 " The women were very 
 intent on getting the creature out. I do not know 
 who they were. I was close above them, lying on 
 the plank. They did not seem aware of my pre- 
 sence. It was like looking on at some secret rites 
 — some Eleusinian mystery. I felt I ought not 
 to look." 
 
 The change of symbolism that occurs when he 
 falls and comes nearer to the ground might denote 
 the relativity of the position. When he is perched 
 high above the arena, it contains buUs at war with 
 each other, a spectacle of force that he finds alarm- 
 ing ; when he descends, that scene changes and 
 becomes more subtle and mysterious, and more 
 defined. The bull, and the association with the 
 Eleusinian mysteries, is not a mere accident. The 
 search of the women who are so intent in the tub is 
 for some " fish or animal " that is hiding there. 
 They want this : it is demanded by them. It 
 symbolizes a demand that the dreamer has to meet 
 in life — & demand made by women. 
 
 The colour and aspect that life takes on, the 
 symbol that it assumes, depends upon the indi- 
 vidual's own attitude at that moment. The diffi- 
 culty of the introvert is to attain a proper sense 
 of ease amid the ordinary demands of life ; he may, 
 for example, find the approach to women intensely 
 
152 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 embarrassing, because it involves, or tends to 
 involve, a betrayal and expression of emotion, and 
 this he fears instinctively. Were they inanimate 
 objects, or slaves to be cowed with a whip, they 
 would represent less danger to him ; but as critical, 
 independent, observant beings, to be* met in the 
 open, he feels in their presence his great barrier to 
 emotional expression. It is his ignorance of the 
 ordinary feeling-language that embarrasses him. 
 The feeling is, from the point of view of the uncon- 
 scious, a weakness, which it will try to open out. 
 In this case the dreamer is shown, in a deep piece 
 of symbolism, a certain mystery and experiences 
 embarrassment ; and -this suggests at once that his 
 conscious attitude in this respect is faulty and 
 constitutes a source of weakness in his character. 
 There is some adaptation to be made ; he should 
 be standing in the arena. 
 
 When interest accumulates within, round a pro- 
 blem, it over-sensitizes the mind in everything con- 
 nected with the problem. The proper approach to 
 all the main facts of life is a gradual one, a gradual 
 extroversion. In this way a gradual process of 
 becoming used to the thing is established, and 
 nothing very remarkable is noticed. This type of 
 approach is the familiar way of the normal extro- 
 vert, who, as has been said, is at home with life ; 
 the facts of existence grow insensibly upon him, 
 so that he reaUy does not know what they are — I 
 mean, he could not easily write about them 
 directly. He would portray them unconsciously, 
 
INTROVERSION 153 
 
 with ease, if he wrote a novel. They become a part 
 of him, as unquestioned as his arms and legs. But 
 the introvert has difficulty with each adaptation, 
 and in part this difficulty comes of over-sensitiza- 
 tion, caused by initial hesitation and questioning. 
 
 It must be noted that the dreamer, in his asso- 
 ciations, connected the perilous position above the 
 bullring with an incident of his childhood, when he 
 became a victim of panic. On revisiting the scene, 
 he realized how immensely his imagination had 
 exaggerated the danger. Working from this asso- 
 ciation of danger, it will be seen that the unconscious 
 is putting the idea of exaggeration into the dream. 
 The situation above the bullring causes fear : this 
 fear reminds him of the fear experienced in a certain 
 incident of childhood. He now realizes the fear 
 was exaggerated j therefore the fear he feels con- 
 cerning the bullring is exaggerated ; it is due to 
 his imagination. When he had grown up and 
 gained experience, the precipice of his childhood 
 became a six-foot slope. The unconscious here 
 suggests the same succession in experience. 
 
 The problems peculiar to the introvert give rise 
 to dreams that bear a certain stamp about them 
 which makes it possible to deduce the type of 
 psychology without knowing the dreamer. The 
 same thing may be said with extrovert dreams. 
 Typical cases of each class form a kind of anti- 
 thesis ; the unconscious takes up opposite atti- 
 tudes ; in the extrovert, as already mentioned, it 
 has a tendency to curtail activity ; in the introvert 
 
154 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 it urges activity. In the above case, the symbolism 
 suggests that the recipient of the dream was an 
 introvert. The bull symbol, which occurs frequently 
 in dreams, and allies itself closely with introvert 
 psychology, represents something which has found 
 its expression under this form in many phases of 
 human history. 
 
 The first general associations given by the dreamer 
 have already been recorded. The bulls in the 
 arena, from which his position is so aloof and 
 perilous, represent the " strong stupid " side of life, 
 and this he fears. We have seen that it is neces- 
 sary, in the investigation of any dream, to pay 
 special attention to the circumstances under which 
 the dream has arisen, that is to say, to those im- 
 mediate incidents of the day that the dreamer has 
 experienced. A dream has usually a special and a 
 general application. The special appUcation arises 
 out of the immediate situation. The general applica- 
 tion arises out of the larger trend of affairs in the 
 dreamer's life. 
 
 The patient in question experienced the dream 
 in the early stage of treatment. It is necessary to 
 look for a moment at the factors implied in such an 
 investigation. A patient who undertakes to search 
 his own character through the medium of a phy- 
 sician must be prepared to reveal himself without 
 reserve ; otherwise the physician is unable to 
 present to him the inconsistencies and disharmonies 
 of which he is a victim. In dealing with an extro- 
 vert, there is usually plenty of unconscious self- 
 
INTROVERSION 155 
 
 revelation obtained without much urging,- up to a 
 certain point which forms the first crisis of the 
 treatment. But with the introvert, self-revelation 
 is a painful process, because from the first the 
 patient is aware that it is a self-revelation. Now 
 the buU-dream arose at a stage when the patient 
 had a certain task to perform, and shirked it. 
 
 The bull part of the dream is linked up with the 
 incident of the women searching for something in 
 a tub of water. Linking-up or juxtaposition in 
 dreams is important. The unconscious may see in 
 them some fundamental similarity, and so draws 
 them together. What is this similarity in the 
 present example ? 
 
 The patient shirked, on his own admission, a 
 certain side of life. Any function or ceremony that 
 brought him into immediate contact with women 
 he avoided. He excused himself by stating he was 
 a dull sort of companion for the other sex. He 
 then added he enjoyed taking an upper seat at the 
 opera and looking down at the scene from a dis- 
 tance. His avoidance is therefore not due to an 
 aversion, but to a sense of embarrassment or fear. 
 The second part of the dream indicates a demand 
 made by women. He feels embarrassment by it. 
 The demand assumes the symbolism of something 
 hiding, which the women search for. The uncon- 
 scious corrects the view that an avoidance of 
 women was a solution to the patient's timidities. 
 Women, and all they stand for, are not passive ; 
 they, from their own side, bring a force to bear on 
 
156 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 the patient. It became evident from his remarks 
 that he could not properly assimilate this idea ; he 
 was incapable of getting women into their proper 
 perspective in the scheme of things. He usually 
 clung to some extreme and ideal view, but at 
 moments swung too far in the opposite direction. 
 He remarked that there was something intensely 
 unpleasant to him in the way they searched for the 
 hidden fish in the tub. 
 
 If we look for a moment at the bull portion of 
 the dream, a certain difference from the fish part 
 becomes evident. Here two bulls are seen goring 
 each other, and some vague figures running about : 
 there is apparently no symbol that corresponds 
 with the women ; but if the fish and the women be 
 contrasted as antagonists in the latter part of the 
 dream, then the contrast in the first part lies be- 
 tween one bull and another bull. That is, in one 
 part the antagonist is male, in the other female. 
 What is the male antagonist ? The patient, in the 
 course of treatment, had remarked that up to a 
 certain point, as long as the physician's attitude 
 was sympathetic, he enjoyed the process. The 
 connection and interdependence of things was 
 interesting. Here, perhaps, we see the immediate 
 situation responsible for the dream. He finds, in 
 his relationship with the physician, that as long as 
 the latter maintains towards him a sympathetic, 
 uncritical mood, he is more or less at ease ; he 
 leaves out, for instance, an important part of his 
 narrative, and at first nothing is said j but so soon 
 
INTROVERSION 157 
 
 as a demand is made for him to be more honest, so 
 soon as a suspicion of the blunt and matter-of-fact 
 creeps into the physician's tone, the patient retreats 
 sensitively. In the retreat patients usually avail 
 themselves of a number of excuses, some of which 
 will refer to the manner of the physician. But in 
 this case, the unconscious shows him bulls goring 
 one another, as a symbol referring to his situation, 
 while he hangs perilously above them, and thus 
 it puts the blame on himself. So frank and un- 
 restrained an encounter as bulls fighting finds no 
 parallel in his sensitive relations with his physician. 
 He fears a knock and fears to knock. Such an 
 attitude will not help him. It contains something 
 ia it that is similar to the other problem dealt with 
 n the second part of the dream, for each of the 
 pieces of symbolism centres round the necessity of 
 a fearless emotional encounter. 
 
 The same patient experienced the foUowiag 
 dream a short time later. " I was in charge of a 
 store, it seemed, and was wearing pyjamas. I 
 wondered it it was odd being in pyjamas. A 
 woman, whom I do not know, entered and asked 
 for a piece of red-wood furniture — a cabinet, I 
 think. I thought I had one, but failed to find it. 
 I searched in a catalogue for it, seeming to have no 
 stock actually in hand, and feeling rather em- 
 barrassed. I found it described in the catalogue, 
 something very exquisite and rare, in antique red 
 lacquer, but she seemed annoyed and left the 
 place." 
 
158 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Here, again, in different symbolism, one sees the 
 motive reproduced of some demand made by 
 women upon the dreamer — something which he 
 only possesses in a catalogue and not actually. The 
 fact that the dreamer wears pyjamas must be con- 
 nected with the idea suggested that his store is 
 very inadequately stocked ; he seems, indeed, to 
 have no stock at all, only a catalogue. I have 
 already mentioned that the introvert much prefers 
 to read of things than to experience them. The 
 tendency is indicated here. His position, from the 
 point of view of the unconscious, is ridiculous. His 
 dress is unsuitable and he has nothing to sell when 
 it comes to the test. 
 
 The next dream occurred in the same night as 
 the above, and deals with the same theme, but 
 again in different symbolism. 
 
 " I possessed an essay in Erench which I had 
 composed, apparently, though I do not remember 
 doing so. It was written in very fine, perfect 
 handwriting on parchment, like some rare old official 
 document. Old Colonel X. took it and began to 
 cross out some words. He made some disparaging 
 remarks about my use of the reflexive with the verb 
 se.'parer, and asked me where I got some words 
 from, and without waiting for a reply, and quite 
 uninterested, threw it over to me. I wondered how 
 he knew — or if he knew — ^French at all, and re- 
 sented his interference and manner." 
 
 In reflecting on the dream the patient picked out 
 the rare old official document and linked it up 
 
INTEOVERSION 169 
 
 with the red lacquer cabinet. They were both 
 symbols of something rare and perfect. Concern- 
 ing Colonel X., he said : " He is a fat, coarse, 
 matter-of-fact sort of man, very blunt and un- 
 gracious, with a thick red ne?!k." There is a simi- 
 larity here to the bull symbol in the first dream. 
 
 The associations round the French essay were 
 mainly in three directions. (1) He had observed 
 Colonel X. the day before with a French weekly 
 paper, and felt a certain amusement at the sight, 
 for he was certain the Colonel knew no French. 
 (2) His thought wandered to French women, about 
 whom he knew little, but for whom he felt admira- 
 tion. (3) He felt the French had, by some trick, 
 attained an outlook on life that made many 
 problems easier, and reduced the complexities of 
 living to a minimum. He had often wished to be 
 in France, where, he was sure, one was allowed to 
 exist just as one pleased. 
 
 In the last two trains of reflection one must per- 
 ceive an attitude that haunts introvert psychology. 
 The demands and responsibilities of life, they think, 
 will be less in another country, where people are 
 strangers, and where one is unmolested. They 
 forget that they carry their problems with them 
 wherever they go. 
 
 There is a fairy-tale in the Grimm collection that is 
 called " The Frog Prince." Its plot concerns a young 
 princess who is in the habit of playing with a golden 
 ball in the neighbourhood of a pool. One day the 
 golden ball rolls out of her hand away into the 
 
160 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 pool, and is recovered by a frog and handed back 
 on certain conditions. The princess, once the 
 golden ball is again in her possession, disregards the 
 promise. Her father, the king, is inexorable, how- 
 ever, and the upshot is that she has to marry the 
 frog, who eventually turns into the beautiful prince. 
 I introduce this symbolical story at this point 
 because it has some connection with the dreams 
 under consideration. Here we see something pre- 
 cious — the golden ball — placed at the mercy of 
 something ugly and commonplace — ^the frog — and 
 it subsequently turns out that the princess has been 
 deceived in thinking that she could escape her 
 compact ; and also that she made a mistake in 
 looking on the frog as merely a repulsive creature. 
 When, owing to the pressure brought to bear on 
 her by her father, she has overcome something in 
 herself, she finds the frog is a prince. 
 
 The idea of antiquity is associated with both the 
 red lacquer cabinet and the official document 
 written on parchment, as well as the idea of value. 
 In the fairy-story it is not indicated if the plaything 
 of the princess is antique, but it is made of gold, 
 and she is shown to be playing carelessly with it. 
 The dreamer, in the dreams under consideration, is 
 not shown as playing with the symbol of value ; 
 but in one case the symbol is demanded of him, 
 and to his surprise it is not within his reach, and in 
 the other the symbol is being played with, as it 
 were, by a very blunt, matter-of-fact type of man, 
 and this the dreamer resents. The blunt man calls 
 
INTROVEESION 161 
 
 the dreamer's attention to the idea of separation, 
 or separating himself. In this observation there 
 lies a clue. It is as distinctive of introverts to 
 separate themselves, to hold themselves aloof, as 
 it is distinctive of extroverts to mingle together. We 
 are, in this case, dealing with an example of intro- 
 vert, psychology. The blunt Colonel introduces the 
 idea of separation in connection with the antique 
 parchment document ; what, then, is the document 
 concerning which a question of separation is raised ? 
 It is at the mercy of the Colonel in the dream, and 
 this pains the dreamer, who from his point of view 
 thinks the Colonel has no claim to it. But the 
 unconscious has another point of view. 
 
 The idea of separation is in a way contained in 
 the red lacquer dream. Here the dreamer finds the 
 cabinet ia separated from his store, when he thought 
 it present. It is far away ; the woman customer 
 is annoyed because it ia not on the spot, as she 
 apparently expected. One might say that, since 
 the place was a store, and since the articles in a 
 store presumably are at the mercy of customers, 
 the unconscious is presenting the idea that the 
 cabinet symbolizes something which should have 
 been at the mercy of the woman customer. There- 
 fore, apart from the common associations of rarity 
 and antiquity, the symbols of the document and 
 cabinet together form a point of convergence of 
 other meanings. If they symbolize one and the 
 same thing, how comes it that they differ so much 
 in outward form ? 
 11 
 
162 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 Each dream may present only one aspect of the 
 thmg which stands behind the central symbol. 
 What is it that should be more at the mercy of the 
 world as symbolized by the woman and the Colonel ? 
 What is it that the introvert separates from the 
 world ? With what rare and antique thing is the 
 unconscious so occupied in these dreams ? The 
 answer is the force that reveals Usdf as interest. 
 The cabinet and the document, as well as the fish 
 and the golden ball, are aspects of the primal energy 
 in a special application. 
 
 The delicacy of the symbolism in the Frog PriQce 
 fairy-tale lies in the manner in which the intro- 
 duction of the unsuspecting princess to another life 
 is indicated. The golden ball, played with so care- 
 lessly and lightly day after day, suddenly falls into 
 the pool, and so she becomes enmeshed in woman- 
 hood. The keeping of the golden ball tightly in 
 the hand, so that it may never roll away and vanish 
 into one of the many snares waiting for it, is the 
 natural instinct of the introvert, and this is what 
 the unconscious is harping upon in the above 
 dreams. It is possible to play too carelessly with 
 the golden ball, perhaps, but it is equally possible 
 to be too careful about it. It must be flung about 
 a little in the world of adventure. Interest must 
 be pushed out, and entangle the self in some romance 
 or business, otherwise the plot of life cannot come 
 into operation. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 BALANCE 
 
 The study of physical functions shows in a dim way 
 that in bodily activities there is an ideal mean. 
 Both over-use and under-use may produce disorder. 
 Stimulation of any organ up to a certain point 
 causes development. Over-stimulation may pro- 
 duce changes that lead to atrophy. Under-stimula- 
 tion or lack of stimulation may have the same 
 effect. 
 
 In the realm of the non-physical the same con- 
 ditions are met with, perhaps with more distinct- 
 ness. The extrovert who pursues a course of 
 unchecked and increasing extroversion will find 
 himself in opposition to a force which comes from 
 the unconscious and which may suddenly cut him 
 off, by some disaster, from his line of action. The 
 introvert who withdraws more and more from the 
 world will find an opposite doctrine coming from 
 the unconscious. Thus it is necessary to conceive 
 of some ideal mean, of some middle path or line 
 lying between introversion and extroversion, where 
 a balance is struck between thought, feeling, and 
 
 163 
 
164 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 action. To those on one side of the line one set of 
 proverbs and teachings will apply. To those on 
 the other side of the line another set of proverbs 
 and teachings will apply. Thus it is possible to 
 see how it comes about that some of the great 
 teachers of humaa conduct have spoken in a high 
 form of paradox, and how human wisdom, pre- 
 served in proverbs, rests on the same basis. For 
 it is almost always possible to find one proverb to 
 contradict another proverb. 
 
 To most people the conception of continuity, of 
 steady progress, visualized as a straight line, under- 
 lies the idea of truth. In science this conception is 
 tacitly affirmed. But in the history of the world 
 this consistent and steady progress along a line is 
 not found in the record of nations. History is 
 sharply divided from any pattern of scientific truth. 
 It does not present itself as a building rising slowly 
 and persistently, but on the contrary it shows a 
 continual spectacle of action and reaction, of 
 evolution and involution, of extroversion and intro- 
 version. Overlying the whole in terms of a much 
 vaster perspective than those given by ordinary 
 historical methods, progress can perhaps be detected. 
 But to the ordinary observer what is instantly 
 apparent is that where life is concerned, the linear 
 progress affirmed by science does not exist. Ebb 
 and flow is everywhere visible. A nation blossoms 
 forth into some great extroversion like that of the 
 Elizabethan age ; the tide turns and introversion 
 sets inn If the national experience be contracted to 
 
BALANCE 165 
 
 fit into the circle of individual experience a com- 
 plete correspondence is found, because it is simply 
 human experience magnified. A man rises, blossoms 
 out into some great individual extroversion, and 
 then suddenly the tide turns, the star sets, the sap 
 dries up, the branch withers, the fires die out — 
 there are countless metaphors for this typical event 
 — and try as he will he can do nothing more. He 
 may still retain health and vigour, and probably 
 will attribute his failures to bad luck. He may 
 outhve his phase of special extroversion, as Napoleon 
 did, and spend his time in looking for the cause in 
 external events. But the true cause lies elsewhere, 
 for something within himself has ceased to be as it 
 once was. It is on this familiar experience, upon 
 which the world's pessimism has been lavished, 
 that the vanity of life finds support as a doctrine. 
 But truth does not necessarily lie on the surface. 
 A man who spurs himself on to attain some high 
 pinnacle of fame and comes down with a crash 
 need not be taken as a last word on life, but serves 
 rather as an introduction to the study of life. If 
 you look for the explanations in external circum- 
 stances alone, you will find them. It will be 
 possible to trace exactly where his judgment was 
 at fault and how the threads of disaster converged. 
 But if you shift the inquiry to another plane and 
 seek for the causes behind the error of judgment, 
 you will find yourself studying the unconscious 
 mind, and that inner psychological situation which 
 is comparable to a house divided against itself. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 REGRESSION 
 
 The retreat of interest from reality may occur at 
 any time and assume a pathological form. When- 
 ever reality becomes formidable, interest at first 
 becomes sharpened in normal individuals. If a 
 man has to cross a street, he is alive to the dangers 
 of traffic ; if he is confronted by an enemy who 
 seeks to kUl him, his powers of rapid extraversion, 
 in the form of action, are increased. This is a 
 biological contrivance. But at times reality may 
 assume such a terrible aspect that this primary 
 , and normal reaction is engulfed in a totally different 
 condition. Instead of turning outwards in the 
 attempt to overcome the difficulty, interest retreats. 
 What is the result of this retreat ? It can best 
 be studied by examining that condition known as 
 shell shock, for here we can see the effect of the 
 excessive impact of reality on the individual. The 
 onset of the symptoms may be sudden or gradual, 
 but the picture these cases ultimately present in 
 hospital is typical. They lie in bed in a state of 
 
 helplessness. This helplessness is of varying de- 
 
 166 
 
REGRESSION 167 
 
 gree. They may be paralysed, blind, deaf or dumb, 
 and this loss of function does not depend on local 
 injury. As often as not no kind of injury can be 
 found. They are incapable of any kind of effort. 
 They cannot concentrate their attention on any- 
 thing. Their memory is clouded, often to an ex- 
 treme degree. Frequently they cannot take any 
 nourishment save in fluid form. Their emotions 
 are uncontrolled. They are always fretful, and 
 sometimes tearful. The condition may persist for 
 many months. If an attempt is made to interest 
 them in anything, a difficulty is experienced. They 
 shun company, they dread to go out of their rooms; 
 Their fear or anxiety fastens on the smallest things. 
 For example, one patient, a weU-grown man, was 
 extremely upset by a bird which perched on a 
 branch outside his window. He conceived the idea 
 that many other birds might come and create a 
 disturbance or do him some injury. 
 
 Now all this reminds us of childhood. We say, 
 instiactively, that these people behave like little 
 children. But when we say this we do not realize 
 with sufficient clearness that this description is 
 remarkably true. They are not only like little 
 children, but some of them are like infants and some 
 are even like infants unborn ; they are alive, but they 
 cannot see, hear or speak. All those forms of ia- 
 terest that are associated with adult life have 
 vanished, and ia place of them we have interest 
 expressing itself in the simplest forms of infancy. 
 The force that reveals itself as interest has retreated 
 
168 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 down to levels that belong to the first years of 
 human life. This process is called reffreaaion. 
 The conception of regression belongs very intimately 
 to Dr. Jung's views of the formation of the neurotic 
 symptom. In contra-distinction to Freud, Dr. Jung 
 looks for the combination of circumstances immedi- 
 ately responsible for the neurosis in the present 
 moment. Reality suddenly becomes formidable, 
 in that it presents a difficult problem that requires 
 solution. The outcome may be a neurosis, and the 
 symptom that characterises it is to be looked upon 
 as a reanimation of a past attitude or activity, 
 belonging to childhpod or infancy, caused by re- 
 gression. 
 
 Regression is never complete along all the paths 
 through which interest has progressed. It may be 
 complete xa. one and partial in others. The sym- 
 bolism found in the dream in these cases may be 
 significant. A patient who was suffering from shell 
 shock and had made no progress for many weeks 
 dreamed that he was half buried in the earth. The 
 lower part of his body seemed to be merged with 
 the earth. We can see in this a symbolical picture 
 of his psychological condition, that is, of his partial 
 return to the beginnings of life. The earth, here, 
 is the symbol of source, or mother. 
 
 Any failure of adaptation causes some degree of 
 regression. Between the insensibility of the un- 
 developed and the control of the individualized 
 person there is an imaginative state met with in 
 many people in which the problems of an abnormally 
 
REGEESSION 169 
 
 reinforced reality bear very heavily on the psyche. 
 Partial regression from civilized standards to more 
 brutal planes may bring about a successful adjust- 
 ment, and this we can call regressive adaptation. 
 By becoming more of a brute, by allowing hatred 
 and lust to animate him, a man may successfully 
 endure certain aspects of life in the trenches. But 
 there is another kind of adaptation possible, and 
 that is one in which the experiences of war may 
 awaken some new conception of the meaning of life, 
 so that the man can endure patiently. This we 
 may call progressive adaptation. In general, regres- 
 sive adaptation is bad. It runs counter to the 
 evolutionary plan. But regression, such as occurs 
 in shell shock, belongs to another category. It is 
 involuntary and therefore not so obviously a moral 
 question, though it often seems to point to a lack 
 in the power of conscious adaptation. It may be a 
 reaction coming from the unconscious that has as 
 its aim the ultimate good of the individual. 
 
 We must glance for a moment at the kind of 
 dreams that shell-shock people experience. It would 
 seem that in the initial stages of shock, where the 
 onset is gradual, sleep becomes increasingly dis- 
 turbed by dreams connected with battle incidents. 
 At first these dreams are vivid reproductions of 
 actual scenes that have occurred. Whatever the 
 patient has seen, whatever horrible experiences he 
 has undergone, and whatever things he has heard 
 or imagined — ^and this in a much lesser degree — 
 begin to appear as intensely emotional represents- 
 
170 DEEAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 tions in dreammg consciousness. During this phase 
 regression is beginning and it becomes increasingly 
 difficult for the victim to carry out his duties. A 
 point is soon reached when he is sent into hospital ; 
 it may be after some sudden and violent experience, 
 such as being buried alive by a shell ; or it may be 
 on the recommendation of his medical officer, who 
 has noticed the gradual deterioration of the patient ; 
 or it may be because the patient himself realizes 
 that he has lost the power of understanding written 
 orders, or of remembering instructions. As long as 
 the regression is acute, battle-dreams dominate the 
 sleeping life. They may be so terrible that the 
 patient seeks to keep himself awake at night at all 
 costs. In these dreams the flashes of bombs, the 
 bursting of shells, and the thudding of bullets are 
 reproduced with extraordinary vividness. In the 
 waking mind these experiences are avoided ; they 
 break into consciousness at intervals, but the whole 
 set of the patients' feelings is to shut them out. 
 If we regard the mass of experiences connected 
 with war as the battle-complex, then we must look 
 on the position of this complex as marginal rather 
 than unconscious. Now the battle experiences 
 were at the apical point of the patient's life, and as 
 a result of shock we find them in the marginal psyche 
 and in the conscious we have an infantile attitude 
 towards life. As time goes on, the battle-complex 
 tends to move into the unconscious while the in- 
 fantile attitude tends to become more definite in 
 certain particular directions. The complex appears 
 
REGRESSION 171 
 
 in dreams more rarety, and there is a tendency for it 
 to be diluted, as it were, with other forms of sym- 
 bolism. We might almost say that while there is 
 no assimilation of the battle-complex in conscious- 
 ness, there is some assimilation in the unconscious. 
 The nature of this assimilation reveals itself in 
 dreams in symbolisms that are of value when the 
 attempt is made to construct for the patient some 
 new apical point of growth. For it is not only 
 realityin the form of war that keeps up the regression, 
 but it is a concentration of all those factors of reality 
 that the patient finds difficult. In a sense, in order 
 to recover, he has to retread the path of his own 
 development, in much the same way as the embryo 
 retreads the path of evolutionary development, in a 
 recapitulated form. This may occur without help. 
 Sometimes it does not occur, and in these cases, 
 help must be given. 
 
 The assimilation of the battle-complex in con- 
 sciousness may be resgarded as an effort towards 
 healing. The unconscious cannot, save in an in- 
 direct fashion, influence the conscious will, and there- 
 fore cannot bring about a reconstruction in con- 
 sciousness of the adult attitudes. In one case the 
 patient who had suffered from a regression neurosis 
 for many months, and had remained in a helpless 
 condition, experienced the following dream : " I was 
 in a trench. My great toe, with the nail, had come 
 off, and I was debating with another soldier whether 
 I should put it on again. I felt that I x)ught to." 
 This patient had formerly suffered from pure battle- 
 
172 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 dreams, but in the above example it is possible to 
 see a considerable degree of assimilation of the 
 battle-complex into a form of symbolism which 
 apparently deals with some possibility of choice. 
 
 In regarding this dream we must remember that 
 the will operates most definitely at the apical point, 
 or growing tip, of life, and that the effect of shock 
 is to cut off or introvert this terminal point or bud. 
 The great toe, if cut off, severely cripples the indi- 
 vidual, since the ball of the toe supports the weight 
 of the body in walking. The dream compares the 
 psychological condition of the patient to that of a 
 man whose great toe has been cut off, but can be 
 replaced at choice, and it suggests that it should be 
 replaced. 
 
 The spectacle of regression is seen in advancing 
 age. There is a zenith in every individual, and once 
 this is past regression begins. From the psycholo- 
 gical standpoint this zenith may come early or late. 
 Whatever in the past has sufficient intensity to hold 
 a man's thoughts and feelings continuously, may 
 cause regression. Thus it comes about that some 
 men may really experience their zenith as early as 
 their university days. In after-life everything they 
 do and say tends to lead back to that period. It 
 seems fairly evident that people who find their right 
 expression in life tend to remain younger, in a 
 psychological sense, than those who fail to find it. 
 Uncongenial work ages a man rapidly. Now the 
 lack of proper expression means, from our point of 
 view, an accumulation of potential interest in the 
 
REGRESSION 173 
 
 unconscious, while right expression means that 
 nascent material is constantly welling up from the 
 deeper levels of the psyche to find free expression. 
 The regression, then, that accompanies the advance 
 of years may be connected with psychic tension in 
 the unconscious. Whatsoever we leave unexpressed 
 or unsolved in the course of life, we leave in the 
 unconscious. We do not consume our own smoke 
 properly. We are therefore handicapped in- 
 creasingly, and the turning-point of life may be 
 hastened. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE NATURE OF THE UNCONSCIOUS 
 
 Wb can conceive of a preparatory stage in the history 
 of an idea th&t precedes its appearance in con- 
 sciousness. In previous chapters we have spoken 
 of nascent or unfocussed interest in the unconscious. 
 This view is based upon the conception that the 
 force that reveals itself as interest wells up from 
 the deeper levels of the psyche, or in other words 
 that the unconscious can be identified with Source. 
 In the dream, consciousness descends, as it were, 
 from the focussed arena of waking life to the unfo- 
 cussed planes beneath it. And here it meets nascent 
 interest under the form of a symbol. It meets 
 that which is coming up, and it meets it in that form 
 that belongs to the stage of development of that 
 particular level of the psyche. It is embryonic 
 thought or feeling, and as it passes upwards towards 
 consciousness it develops progressively until it 
 assumes a form that is immediately comprehensible 
 to the conscious life. It becomes focussed. Its 
 meaning now becomes clear. The process may be 
 compared to the growth of a seed buried in the 
 
 174 
 
THE^NATURE OF THE UNCONSCIOUS 175 
 
 ground. From the surface of the ground it is 
 impossible to tell what is coming up save by digging 
 down and examining the earth. If we find a hya- 
 cinth bulb we can predict that in process of time a 
 hyacinth will appear. The bulb is the nascent form 
 of the hyacinth. If we look on the bulb as a symbol, 
 then it is a symbol with a prospective meaning. 
 In the same way the symbols that are encountered 
 in the deep levels of the psyche during sleep are 
 the germinating seeds of the flowers that will appear 
 in consciousness. 
 
 The conception that the unconscious contains 
 primitive ways of thinking which belong to the 
 evolutionary background of man is supported by 
 the myth formations that are found in dreams. The 
 prevalence of myths that are identical in the history 
 of races that are geographically widely "separated 
 is to be explained on the grounds of a psychological 
 similarity rather than on the grounds of a propaga- 
 tion by word of mouth. They are innate in the 
 human psyche as tendencies that clothe themselves 
 in forms of expression which belong to environment. 
 Thus in their outward symbolism they appear to 
 differ. In the same way, in the case of the individual, 
 the tendencies in his unconscious clothe themselves 
 in symbols which belong to his own environment. 
 The dream makes use of the incidents of the day 
 in much the same way as people make use of the 
 costumes and draperies in an ordinary house when 
 they suddenly decide to play charades. All their 
 elaborate silent pantomime merely symbolizes the 
 
176 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 meaning of a word which the onlookers must guess 
 by interpretation. The spectators, the actors, and 
 the material that they use form a system that is 
 in some degree comparable to the conscious, the 
 unconscious, and the symbols that belong to the 
 whole human psyche. 
 
 To the conception that the unconscious is Source 
 and that through its various levels, which correspond 
 to states of consciousness peculiar to the past ages 
 of racial development, there is a constant welling-up 
 of energy towards the level of the present-day 
 consciousness, we must add another conception. 
 Whatever we neglect or avoid, whatever we dislike 
 or fear, whatever disgusts or irritates us, tends to 
 pass out of consciousness. We may push it out 
 by a forcible process of repression, or it may disap- 
 pear as the result of a process that is not directly 
 conscious. Some sensitive types repress only with 
 great difficulty, while some tough extravert types 
 get rid of what is disagreeable so easily that it 
 seems scarcely correct to say that they repress. 
 Where does repressed material go ? It goes into 
 the marginal or into the unconscious psyche. It 
 may reappear in dreams. The more it is charged 
 with emotion, the more will it seek expression. If 
 then the psyche surrounding consciousness is filled 
 with repressed material, charged with emotion, it 
 would seem evident that an energy-system must 
 arise that will interfere with the expression of the 
 nascent formations that are continually welling up 
 from the unconscious. The energy system belonging 
 
THE NATURE OP THE UNCONSCIOUS 177 
 
 to the repressed material may therefore express it- 
 self in the dream to the exclusion of the energy that 
 is coming from Source up through the deep levels 
 of the psyche. Since our present attitudes towards 
 life entail a great amount of repression, it is natural 
 to find in the dreams of ordinary people a great 
 amount of that material which they have repressed. 
 Thus it comes about that much of what we can 
 extract from dreams in their superficial application 
 is unpleasant to the individual. 
 
 The IVeudian conception of the unconscious seems 
 to concern itself only with repressed material. The 
 Freudian method of psycho-analysis seeks to liberate 
 this repressed material. According to the process 
 of interpretation which is adopted by this school we 
 find that it is wholly sexual in its nature. The most 
 interesting example of this process of interpretation 
 may be found in the opening dream in Freud's 
 " Traumdeutung." In this example the possi- 
 bilities of the situation, as depicted by the author's 
 dream-psyche, are narrowed down to an interpre- 
 tation that fits in with the theory of the sexual 
 wish-fulfilment. The most striking interpretation 
 of all is not discussed. 
 
 If the unconscious consists solely of repressed 
 material, what happens when this repressed material 
 is liberated ? Can it be said that any unconscious 
 remains, and if so, what is its function ? Are we 
 to conclude that primitive man had no unconscious ? 
 From the teleological point of view of the Ziirich 
 school, when the repressed psychic material sur- 
 12 
 
178 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 rounding consciousness is liberated and properly 
 assimilated into the conscious life, there remains the 
 unconscious. It is now freed from encumbrances 
 that the person has put upon it during his life. 
 The nascent material travelling towards conscious- 
 ness will now, without confusion, form the material 
 of the dream, and so we may expect that a fore- 
 shadowing element will enter into the dream-life. 
 
 The conception of repression requires to be studied 
 very carefully. It is not possible to take up the 
 view that accumulations in the unconscious result 
 only from what has been thrust out of conscious- 
 ness, for it is evident that non-expression may pro- 
 duce the same effects as repression. An illustration 
 from Croce can be given here. An author seeks to 
 give expression in a single word to a state of feeling 
 in himself. After many vain attempts, now ap- 
 proaching, now receding, from his goal, he suddenly 
 attains the desired expression and experiences a 
 feeling of relief. Until he found the exact word he 
 experienced some degree of displeasure which arose 
 not from repression but from non-expression. Now 
 Freud would see in this struggle to attain the perfect 
 expression evidence of a barrier connected with 
 repressed sexuality. He bases his theory of memory 
 on the assumption that we forget only what is un- 
 pleasant, and that what is unpleasant always leads, 
 on analysis, into sexual material that is incompatible 
 with conscious life. The struggle then of the author 
 to bring the right word into consciousness is to be 
 looked upon as due ultimately to a resistance set 
 
THE NATURE OP THE UNCONSCIOUS 179 
 
 up by the opposition of consciousness to repressed 
 sejcual material in the unconscious. Freud calls 
 this opposiag factor in consciousness the moral censor, 
 and he looks on it as acquired through education and 
 punishment. For him, all morality is acquired and 
 ia imposed from without upon the individual. 
 There is no help to be sought from within, for the 
 unconscious ia like a Zoo in the heart of a great city, 
 full of caged beasts. 
 
 Now the struggle of the author to find the perfect 
 word is from the point of view of Croce an example 
 of a universal impulse in man to attain fullest ex- 
 pression. Where we have fullest expression there 
 we have beauty. Where expression is inadequate 
 we have ugliness, and where we have ugliness we 
 have inadequate consciousness. This point of view 
 can be applied to the neurosis, and I have en- 
 deavoured to show in the cases of the patient R. and 
 the patient 0. how the wrong use of interest brought 
 about their maladies. In other words, they were 
 not expressing themselves adequately. The path 
 of right expression was not to be found by inter- 
 rogating the conscious, but it lay under the form of 
 symbols in the unconscious. The non-expressed 
 part of these patients is not to be looked upon as 
 active repression in the Freudian sense, but as 
 non-expression or as non-realization of unexpressed 
 interest. If we recall the illustration of the master, 
 the servant, and the act of violence, the conscious 
 attitudes of these patients resembled that of the 
 master, who was totally ignorant of the circum- 
 
180 I DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 stances of his servants' existence. It is impossible 
 to regard this kind of non-realization or ignorance 
 as repression. 
 
 The significance that has been given to the un- 
 conscious in this volume is one that links up with 
 the Aristotelian conception of an entdechy, or a form- 
 giving cause or principle. It preserves the form 
 in the present, and at the same time seeks for new 
 form in the future. It is that principle that Driesch 
 calls in as an explanation of his e^eriment on the 
 embryo of a sea-urchin. If this embryo is divided, 
 we can observe cells, which normally would have 
 produced special parts of an individual sea-urchin, 
 develop into complete individual sea-urchins. This 
 teleological view of the unconscious gives a value 
 to its symbolism that is purposive. It has an aim 
 that is corrective, healing or developmental, just 
 as the forces governing the physical body have these 
 aims. A struggle, then, may arise in man between 
 his self-conscious wUl and that entelechy which 
 surrounds him. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 In treating the neurotic it is necessary to furnish 
 him with some kind of plan. The nature of this 
 plan differs considerably in different schools of 
 teaching. Some practical psychologists frequently 
 dismiss certain problems, which appeal in the 
 course of their work, with the remark that they 
 belong to eschatology and do not in any way con- 
 cern them. Now, in seeking to put the neurotic 
 on his feet, so that he may lead an effective life, 
 how far is it possible to do this without any refer- 
 ence to ultimate things 1 I take it that any kind 
 of philosophy must of necessity be concerned with 
 ultimate things — that is, with eschatology. In 
 that case those psychologists who do not consider 
 that their theories have anything to do with 
 eschatology, and who treat patients in the light of 
 their theories, presumably do not furnish any kind 
 of philosophy for their patients to draw upon. 
 This appears to be a remarkable thing, for I do 
 not see how any neurotic patient can live success- 
 fully unless he has a theory of life, either spiritual 
 or philosophical or both, upon which to act. 
 
 181 
 
182 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 If a man has a moral conflict which treatment 
 reveals to him clearly, at least two courses are 
 possible. He may side wholly with one or with 
 the other of the contending ideals. But how can 
 he disentangle his interest from one and put it 
 wholly on the other ? Only by a very slow pro- 
 cess can this be done. It can be done by gradually 
 allowing a view of life to permeate the man's mind 
 ■in which one side of the conflict appears eminently 
 reasonable and the other side dwindles and fades 
 from sight. He will thus either be degraded or 
 refined according to the side he adopts. You 
 cannot say that he solves his conflict by this method. 
 Potentially speakii^, it still exists. There has been 
 no attempt to make a synthesis of the two opposing 
 ideals. If you have two friends who quarrel and 
 you go away with one, you do not do away with 
 the quarrel. You only do away with the quarrel 
 when you bring the two friends together and recon- 
 cile them. 
 
 If we have to treat a neurotic with a conflict, our 
 aim should be the reconciliation of the two ideals, 
 and not the magnification of one at the expense 
 of the other. If a man has a conflict between the 
 celibate ideal and the unrestrained sexual ideal, 
 we do not want to give him a view of life in which 
 he can see nothing but sexuality. Nor do we wish 
 to magnify the celibate ideal untU he entirely 
 fails to see that sexuality has a place in life. We 
 must aim at synthesis ; the middle, controlled 
 path is the practical ideal. But how is this to be 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 183 
 
 done ? Are we to impose our fantasies on his 
 fantasies ? 
 
 If we endeavour to solve the conflict for the 
 patient by thrusting our own particular view of 
 the world down his throat, then we are doing him 
 a moral injury. That kind of interference will find 
 no place in the future, for our view may be very 
 helpful and necessary to us and wholly injurious 
 to the patient. The patient must solve his con- 
 flict for himself. The conflict must become fuUy 
 conscious, and therefore he must get in touch with 
 his unconscious. It is here that help can be given 
 to him. When he is in touch with his unconscious, 
 his task of sjnathesis begins. In this task eschato- 
 logical questions will continually arise, and these 
 must be regarded, not as if they were absurd and 
 unscientific matters, but as factors of supreme im- 
 portance in the future development of the patient. 
 For as the patient slowly adjusts the life of ex- 
 perience and the life of the unconscious, so will 
 that philosophy of personal responsibility gradually 
 emerge which will give him his fullest and best ex- 
 pression. No man who is fuUy and rightly express- 
 ing himself is ever neurotic. How then are we not 
 aU neurotics, seeing that none of us attain this ideal ? 
 The secret seems to lie in the meaning that we give 
 to the idea of right expression. We must escape 
 from the fixed views that seek to organise humanity 
 as if its individual members were all capable of 
 expressing themselves according to a set plan. 
 This view produces results that are satisfactory for 
 
184 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 the moment, but because it necessarUy shuts off 
 into the unconscious so much that should find 
 expression it produces eventually those appalling 
 and dismal cataclysms of which the present war 
 is an example. 
 
 I do not think it possible for any one to study 
 neurotic patients from the standpoint of the un- 
 conscious without gaining the idea of special tasks. 
 There appears to be a particular line along which 
 fuUest expression is most easily experienced in every 
 individual. Along this line the point of excess is 
 not soon reached ; on the contrary, it would appear 
 that there is a backing from the unconscious. Bight 
 expression, therefore, must be something that is 
 connected closely with this line, and it might be 
 possible to regard the average neurotic as one who 
 had failed to discover his special line. There is 
 also another consideration, and that is the quality 
 of sensitiveness. The sensitive person has many 
 more problems than the non-sensitive person, and 
 his adjustments are more exhausting, A person 
 who lives in close contact with the unconscious may 
 acquire a very high degree of sensitiveness. The 
 balance between the conscious and the unconscious 
 varies in different people, and where a sensitive 
 under adverse conditions might develop a neurosis, 
 a non-sensitive might scarcely feel anything beyond 
 temporary anxiety. 
 
 Any system that enforces suppression or encour- 
 ages avoidance at once begins to thrust into the 
 unconscious psychic energy that should escape by 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 185 
 
 a gradual process. Accumulations in the uncon- 
 scious are evidently dangerous. As I have already 
 said, they cause cataclysms in human history. All 
 that should have found expression gradually, comes 
 forth in some sudden violent eruption. This is 
 exactly comparable to the catastrophes that occur 
 in the individual when he is struck down by a 
 neurosis. Not until he has brought out from his 
 unconscious all that has accumulated there, and 
 not until he has synthetized it with his conscious 
 life, will he be curedi I have endeavoured to show 
 that what comes from the unconscious is not neces- 
 sarily always the murderous, or the incestuous, or 
 the lascivious. Civilization demands that these 
 things should remain unexpressed. The majority 
 of people simply repress them. They endeavour to 
 behave as if these were names for abstract ideas, 
 and so in time these things emerge from the un- 
 conscious like giants. But when the conscious life 
 is fidl of animality, when the aims and motives of 
 people are material, another kind of symbol forms 
 in the unconscious and gradually works out into 
 expression in reality. You then get a sudden 
 revival in the spiritual life of the nation. The 
 sudden personal conversions of which history con- 
 tains so many examples illustrate the breaking 
 through of forces of this kind from the unconscious. 
 It has been remarked that a good test of any 
 theory is to ask whether it lessens a man's sense 
 of personal responsibility in the conduct of life, 
 and that if it does then it is a bad theory. In the 
 
186 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 eleventh chapter it was suggested that many people 
 might condemn the idea, that dreams contain any 
 kind of information that is hidden from the con- 
 scious powers of the mind, on the grounds that it 
 cast doubt on the supremacy of reason and judg- 
 ment. Of a man who watches his dreams and 
 makes use of the material they contain it might 
 very well be asked whether his life is going to be 
 guided by dreams. The question might be put 
 thus : Do you seriously mean to live your life 
 according to what you imagine that you find in 
 those fleeting and shadowy visions which traverse 
 your mind in sleep ? 
 
 If the answer was that such was the intention, 
 then there would be very good cause for ridicule. 
 But when a man says that he takes his dreams 
 into consideration, particularly in periods of doubt 
 and indecision, it does not mean that he casts 
 aside reason and judgment as valueless. He may 
 modify his conduct owing to certain dreams that 
 he experiences, just as he may modify his conduct 
 in accordance with suggestions thrown out by 
 his friends. The suggestions of friends will be 
 founded on personal experience, and they will have 
 as their aim the comfort of the man. But that 
 which is to be gained from the dream wiU not 
 necessarily follow the same direction. It does not 
 always suggest the line of least resistance or what 
 is expedient. It tends to open up chaimiBls of 
 weakness. Its aim is to give the individual fuller 
 expression. This does not mean that it emphasizes 
 
EESPONSIBILITY 187 
 
 egotistical expression. A loud-voiced, conceited 
 man, after he is humiliated and softened by tragic 
 experience, will be a finer person, in that he will 
 express much more than he did formerly. No one 
 must expect to live in contact with the uncon- 
 scious without being constantly humiliated. 
 
 The capacity for non-realization which people 
 possess is universal. We all have it. We all see 
 faults in other people. But how are we to see them 
 in ourselves ? By thinking over our conduct we 
 can only progress a little way. What is most 
 deeply rooted and confirmed in our natures is 
 hidden from us because we are it. Like the sun 
 itself, it has no shadow whereby we can recognize its 
 magnitude. But in the dream we will find the 
 shadow. The idea, then, that the consideration of 
 dreams is likely to be a bad procedure because it 
 will lessen the sense of conscious responsibility does 
 not hold good. On the contrary, if the procedure 
 is properly understood, it will widen the conception 
 of responsibility, for tasks will become apparent 
 which were formerly unrecognized. But the proper 
 understanding of the procedure is only acquired 
 after patient study. A beginner, examining his 
 own dreams, will be in danger of interpreting them 
 wholly according to his complexes. He will be 
 unable to detach himself from his own ideas of 
 himself. It is naturally difficult for the scrupulously 
 honest man to understand how the thief exists in 
 his unconscious. The extremely pious man finds 
 it impossible to account for the lurid language he 
 
188 DREAM PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 uses when partially under an anaesthetic. In the 
 same way the dream in its true significance may 
 appear at first sight as something incredible. But 
 realization always comes with difficulty. We have 
 only to look at history in the past, and to-day in 
 the making, to see that humanity has to pay an 
 enormous price for every expansion of consciousness. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 The Interpretation of Dreams. By Pboe. Sigmund Fbeud, 
 
 LL.D. Trans, by A. A. Bbux, M.D. (Allen & Co., 
 
 1913.) 
 Selected Papers on Hysteria. By Pbof. Sigmund Fbetid, 
 
 LL.D. Trans, by A. A. Bbill, M.D. (The Journal of 
 
 Nervous and Mental Disease Publishing Co., New 
 
 York, 1912.) 
 Three Contributions to the Seemed Theory. By Pbof. 
 
 Sigmund Fbeud. Trans, by A. A. Bbill, M.D. {The 
 
 Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease Publishing 
 
 Co., New York, 1910.) 
 Papers on Psycho- Analysis. By Ernest Jones, M.D. 
 
 (Ballidre, Tyndall & Cox, London, 1913.) 
 On Dreams. By Pbof. Sigmund Fbeud. Trans, by M. D. 
 
 Edeb. (Eeinemann, London.) 
 
 Theory of Psycho'Analysis. By Db. C. G. Jung. (The 
 
 Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease, New York.) 
 Analytical Psychology. By C. G. Jung, M.D., LL.D. 
 
 Edited by Db. Constance E. Long. (Balliere, 
 
 Tindall & Cox, London, 1916.) 
 Psychology of the Unconscious. By Db. C. G. Juno. Trans. 
 
 by Beatbioe M. Hinkle, M.D. (Moffat, Yard & Co., 
 
 New York, 1916.) 
 
 189 
 
190 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 The Mental State of Hyatericals. By Piebbb Jaitet, Litt.D. , 
 M.D. Trans, by C. R. Cobson. (Putnam, New York, 
 1907.) • 
 
 Creative Evolution. By H. BEsasoK. Trans, by A. 
 MiTOHEIX, 1911. 
 
 The Problem of Individuality. By Hans Dbiesoh, LL.D. 
 (Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.) 
 
 bathetic as Science of Expression. By Benedeg[:to Cbooe. 
 Trans, by D. Aikley. (Macmillan & Co., London, 
 1914.) 
 
 Incubation. By Maby HAMHiTON, M.A. (Simpkin, Mar- 
 shall & Co., 1906.) 
 
 The FrevMan Wish and its Place in Ethics. By Pbof. 
 Edwin B. Holt. (Fisher Unwin, London, 1915.) 
 
 Principles of Mentcd Physiology. By Whxiam B. Cae- 
 
 fenteb, M.D. (Kegan, Paul & Co., London, 1879.) 
 Inquiries Oonceming the Intellectual Powers. , By John 
 
 Abebcbombie, M.D. (Wau^ & Innes, London, 
 
 1830.) 
 Unconscious Cerebration. By Feanoes Poweb Cobbe. 
 
 (MaemUlan's Magazine, November 1870.) 
 
INDEX 
 
 Adaptation, progreaaive 
 
 regreaaive 
 Adler . 
 
 Appeal, latent 
 Arctic explorers . 
 Association . 
 Automatic writing 
 
 Balance 
 Battle-complex 
 Bergson 
 Birth-dreams 
 
 Cartoons 
 Choice 
 
 Compensation 
 
 Complex 
 
 asaimilation of 
 irritability connected 
 
 Compulsion neurosis 
 
 Conflict 
 
 Continuity . 
 
 Conversion . 
 
 Croce .... 
 
 with 
 
 FAGB 
 
 . 169 
 . 169 
 . 125 
 , 51, 109 
 55,60 
 30,40 
 . 20 
 
 . 163 
 . 170 
 
 77 
 40,41 
 
 22,24 
 
 . 102 
 
 77 
 
 55 
 
 . 131 
 
 . 171 
 
 . 137 
 
 . 104 
 
 131, 182 
 
 . 164 
 
 . 185 
 
 . 178 
 
 Dreams, compensatory significance of 
 contrasts in 
 critidam contained in 
 method of association in 
 191 
 
 54, 66, 67 
 . 29 
 . 113 
 . 30 
 
192 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Dreams {eontinued) — 
 
 
 perspective in . 
 
 . 34 
 
 prophetic . . . . . 
 
 6, 178 
 
 regresaive'view of 
 
 . 35 
 
 reeemblanee to cartoons 
 
 22, 23 
 
 spontaneity of . 
 
 1 
 
 teleologioal view of 
 
 . 42 
 
 view of physical causation . 
 
 . 25 
 
 msh-fulfilment in 
 
 48, 57 
 
 Driesch 
 
 . 180 
 
 Etntii, synibol of mottier . 
 
 . 168 
 
 l^lan vital .....' 
 
 . 77 
 
 Enteleohy 
 
 . 180 
 
 Eschatology .... 
 
 . 181 
 
 Experience, apical point of 
 
 . 170, 172 
 
 Extroversion .... 
 
 . 138 
 
 Extrovert ..... 
 
 42, 140 
 
 Fairy-stories .... 
 
 5 
 
 Fantasy 
 
 . 38 
 
 compensatory nature of 
 
 65, 58 
 
 value of . 
 
 56, 58 
 
 wish-fulfilment in 
 
 57, 58 
 
 
 . 102 
 
 Freud 
 
 40, 48, 58, 168, 177 
 
 Fruition, necessity of . 
 
 . 129 
 
 Gesture, unconscious . 
 
 13, 14 
 
 HormS 
 
 . 77 
 
 Infantile state .... 
 
 . 167 
 
 Interest, balance of . . . 
 
 53, 101 
 
 growth of . . . 
 
 . 124,130 
 
 nascent .... 
 
 .' . .174 
 
 non-realizaHon of 
 
 89,122 
 
 over-expression of 
 
 , 144 
 
 retreat of . . . 
 
 . 166 
 
 sexual appUeation of 
 
 . 162 
 
 theory of . . . 
 
 77,83 
 
INDEX 
 
 193 
 
 Interpretatioa 
 
 eonatructive 
 
 dependence on association 
 
 reductive 
 
 Introversion 
 
 Introvert 
 Jung, Dr. 
 
 anxiety in 
 
 Lamb . 
 Libido 
 
 Marginal recognition 
 
 Meaning, unfocusaed 
 
 Menace 
 
 Mental background 
 
 the neurosis a creation 
 Moral censor 
 Morphinist, case of 
 Myths 
 
 40, 43, 131, 134, 140, 168 
 
 Neuroses, hrief description of some . 
 
 spontaneous improvement in 
 Neurotic, attitude of . . . 
 
 plan necessary for . 
 
 triangular problem of 
 Nightmares .... 
 
 Over-compensation 
 
 Paradox . . . . 
 
 Personality, decisive factor in 
 PhaUic significance 
 Pilgrim Fathers . 
 Poat-hypnotic states 
 Proverbs . . . . 
 
 Psyche, archetypes in 
 Psychological zenith 
 13 
 
 of 
 
 4 
 
 77 
 
 . 53 
 
 15,16 
 
 50 
 
 12 
 
 18 
 
 . 179 
 
 90, 102 
 
 . 175 
 
 . 9, 17 
 
 121, 127 
 
 3, 9, 10, 20 
 
 . 182 
 
 19 
 
 4, 128 
 
 . 61 
 
 . 164 
 
 3, 100, 101 
 
 40 
 
 59 
 
 20 
 
 37, 164 
 
 4 
 
 . 172 
 
194 
 
 INDEX 
 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Kegresaion ...... 
 
 . 166 
 
 Bepression . ..... 
 
 . 176 
 
 energie system formed by 
 
 . 176 
 
 Besponsibility ..... 
 
 3, 181 
 
 Rumour, as communal fantasy 
 
 . 68 
 
 at Suvla Bay .... 
 
 . 69 
 
 in Mesopotamia 
 
 . 70 
 
 the Russian .... 
 
 . 71 
 
 unconscious recogmtion behind . 
 
 . 71 
 
 Sea-urchin, enAryo of . 
 
 . 180 
 
 SensitivenesB ..... 
 
 184 
 
 SheU-Bhock 
 
 . 166 
 
 Slang 
 
 . 36 
 
 Socrates ...... 
 
 . 110 
 
 Source ...... 
 
 . 176 
 
 StalenesB 
 
 . 124 
 
 Symbolism ...... 
 
 14 
 
 relativity of . 
 
 . 16 
 
 Toe, symbol of .... . 
 
 . 171 
 
 Unconscious activity .... 
 
 20, 21 
 
 motive . . . 
 
 31, 71, 84, 90 
 
 Unconscious, The .... 
 
 . 174 
 
 compensatory attitude of 
 
 r44, 145 
 
 Freudian view of 
 
 . 177 
 
 Value of types 
 
 . 145 
 
 Water, symbol of 
 
 . 43, 80, 82 
 
 Zurich school ..... 
 
 40, 138; 177