Therefore theory, which gives facts their value and significance, is often very useful, even if it is partially false, because it throws light on phenomena which no one has observed, it forces an examination, from many angles, of facts which no one has hitherto studied, and provides the impulse for more extensive and more productive researches .... 
Hence it is a moral duty for the man of science to expose himself to the risk of committing error, and to submit to criticism in order that science may continue to progress. A writer ... has launched a vigorous attack on the author, saying that this is a scientific ideal which is very limited and very paltry .... But those who are endowed with a mind serious and impersonal enough not to believe that everything they write is the expression of absolute and eternal truth will approve of this theory, which puts the aims of science well above the miserable vanity and paltry amour propre of the scientist. 
-Ferrero, L~s Lois psychologiques du symbolisme, p. viii 

I 
INTRODUCTION 
Anyone who can read Freud's Interpretation of Dreams without being outraged by the novelty and seemingly unjustified boldness of his procedure, and without waxing morally indignant over the stark nudity of his dream-interpretations, but can let this extraordinary book work upon his imagination calmly and without prejudice, will not fail to be deeply impressed at that point 1 where Freud reminds us that an individual conflict, which he calls the incest fantasy, lies at the root of that monumental drama of the ancient world, the Oedipus legend. The impression made by this simple remark may be likened to the uncanny feeling which would steal over us if, amid the noise and bustle of a modern city street, we were suddenly to come upon an ancient relic-say the Corinthian capital of a long-immured column, or a fragment of an inscription. A moment ago, and we were completely absorbed in the hectic, ephemeral life of the present; then, the next moment, something very remote and strange flashes upon us, which directs our gaze to a different order of things. We turn away from the vast confusion of the present to glimpse the higher continuity of history. Suddenly we remember that on this spot where we now hasten to and fro about our business a similar scene of life and activity prevailed two thousand years ago in slightly different forms; similar passions moved mankind, and people were just as convinced as we are of the uniqueness of their lives. This is the impression that may very easily be left behind by a first acquaintance with the monuments of antiquity, and it seems to me that Freud's reference to the Oedipus legend is in every way comparable. While still struggling with the confusing impressions of the infinite variability of the individual psyche, we suddenly catch a glimpse of the simplicity and grandeur of the 1 The Interpretation of Dreams, pp. 260-61. 
3 

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revelation. For our psychology, the ancient world has long since been sunk in the shadows of the past; in the schoolroom one could scarcely repress a sceptical smile when one indiscreetly calculated the matronly age of Penelope or pictured to oneself the comfortable middle-aged appearance of Jocasta, and comically compared the result with the tragic tempests of eroticism that agitate the legend and drama. We did not know then-and who knows even today?-that a man can have an unconscious, all-consuming passion for his mother which may undermine and tragically complicate his whole life, so that the monstrous fate of Oedipus seems not one whit overdrawn. Rare and pathological cases like that of N inon de Lenclos and her son 2 are too remote from most of us to convey a living impression. But when we follow the paths traced out by Freud we gain a living knowledge of the existence of these possibilities, which, although too weak to compel actual incest, are yet sufficiently strong to cause very considerable psychic disturbances. We cannot, to begin with, admit such possibilities in ourselves without a feeling of moral revulsion, and without resistances which are only too likely to blind the intellect and render self-knowledge impossible. But if we can succeed in discriminating between objective knowledge and emotional value-judgments, then the gulf that separates our age from antiquity is bridged over, and we realize with astonishment that Oedipus is still alive for us. The importance of this realization should not be underestimated, for it teaches us that there is an identity of fundamental human conflicts which is independent of time and place. What aroused a feeling of horror in the Greeks still remains true, but it is true for us only if we give up the vain illusion that we are different) i.e., morally better, than the ancients. We have merely succeeded in forgetting that an indissoluble link binds us to the men of antiquity. This truth opens the way to an understanding of the classical spirit such as has never existed before-the way of inner sympathy on the one hand and of intellectual comprehension on the other. By penetrating into the blocked subterranean passages of our own psyches we grasp the livlllg meaning 
2 He is supposed to have killed himself when he heard that his adored Ninon was really his mother. 
4 

to gain an objective understanding of its foundations. That at least is the hope we draw from the rediscovery of the immortality of the Oedipus problem. 
	2 	This line of inquiry has already yielded fruitful results: 
to it we owe a number of successful advances into the territory of the human mind and its history. These are the works of Riklin,3 Abraham,4 Rank,5 Maeder,6 and Jones,7 to which there has now been added Silberer's valuable study entitled "Phantasie und Mythos." Another work which cannot be overlooked is pfister's contribution to Christian religious psychology.s The leitmotiv of all these works is to find a clue to historical problems through the application of insights derived from the activity of the unconscious psyche in modern man. I must refer the reader to the works specified if he wishes to inform himself of the extent and nature of the insights already achieved. The interpretations are sometimes uncertain in particulars, but that does not materially detract from the total result. It would be significant enough if this merely demonstrated the far-reaching analogy between the psychological structure of the historical products and those of modern individuals. But the analogy applies with particular force to the symbolism, as Riklin, Rank, Maeder, and Abraham have shown, and also to the individual mechanisms governing the unconscious elaboration of motifs. 
	3 	Psychological investigators have hitherto turned their at- 
tention mainly to the analysis of individual problems. But, as things are at present, it seems to me imperative that they should broaden the basis of this analysis by a comparative study of the historical material, as Freud has already tried to do in his study of Leonardo da Vinci.9 For, just as psychological knowledge furthers our understanding of the historical material, so, conversely, the historical material can throw new light on individual psychological problems. These considerations have led me to direct my attention more to the historical side of the picture, in the hope of gaining fresh insight into the foundations of 
	8 Wishfulfilment and Symbolism in Fairy Tales. 	4 Dreams and Myths. 
	5 The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. 	6 "Die Symbolik in den Legenden." 
	7 On the Nightmare. 	8 Die Fr6mmigkeit des Grafen Ludwig van Zinzendorf. 
9 Also Rank, "Ein Traum, der si ch selbst deutet." 
5 

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and here the researches of Erich N eumann have made a massive contribution towards solving the countless difficult problems that crop up everywhere in this hitherto little explored territory. I would mention above all his key work, The Origins and History of Consciousnessp which carries forward the ideas that originally impelled me to write this book, and places them in the broad perspective of the evolution of human consciousness in general. 
10 [I.e., after 1912, the date of the original publication of the present work.EDITORS.] 
11 His subsequent publications, Umkreisung der Mitte and The Great Mother, may also be included in this category. 
6 

4 
5 
6 

II 
TWO KINDS OF THINKING 
As most people know, one of the basic principles of analytical psychology is that dream-images are to be understood symbolically; that is to say, one must not take them literally, but must surmise a hidden meaning in them. This ancient idea of dream symbolism has aroused not only criticism, but the strongest opposition. That dreams should have a meaning, and should therefore be capable of interpretation, is certainly neither a strange nor an extraordinary idea. It has been known to mankind for thousands of years; indeed it has become something of a truism. One remembers having heard even at school of Egyptian and Chaldaean dream-interpreters. Everyone knows the story of Joseph, who interpreted Pharaoh's dreams, and of Daniel and the dream of'King Nebuchadnezzar; and the dreambook of Artemidorus is familiar to many of us. From the written records of all times and peoples we learn of significant and prophetic dreams, of warning dreams and of healing dreams sent by the gods. When an idea is so old and so generally believed, it must be true in some way, by which I mean that it is psychologically true. 
For modern man it is hardly conceivable that a God existing outside ourselves should cause us to dream, or that the dream foretells the future prophetically. But if we translate this into the language of psychology, the ancient idea becomes much more comprehensible. The dream, we would say, originates in an unknown part of the psyche and prepares the dreamer for the events of the following day. 
According to the old belief, a god or demon spoke to the sleeper in symbolic language, and the dream-interpreter had to solve the riddle. In modern speech we would say that the dream is a series of images which are apparently contradictory and meaningless, but that it contains material which yields a clear meaning when properly translated. 
'J 

8 

Ul C<Ull-dlldl Ylllll, J. 1l1lVUIU ue vUllgeu LV UVCUIUelH UllS Slar:elueUI with numerous examples. Today, however, these things are so well known that one must be sparing in the use of case-histories so as not to bore the public. It is an especial inconvenience that one cannot recount a dream without having to add the history of half a lifetime in order to represent the individual foundations of the dream. Certainly there are typical dreams and dream-motifs whose meaning appears to be simple enough if they are regarded from the point of view of sexual symbolism. One can apply this point of view without jumping to the conclusion that the content so expressed must also be sexual in origin. Common speech, as we know, is full of erotic metaphors which are applied to matters that have nothing to do with sex; and conversely, sexual symbolism by no means implies that the interests making use of it are by nature erotic. Sex, as one of the most important instincts, is the prime cause of numerous affects that exert an abiding influence on our speech. But affects cannot be identified with sexuality inasmuch as they may easily spring from conflict situations-for instance, many emotions spring from the instinct of self-preservation. 
It is true that many dream-images have a sexual aspect or express erotic conflicts. This is particularly clear in the motif of assault. Burglars, thieves, murderers, and sexual maniacs figure prominently in the erotic dreams of women. It is a theme with countless variations. The instrument of murder may be a lance, a sword, a dagger, a revolver, a rifle, a cannon, a firehydrant, a watering-can; and the assault may take the form of a burglary, a pursuit, a robbery, or it may be someone hidden in the cupboard or under the bed. Again, the danger may be represented by wild animals, for instance by a horse that throws the dreamer to the ground and kicks her in the stomach with his hind leg; by lions, tigers, elephants with threatening trunks, and finally by snakes in endless variety. Sometimes the snake creeps into the mouth, sometimes it bites the breast like Cleopatra's legendary asp, sometimes it appears in the role of the paradisal serpent, or in one of the variations of Franz Stuck, whose snake-pictures bear significant titles like "Vice," "Sin," or "Lust" (cf. pI. x). The mixture of anxiety and lust is perfectly 
8 

:} 

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Girl's First Love Song What's in the net? I feel Frightened and shaken! 
Is it a sweet-slipping eel 
Or a snake that I've taken? 
Love's a blind fisherman, Love cannot see; Whisper the child, then, What would love of me? 
It leaps in my hands! This is Anguish unguessed. 
With cunning and kisses 
It creeps to my breast. 
It bites me, 0 wonder! Worms under my skin. My heart bursts asunder, I tremble within. 
Where go and where hide me? The shuddersome thing Rages inside me, 
Then sinks in a ring. 
What poison can this be? o that spasm again! 
It burrows in ecstasy Till I am slain'! 
All these things seem simple and need no explanation to be intelligible. Somewhat more complicated is the following dream of a young woman. She dreamt that she saw the triumPhal Arch of Constantine. Before it stood a cannon) to the right a bird) to the left a man. A cannon-ball shot out of the muzzle and hit her; it went into her pocket) into her purse. There it remained) and she held the purse as if there were something very precious inside it. Then the Picture faded) and all she could see was the 1 M6rike, Werke, I, p. 33. 
9 

10 
11 

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obvious to justify the indignant surprise of all innocent-minded people. If it so happens that this kind of realization is entirely new to the dreamer, thus filling a gap in her conscious orientation, we can say that the dream has in effect been interpreted. But if the dreamer has known this interpretation all along, then it is nothing more than a repetition whose purpose we cannot ascertain. Dreams and dream-motifs of this nature can repeat themselves in a never-ending series without our being able to discover-at any rate from the sexual side-anything in them except what we know already and are sick and tired of knowing. This kind of approach inevitably leads to that "monotony" of interpretation of which Freud himself complained. In these cases we may justly suspect that the sexual symbolism is as good a fa{:on de parler as any other and is being used as a dreamlanguage. "Canis panem somniat, piscator pisces." Even dreamlanguage ultimately degenerates into jargon. The only exception to this is in cases where a particular motif or a whole dream repeats itself because it has never been properly understood, and because it is necessary for the conscious mind to reorient itself by recognizing the compensation which the motif or dream expresses. In the above dream it is certainly a case either of ordinary unconsciousness, or of repression. One can therefore interpret it sexually and leave it at that, without going into all the niceties of the symbolism. The words with which the dream ends-"In hoc signo vinces" -point to a deeper meaning, but this level could only be reached if the dreamer became conscious enough to admit the existence of an erotic conflict. 
These few references to the symbolic nature of dreams must suffice. We must accept dream symbolism as an accomplished fact if we wish to treat this astonishing truth with the necessary degree of seriousness. It is indeed astonishing that the conscious activity of the psyche should be influenced by products which seem to obey quite other laws and to follow purposes very different from those of the conscious mind. 
How is it that dreams are symbolical at all? In other words, whence comes this capacity for symbolic representation, of which we can discover no trace in our conscious thinking? Let us examine the matter a little more closely. If we analyse a train of thought, we find that we begin with an "initial" idea, or a 
10 

	--- ~~~-~-~l o-~_ 	- ---) - ....,_._~.." 	....,- ---- 	-- 	--, .. - r--- 	-- - 	- ------ 
of separate ideas that all hang together. There is nothing symbolical in this, and our whole conscious thinking proceeds along these lines.1a If we scrutinize our thinking more closely still anc follow out an intensive train of thought-the solution of a diffi· cult problem, ror instance-we suddenly notice that we arc thinking in words> that in very intensive thinking we begin talk ing to ourselves, or that we occasionally write down the problem or make a drawing of it, so as to be absolutely clear. Anyone who has lived for some time in a foreign country will certainl) have noticed that after a while he begins to think in the lan· guage of that country. Any very intensive train of thought works itself out more or less in verbal form-if, that is to say, one wants to express it, or teach it, or convince someone of it. It i~ evidently directed outwards> to the outside world. To tha1 extent, directed or logical thinking is reality-thinking,2 a think ing that is adapted to reality,3 by means of which we imitate the successiveness of objectively real things, so that the images in· side our mind follow one another in the same strictly causa] sequence as the events taking place outside it.4 We also call thi~ "thinking with directed attention." It has in addition the peculiarity of causing fatigue, and is for that reason brought 
la Cf. Liepmann, Vber Ideenflucht; also my "Studies in Word Association" (1918/ 19 edn., p. 124). For thinking as subordination to a ruling idea, cf. Ebbinghaus, ir Kultur der Gegenwart, pp. 221ft Kuelpe (Outlines of Psychology, p. 447) expresse: himself in a similar manner: in thinking "we find an anticipatory apperception which covers a more or less extensive circle of individual reproductions, ant differs from a group of accidental incentives to reproduction only in the con sistency with which all ideas outside the circle are checked or suppressed." 
2 In his Psychologia emPirica, ch. n, § 23, p. 16, Christian Wolff says simply anc precisely: "Cogitatio est actus animae quo sibi sui rerumque aliarum extra s( conscia est" (Thinking is an act of the soul whereby it becomes conscious of itsell and of other things outside itself). 
3 The element of adaptation is particularly stressed by WiIliam James in hi: definition of logical thinking (PrinciPles of Psychology, n, p. 330): "Let us mak( this ability to deal with novel data the technical differentia of reasoning. Thi: will sufficiently mark it out from common associative thinking." 
4 "Thoughts are shadows of our feelings, always darker, emptier, and simple] than these," says Nietz§che. Lotze (Logik, p. 552) remarks in this connection: 
"Thinking, if left to the logical laws of its own movement, coincides one< more. at the end of its correct trajectory with the behaviour of objectively rea things:' 
JJ 

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in directed thinking. In biological terms it is simply a process of psychic assimilation that leaves behind a corresponding state of exhaustion, like any other vital achievement. 
	12 	The material with which we think is language and verbal 
concepts-something which from time immemorial has been directed outwards and used as a bridge, and which has but a single purpose, namely that of communication. So long as we think directedly, we think tor others and speak to others.5 Language was originally a system of emotive and imitative sounds -sounus which express terror, fear, anger, love, etc., and sounds which imitate the noises of the elements: the rushing and gurgling of water, the rolling of thunder, the roaring of the wind, the cries of the animal world, and so on; and lastly those which represent a combination of the sound perceived and the emotional reaction to it.6 A large number of onomatopoeic vestiges remain even in the more modern languages; note, for instance, the sounds for running water: rauschenJ rieseln, ruschen, rinnen, rennen, rush, river, ruscelloJ ruisseauJ Rhein. And note WasserJ wissenJ wissernJ PissenJ piscisJ Fisch. 
	1~ 	Thus, language, in its origin and essence, is simply a system 
of signs or symbols that denote real occurrences or their echo in the human souP We must emphatically agree with Anatole France when he says: 
What is thinking? And how does one think? We think with words; that in itself is sensual and brings us back to nature. Think of itl a metaphysician has nothing with which to build his world system except the perfected cries of monkeys and dogs. What he calls profound speculation and transcendental method is merely the stringing together, in an arbitrary order, of onomatopoeic cries of hunger, 
5 Cf. Baldwin's remarks quoted below. The eccentric.philosopher ]ohann Georg Hamann (1730-88) actually equates reason with language. (See Hamann's writings, pub. 1821-43.) With Nietzsche reason fares even worse as "linguistic metaphysics." Friedrich Mauthner goes the furthest in this direction (SPrache und Psychologie); for him there is absolutely no thought without speech, and only speaking is thinking. His idea of the "word fetishism" that dominates science is 
	worth noting. 	0 Cf. Kleinpaul, Das Leben der Sprache. 
7 My small son gave me an explicit example of the subjectivity of such symbols, which originally seem to belong entirely to the subject: He described everything he wanted to take or eat with an energetic "st6 161" (Swiss-German for "leave itl"). 
12 

attacnea, lltue oy lItUe, mealll11g~ LuaL die ueUCVCLl lV uc GlU~lHH_' merely because they are loosely used. Have no fear that the succes sion of little cries, extinct or enfeebled, that composes a book 01 philosophy will teach us so much about the universe that we can ne longer go on living in it.8 
	14 	So our directed thinking, even though we be the loneliesl 
thinkers in the world, is nothing but the first stirrings of a cr~ to our companions that water has been found, or the bear beer killed, or that a storm is approaching, or that wolves are prowl ing round the camp. There is a striking paradox of Abelard': which intuitively expresses the human limitations of our com plicated thought-process: "Speech is generated by the intellec and in turn generates intellect." The most abstract system 0 philosophy is, in its method and purpose, nothing more than ar extremely ingenious combination of natural sounds.9 Hence the craving of a Schopenhauer or a Nietzsche for recognition am understanding, and the despair and bitterness of their loneli ness. One might expect, perhaps, that a man of genius woulc luxuriate in the greatness of his own thoughts and renouno the cheap approbation of the rabble he despises; yet he sue cumbs to the more powerful impulse of the herd instinct. Hi seeking and his finding, his heart's cry, are meant for the here and must be heeded by them. When I said just now tha directed thinking is really thinking in words, and quoted tha amusing testimony of Anatole France as drastic proof, thi might easily give rise to the misunderstanding that directe< thinking is after all "only a matter of words." That would cel tainly be going too far. Language must be taken in a wide sense than speech, for speech is only the outward flow 0 thoughts formulated for communication. Were it otherwise, th, 
8 Le ]ardin d'Epicure, p. 80. 
9 It is difficult to estimate how great is the seductive influence of primitive wor' meanings on our thinking. "Everything that has ever been in consciousness Tt mains as an active element in the unconscious," says Hermann Paul (Prinzipie: der Sprachgeschichte, p. 25). The old word-meanings continue to have an effe( which is imperceptible at first and proceeds "from that dark chamber of th unconscious in the soul" (ibid.). Hamann states emphatically (Schntten, VII, I 8): "Metaphysics misuses all the verbal signs and figures of speech based on err pirical knowledge and reduces them to empty hieroglyphs and types of ideal n lationships." Kant is supposed to have learnt a thing or two from Hamann. 
13 

f\lHH...,.lJ. ..L.:) ..L..LVL L..LH ... La..:)L a.L a.ll.. VV l.lllUUL d.llY ..l'.llVVVICUCC U.l lllC 
spoken word, he too has his "language." Historically speaking, this ideal language, this directed thinking, is derived from primitive words, as Wundt has explained: 
A further important consequence of the interaction of sound and meaning is that many words come to lose their original concrete significance altogether, and turn into signs for general ideas expressive of the apperceptive functions of relating and comparing, and their products. In this way abstract thought develops, which, because it would not be possible without the underlying changes of meaning, is itself the product of those psychic and psychophysical interchanges in which the development of language consists.10 
	1.~ 	Jodl11 rejects the identity of language and thought on the 
ground that the same psychic fact can be expressed in different ways in different languages. From this he infers the existence of a "supra-linguistic" type of thinking. No doubt there is such a thing, whether one elects to call it "supra-linguistic" with Jodl or "hypological" with Erdmann. Only, it is not logical thinking. My views coincide with those of Bald,vin, who says: 
The transition from pre-judgmental to judgmental meaning is just that from knowledge which has social confirmation to that which gets along without it. The meanings utilized for judgment are those already developed in their presuppositions and implications through the confirmations of social intercourse. Thus the personal judgment, trained in the methods of social rendering, and disciplined by the interaction of its social world, projects its content into that world again. In other words, the platform for all movement into the assertion of individual judgment-the level from which new experience is utilized-is already and alwa)ls socialized; and it is just this movement that we find reflected in the actual result as the sense of the "appropriateness" or synnomic character of the meaning rendered .... 
Now the development of thought, as we are to see in more detail, is by a method essentially of trial and error, of experimentation, of the use of meanings as worth more than they are as yet recognized to be worth. The individual must use his old thoughts, his established knowledge, his grounded judgments, for the embodiment of 
10 Grundriss der Psychologie, pp. 363-64. 
11 Lehrbuch aer Psychologie, 11, ch. 10, par. 26, p. 260. 
14 

16 

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disjunctively-projecting into the world an opinion still personal 1 himself, as if it were true. Thus all discovery proceeds. But this i from the linguistic point of view, still to use the current languag still to work by meanings already embodied in social and conve] tional usage. 
By this experimentation both thought and language are togethl advanced .... 
Language grows, therefore, just as thought does, by never losi~ its synnomic or dual reference; its meaning is both personal an social. ... 
Language is the register of tradition, the record of racial CO] quest, the deposit of all the gains made by the genius of individual ... The social "copy-system" thus established reflects the jud mental processes of the race, and in turn becomes the trainin. school of the judgment of new generations .... 
Most of the training of the self, whereby the vagaries of person: reaction to fact and image are reduced to the funded basis of soun judgment, comes through the use of speech. When the child speak he lays before the world his suggestion for a general or comma meaning; the reception it gets confirms or refutes him. In either ca: he is instructed. His next venture is from a platform of knowled~ on which the newer item is more nearly convertible into the COIl mon coin of effective intercourse. The point to notice here is not ~ much the exact mechanism of the exchange-secondary conversion by which this gain is made, as the training in judgment that tl constant use of it affords. In each case, effective judgment is tl common judgment .... Here the object is to point out that it secured by the development of a function whose rise is directly 2 hoc ... -the function of speech. 
In language, therefore, to sum up the foregoing, we have tl tangible-the actual and historical-instrument of the developmel and conservation of psychic meaning. It is the material eviden( and proof of the concurrence of social and personal judgment. In synnomic meaning, judged as "appropriate," becomes "social" meal ing, held as socially generalized and acknowledged.12 
Baldwin's argument lays ample stress on the limitations in posed on thought by language,13 which are of the greate 
12 Baldwin. Thought and ]hings, 11, pp. 145ff. 
13 In this connection I would mention the experimental "investigations into tl linguistic components of association" (1908) made by Eberschweiler [q.v., Biblio 
15 

	, 	,~ 
whether the sceptical Mauthner 14 was not right in his view that thinking is speech and nothing more. Baldwin is more cautious and reserved, but at bottom he is plainly in favour of the primacy of speech. 
	17 	Directed thinking or, as we might also call it, thinking in 
words) is manifestly an instrument of culture, and we shall not be wrong in saying that the tremendous work of education which past centuries have devoted to directed thinking, thereby forcing it to develop from the subjective, individual sphere to the objective, social sphere, has produced a readjustment of the human mind to which we owe our modern empiricism and technics. These are absolutely new developments in the history of the world and were unknown to earliet ages. Inquiring minds have often wrestled with the question of why the first-rate knowledge which the ancients undoubtedly had of mathematics, mechanics, and physics, coupled with their matchless craftsmanship, was never applied to developing the rudimentary techniques already known to them (e.g., the principles of simple machines) into a real technology in the modern sense of the word, and why they never got beyond the stage of inventing amusing curiosities. There is only one answer to this: the ancients, with a few illustrious exceptions, entirely lacked the capacity to concentrate their interest on the transformations of inanimate matter and to reproduce the natural process artificially, by which tneans alone they could have gained control of the forces of nature. What they lacked was training in directed thinking.15 The secret of cultural development is the mobility and disposability of psychic energy. Directed thinking, as we know it today, is a more or less modern acquisition which earlier ages lacked. 
raphy] at my request, which disclose the remarkable fact that during an association experiment the intrapsychic association is influenced by phonetic con- 
	siderations. 	14 See n. 5, above. 
15 There was as a matter of fact no external compulsion which would have made technical thinking necessary. The labour question was solved by an endless supply of cheap slaves, so that efforts to save labour were superfluous. We must also remember that the interest of the man of antiquity was turned in quite another direction: he reverenced the divine cosmos, a quality which is entirely lacking in our technological age. 
16 

we ao not thmk dnectedlyr Well, our thinking then lacks al leading ideas and the sense of direction emanating from them.1 We no longer compel our thoughts along a definite track, bu let them float, sink or rise according to their specific gravit) In Kuelpe's view,17 thinking is a sort of "inner act of the will,' and its absence necessarily leads to an "automatic play of ideas.' William J ames regards non-directed thinking, or "merely asso ciative" thinking, as the ordinary kind. He expresses himself a follows: 
Much of our thinking consists of trains of images suggested ani by another, of a sort of spontaneous revery of which it seems likel; enough that the higher brutes should be capable. This sort 0 thinking leads nevertheless to rational conclusions both practica and theoretical. 
As a rule, in this sort of irresponsible thinking the terms whid come to be coupled together are empirical concretes, not abstrac tions.18 
	19 	We can supplement James's definitions by saying that thi~ 
sort of thinking does not tire us, that it leads away from realit) into fantasies of the past or future. At this point thinking in verbal form ceases, image piles on image, feeling on feeling,1I 
16 So at least it appears to the conscious mind. Freud (The Interpretation oj Dreams, n, p. 528) says in this connection: "For it is demonstrably untrue that we are being carried along a purposeless stream of ideas when, in the process of interpreting a dream, we abandon reflection and allow involuntary ideas to emerge. It can be shown that all we can ever get rid of are purposive ideas that are known to us; as soon as we have done this, unknuwn-or, as we inaccurately say, 'unconscious'-purposive ideas take charge and thereafter determine the course of the involuntary ideas. No influence that we can bring to bear upon our mental processes can ever enable us to think without purposive ideas; nor am I aware of any states of psychical confusion which can do so." 
	17 Outlines, p. 448. 	18 Principles, n, p. 325. 
19 This statement is based primarily on experiences derived from the field of normal psychology. Indefinite thinking is very far removed from "reflection," particularly where readiness of speech is concerned. In psychological experiments I have frequently found that subjects~I am speaking only of cultivated and intelli. gent people-whom I allowed to indulge in reveries, as though unintentionally and without previous iJ;lstnlction, exhibited affects' which could be registered experimentally, but that with the best will in the world they could express the underlying thought only very imperfectly or not at all. More instructive are experiences 
17 

	............................................ 0 ......................................................•.................... ; - 	..L..L..L ..L ••... -..L .••. LJ UlA-I... _~ v 	VVVU..&.LA. ..&...&..1'.'- 
them to be. Naturally enough, the stuff of this thinking which shies away from reality can only be the past with its thousandand-one memory images. Common speech calls this kind of thinking "dreaming." 
	o 	Anyone who observes himself attentively will find that the 
idioms of common speech are very much to the point, for almost every day we can see for ourselves, when falling asleep, how our fantasies get woven into our dreams, so that between daydreaming and night-dreaming there is not much difference. We have, therefore, two kinds of thinking: directed thinking, and dreaming or fantasy-thinking. The former operates with speech elements for the purpose of communication, and is difficult and exhausting; the latter is effortless, working as it were spontaneously, with the contents ready to hand, and guided by unconscious motives. The one produces innovations and adaptation, copies reality, and tries to act upon it; the other turns away from reality, sets free subjective tendencies, and, as regards adaptation, is unproductive.20 
of a pathological nature, not so much those arising in the field of hysteria and the various neuroses, which are characterized by an overwhelming transference tendency, as experiences connected with introversion neurosis or psychosis, which must be regarded as constituting by far the greater number of mental disturbances, at any rate the whole of Bleuler's schizophrenic group. As already indicated by the term "introversion" (which I cursorily introduced in 1910, in my "Psychic Conflicts in a Child," pp. 13 and 16 [Coil. WOTks, Vol. 17]), this type of neurosis leads to an isolated inner life. And here we meet with that "supralinguistic" or pure "fantas) ·thinking" which moves in "inexpressible" images and feelings. You get some ide;} of this when you try to find out the meaning of the pitiful and muddled expn:ssions used by these people. As I have often observed, it costs these patients endless trouble and effort to put their fantasies into ordinary human speech. A highly intelligent patient, who "translated" such a fantasy system for me piecemeal, used to say to me: "I know quite well what it's all about, I can see and feel everything, but it is quite impossible for me to find the right words for it." 
20 Similarly James, PrinciPles, H, pp. 325-26. Reasoning is productive, whereas "empirical" (merely associative) thinking is only reproductive. This opinion, however, is not altogether satisfying. It is no doubt true that fantasy-thinking is not immediately productive, i.e., is unadapted and therefore useless for all practical purposes. But in the long run the play of fantasy uncovers creative forces and contents, just as dreams do. Such contents cannot as a rule be realized except through passive, associative, and fantasy-thinking. 
18 

lll~ Wd~ Ilo[ always as developed as it is today. The clearest expression of modern directed thinking is science and the techniques fostered by it. Both owe their existence simply and solely to energetic training in directed thinking. Yet at the time when the forerunners of our present-day culture, such as the poet Petrarch, were just beginning to approach nature in a spirit of understanding,21 an equivalent of our science already existed in scholasticism.22 This took its subjects from fantasies of the past, but it gave the mind a dialectical training in directed thinking. The one goal of success that shone before the thinker was rhetorical victory in disputation, and not the visible transformation of reality. The subjects he thought about were often unbelievably fantastic; for instance, it was debated how many angels could stand on the point of a needle, whether Christ could have performed his work of redemption had he come into the world in the shape of a pea, ete., ete. The fact that these problems could be posed at all-and the stock metaphysical problem of how to know the unknowable comes into this category-proves how peculiar the medieval mind must have been, that it could contrive questions which for us are the height of 
21 Cf. the impressive description of Petrarch's ascent of Mt. Ventoux, in Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy, pp. 180-81: "A description of the view from the summit would be looked for in vain, not because the poet was insensible to it, but, on the contrary, because the impression was too overwhelming. His whole past life, with all its follies, rose before his mind; he remembered that ten years ago that day he had quitted Bologna a young man, and turned a longing gaze towards his native country; he opened a book which was then his constant companion, the 'Confessions of St. Augustine,' and his eye fel! on the passage in the tenth chapter: 'and men go forth, and admire lofty mountains and broad seas, and roaring torrents, and the ocean, and the course of the stars, and turn away from themselves while doing so.' His brother, to whom he read these words, could not understand why he closed the book and said no more." 
22 Wundt gives a short account of the scholastic method in his PhilosoPhische Studien (XIII, p. 345)· The method consisted "firstly, in regarding as the chief aim of scientific investigation the discovery of a firmly established conceptual scheme capable of being applied in a uniform m~nner to the most varied problems; secondly, in laying an inordinate value upon certain general concepts, and consequently upon the verbal symbols designating these concepts, as a result of which an analysis of the meani·ngs of words or, in extreme cases, a vapid intellectual subtlety and splitting of hairs comes to replace an investigation of the real facts from. which the concepts are abstracted." 
19 

22 
23 
24 

lUl1> fJUCllUlUCllUll Wllell ne spOKe or tne glOrIOUS tensron ot mind" which the Middle Ages produced. 
On a historical view, the scholastic spirit in which men of the intellectual calibre of St. Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, Abelard, William of Ockham, and others worked is the mother of our modern scientific method, and future generations will see clearly how far scholasticism still nourishes the science of today with living undercurrents. It consisted essentially in a dialectical gymnastics which gave the symbol of speech, the word, an absolute meaning, so that words came in the end to have a substantiality with which the ancients could invest their'Logos only by attributing to it a mystical value. The great achievement of scholasticism was that it laid the foundations of a solidly built intellectual function, the sine qua non of modern science and technology. 
If we go still further back into history, we find what we call science dissolving in an indistinct mist. The culture-creating mind is ceaselessly employed in stripping experience of everything subjective, and in devising formulas to harness the forces of nature and express them in the best way possible. It would be a ridiculous and unwarranted presumption on our part if we imagined that we were more energetic or more intelligent than the men of the past-our material knowledge has increased, but not our intelligence. This means that we are just as bigoted in regard to new ideas, and just as impervious to them, as people were in the darkest days of antiquity. We have become rich in knowledge, but poor in wisdom. The centre of gravity of our interest has switched over to the materialistic side, whereas the ancients preferred a mode of thought nearer to the fantastic type. To the classical mind everything was still saturated with mythology, even though classical philosophy and the beginnings of natural science undeniably prepared the way for the work of "enligh tenmen t." 
Unfortunately, we get at school only a very feeble idea of the richness and tremendous vitality of Greek mythology. All the creative power that modern man pours into science and technics the man of antiquity devoted to his myths. This creative urge explains the bewildering confusion, the kaleidoscopic changes and syncretistic regroupings, the continual rejuvenation, of 
20 

25 

	_ 	~--~-~ 	_- """; - 	-- .. ...- 	- - 	- 	0 	' .. "' 	~r .&... .•• ....., .•••• - .••.•• 
inner source to produce an ever-changing succession of plast or phantasmal forms. This activity of the early classical mir was in the highest degree artistic: the goal of its interest do not seem to have been how to understand the real world objectively and accurately as possible, but how to adapt aesthetically to subjective fantasies and expectations. There w very little room among the ancients for that coldness and d illusionment which Giordano Bruno's vision of infinite worl and Kepler's discoveries brought to mankind. The naIve m, of antiquity saw the sun as the great Father of heaven and eart and the moon as the fruitful Mother. Everything had its demo was animated like a human being, or like his brothers the ar mals. Everything was conceived anthropomorphically or theri morphically, in the likeness of man or beast. Even the sun's di was given wings or little feet to illustrate its motion (pl. It Thus there arose a picture of the universe which was complete removed from reality, but which corresponded exactly to mar subjective fantasies. It needs no very elaborate proof to sho that children think in much the same way. They too anima their dolls and toys, and with imaginative children it is ea to see that they inhabit a world of marvels. 
We also know that the same kind of thinking is exhibited dreams. The most heterogeneous things are brought togeth regardless of the actual conditions, and a world of impossibi ties takes the place of reality. Freud finds that the hallmark· waking thought is progression: the advance of the thought stir ulus from the systems of inner or outer perception throu! the endopsychic work of association to its motor end, i., innervation. In dreams he finds the reverse: regression of tl thought stimulus from the pre-conscious or unconscious sphe to the perceptual system, which gives the dream its peculiar :: mosphere of sensuous clarity, rising at times to almost haJlucin tory vividness. Dream-thinking thus regresses back to the ra material of memory. As Freud says: "In regression the fabr of the dream-thoughts is resolved into its raw material." 23 Tl reactivation of original perceptions is, however, only one side, regression. The other side is regression to infantile memorit 23 The Interpretation at Dreams, n, p. 543. 
21 

V""I'iUUU t''-H_'-t'UVU~, II UCVCIlUCIC:>:> UC:>CIVC:> :>peClal Illennon 
because it has an importance of its own. It might even be considered as an "historical" regression. In this sense the dream can, with Freud, be described as a modified memory-modified through being projected into the present. The original scene of the memory is unable to effect its own revival, so has to be content with returning as a dream.24 In Freud's view it is an essential characteristic of dreams to "elaborate" memories that mostly go back to early childhood, that is, to bring them nearer to the present and recast them in its language. But, in so far as infantile psychic life cannot deny its archaic character, the latter quality is the especial peculiarity of dreams. Freud expressly draws attention to this: 
Dreams, which fulfil their wishes along the short path of regression, have merely preserved for us in that respect a sample of the psychical apparatus's primary method of working, a method which was abandoned as being inefficient. What once dominated waking life, while the mind was still young and incompetent, seems now to have been banished into the night-just as the primitive weapons, the bows and arrows, that have been abandoned by adult men, turn up once more in the nursery.25 
	26 	These considerations 26 tempt us to draw a parallel between 
the mythological thinking of ancient man and the similar think- 
	24 Ibid., p. 546. 	25 Ibid., p. 567. 
26 The passage in The Intc1"pretation at Dreams that follows immediately afterwards has since been confirmed through investigation of the psychoses. "These methods of working on the part of the psychical apparatus, which are normally suppressed in waking hours, become current once more in psychosis and then reveal their incapacity for satisfying our needs in relation to the external world" (ibid., p. 567). The importance of this sentence is borne out by the views of Pierre Janet, which were developed independently of Freud and deserve mention here because they confirm it from an entirely different angle, namely the biological side. Janet distinguishes in the function a firmly organized "inferior" part and a "superior" part that is in a state of continuous transformation: "It is precisely on this 'superior' part of the functions, on their adaptation to existing circumstances, that the neuroses depend .... Neuroses are disturbances or checks in the evolution of the functions .... Neuroses are maladies dependent on the various functions of the organism and are characterized by an alteration in the superior parts of these functions, which are checked in their evolution, in their adaptation to the present moment and the existing state of the external world and 
22 

not at all strange; we know it quite well from comparativt anatomy and from evolution, which show that the structure anc function of the human body are the result of a series of em bryonic mutations corresponding to similar mutations in Oul racial history. The supposition that there may also be in psychol ogy a correspondence between ontogenesis and phylogenesi: therefore seems justified. If this is so, it would mean that infan tile thinking 28 and dream-thinking are simply a recapitulatior. of earlier evolutionary stages. 
	27 	In this regard, N ietzsche takes up an attitude well worth 
noting: 
In sleep and in dreams we pass through the whole thought of ear· lier humanity .... What I mean is this: as man now reasons in dreams, so humanity also reasoned for many thousands of years when awake; the first cause which occurred to the mind as an explanation of anything that required explanation was sufficient and passed for truth .... This atavistic element in man's nature still mani· fests itself in our dreams, for it is the foundation upon which the higher reason has developed and still develops in every individual. Dreams carry us back to remote conditions of human culture and give us a ready means of understanding them better. Dream thinking comes so easily to us now because this form of fantastic and facile explanation in terms of the first random idea has been drilled 
of the individual, while there is no deterioration in the older parts of these same functions .... In place of these superior operations some degree of physical and mental disturbance develops-above all, emotionality. This is nothing but the tendency to replace the superior operations by an exaggeration of certain inferior operations, and particularly by gross visceral disturbances." (Les Nevroses, pp. 386ft) The "older parts" are the same as the "inferior parts" of the functions, and they replace the abortive attempts at adaptation. Similar views concerning the nature of neurotic symptoms are expressed by Claparede (p. 169). He regards the hysterogenic mechanism as a "tendance a la reversion," a kind of atavistic reaction. 27 I am indebted to Dr. Abraham for the following story: "A small girl of three and a half had been presented with a baby brother, who soon became the object of well-known childish jealousy. One day she said to her mother: 'You are two Mamas. You are my Mama, and your breast is little brother's Mama.''' She had just been observing with great interest the act of suckling. It is characteristic of the archaic thinking of the child to call the breast "Mama" [so in the originalEDITORS). Mamma is Latin-for 'breast.' 
28 Cf. particularly Freud's "Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy" and my "Psychic Conflicts in a Child." 
23 

••.•.•. '- ..•. '- ••••. 1,...1.\..1 .•.••• .I.V •• l..U .. "-' JJ.lCUU, VV.l.ULl1 uy Ud.y l1a..;:) LU ::ta..U:S1Y Lile :stern ae- 
mands of thought imposed by a higher culture .... 
From this we can see how lately the more acute logical thinking, the strict discrimination of cause and effect, has been developed, since our rational and intellectual faculties still involuntarily hark back to those primitive forms of reasoning, and we pass about half our lives in this condition.29 
	28 	Freud, as we have seen, reached similar conclusions regard- 
ing the archaic nature of dream-thinking on the basis of dreamanalysis. It is therefore not such a great step to the view that myths are dreamlike structures. Freud himself puts it as follows: 
"The study of these creations of racial psychology is in no way complete, but it seems extremely probable that myths, for example, are distorted vestiges of the wish-phantasies of whole nations-the age-long dreams of young humanity." 30 In the same way Rank 31 regards myth as the collective dream of a whole people.32 
	29 	Riklin has drawn attention to the dream mechanism in fairy- 
tales,s3 and Abraham has done the same for myths. He says: 
"The myth is a fragment of the superseded infantile psychic life of the race"; and again: "The myth is therefore a fragment preserved from the infantile psychic life of the race, and dreams are the myths of the individual." 34 The conclusion that the myth-makers thought in much the same way as we still think in dreams is almost self-evident. The first attempts at myth-making can, of course, be observed in children, whose games of make-believe often contain historical echoes. But one must certainly put a large question-mark after the assertion that myths spring from the "infantile" psychic life of the race. They are on the contrary the most mature product of that young humanity. Just as those first fishy ancestors of man, with their gillslits, were not embryos, but fully developed creatures, so the myth-making and myth-inhabiting man was a grown reality and not a four-year-old child. Myth is certainly not an infantile 
29 Human, All-Too Human, trans. by Zimmern and Cohn. I. pp. 24-27, modified. 
	so "The Poet and Day-Dreaming," p. 182. 	31 Der Kunstler, p. 36. 
32 Cf. also Rank, The Birth of the Hero. 
33 Wish fulfilment and Symbolism in Fairy Tales. 
34 Abraham, Dreams and Myths, pp. 36 aJld 72. modified. 
24 

	30 	It might be objected that the mythological proclivities 01 
children are implanted by education. This objection is futile Has mankind ever really got away from myths? Everyone whe has his eyes and wits about him can see that the world is dead cold, and unending. N ever yet has he beheld a God, or been compelled to require the existence of such a God from the evi· dence of his senses. On the contrary, it needed the stronges1 inner compulsion, which can only be explained by the irrational force of instinct, for man to invent those religious beliefs whose absurdity was long since pointed out by Tertullian. In the same way one can withhold the material content of primitive mythl from a child but not take from him the need for mythology: and still less his ability to manufacture it for himself. One could almost say that if all the world's traditions were cut of! at a single blow, the whole of mythology and the whole history of religion would start all over again with the next generation. Only a very few individuals succeed in throwing off mythology in epochs of exceptional intellectual exuberance-the massel never. Enlightenment avails nothing, it merely destroys a transitory manifestation, but not the creative impulse. 
	31 	Let us now turn back to our earlier reflections. 
	32 	We were speaking of the ontogenetic recapitulation of 
phylogenetic psychology in children, and we saw that archaic thinking is a peculiarity of children and primitives. We now know that this same thinking also occupies a large place in modern man and appears as soon as directed thinking ceases. Any lessening of interest, or the slightest fatigue, is enough to put an end to the delicate psychological adaptation to reality which is expressed through directed thinking, and to replace it by fantasies. We wander from the subject and let our thoughts go their own way; if the slackening of attention continues, we gradually lose all sense of the present, and fantasy gains the upper hand. 
	33 	At this point the important question arises: How are fan- 
tasies made, and what is their nature? From the poets we learn much, from scientists little. It was the psychotherapists who first began to throw light on the subject. They showed that fantasies go in typical cycles. The stammerer fancies himself a great 
2t;; 

--01 ~ ---- 1- - -- ------- --------- 
a millionaire, the child a grown-up. The oppressed wage victorious war on the oppressor, the failure torments or amuses himself with ambitious schemes. All seek compensation through fantasy. 
	34 	But just where do the fantasies get their material? Let us 
take as an example a typical adolescent fantasy. Faced by the vast uncertainty of the future, the adolescent puts the blame for it on the past, saying to himself: "If only I were not the child of my very ordinary parents, but the child of a rich and elegant count and had merely been brought up by fosterparents, then one day a golden coach would come and the count would take his long-lost child back with him to his wonderful castle," and so on, just as in a Grimms' fairy-story which a mother tells to her children. With a normal child the fantasy stops short at the fleeting idea, which is soon over and forgotten. There was a time, however, in the ancient world, when the fantasy was a legitimate truth that enjoyed universal recognition. The heroes-Romulus and Remus (pI. n), Moses, Semiramis, and many others-were foundlings whose real parents had lost them.35 Others were directly descended from the gods, and the noble families traced their descent from the heroes and gods of old. Hence the fantasy of our adolescent is simply a re-echo of an ancient folk-belief which was once very widespread. The fantasy of ambition therefore chooses, among other things, a classical form which at one time had real validity. The same is true of certain erotic fantasies. Earlier on we mentioned the dream of sexual assault: the robber who breaks in and does something dangerous. That too is a mythological theme and in days gone by was undoubtedly a reality.36 Quite apart from the fact that rape was a common occurrence in prehistoric times, it was also a popular theme of mythology in more civilized epochs. One has only to think of the rape of Persephone, of Deianira, Europa, and of the Sabine women. N or should we forget that in many parts of the earth there are 
35 Rank, The Birth of the Hero; also Kerenyi, "The Primordial Child," in Jung and Kerenyi, Science of Mythology, pp. 39f. 
36 For the mythological rape of the bride, cf. Kerenyi, "Kore," in ibid., pp. 17off. 
26 

nage oy capture. 
	35 	One could give countless examples of this kind. They wou 
all prove the same thing, namely that what, with us, is a su terranean fantasy was once open to the light of day. Wh, with us, crops up only in dreams and fantasies was once eith a conscious custom or a general belief. But what was once stror enough to mould the spiritual life of a highly developed peop will not have vanished without trace from the human soul i the course of a few generations. We must remember that a me] eighty generations separate us from the Golden Age of Gree culture. And what are eighty generations? They shrink to a almost imperceptible span when compared with the enormOl stretch of time that separates us from Neanderthal or Heide berg man. I would like in this connection to call attention t the pointed remarks of the great historian Ferrero: 
It is a very common belief that the further man is separated frO! the present in time, the more he differs from us in his thoughts an feelings; that the psychology of humanity changes from century t century, like fashions or literature. Therefore, no sooner do we fin in past history an institution, a custom, a law, or a belief a litt] different from those with which we are familiar, than we immed ately search for all manner of complicated explanations, whic more often than not resolve themselves into phrases oE no ver precise significance. And indeed, man does not change so quickl) his psychology at bottom remains the same, and even if his cultur varies much from one epoch to another, it does not change th functioning of his mind. The fundamental laws of the mind remail the same, at least during the short historical periods of which w have knowledge; and nearly all the phenomena, even the mos strange, must be capable of explanation by those common laws 0 the mind which we can recognize in ourselves.37 
	36 	The psychologist should accept tnis view without qualifica 
tion. The Dionysian phallagogies, the chthonic mysteries 0 classical Athens, have vanished from our civilization, and th, theriomorphic representations of the gods have dwindled t( mere vestiges, like the Dove, the Lamb, and the Cock adornin~ our church towers. Yet all this does not alter the fact that ir childhood we go through a phase when archaic thinking anc 37 Ferrero, Les Lois psychologiques, p. vii. 
27 

39 
we possess, Slue uy Slue WLLU UUl ueWIY dlAiUllCU UllLLLLU allU adapted thinking, a fantasy-thinking which corresponds to the antique state of mind. Just as our bodies still retain vestiges of obsolete functions and conditions in many of their organs, so our minds, which have apparently outgrown those archaic impulses, still bear the marks of the evolutionary stages we have traversed, and re-echo the dim bygone in dreams and fantasies. 
	,7 	The question of where the mind's aptitude for symbolical 
expression comes from brings us to the distinction between the two kinds of thinking-the directed and adapted on the one hand, and the subjective, which is actuated by inner motives, on the other. The latter form, if not constantly corrected by adapted thinking, is bound to produce an overwhelmingly subjective and distorted picture of the world. This state of mind has been described in the first place as infantile and autoerotic, or, with Bleuler, as "autistic," which clearly expresses the view that the subjective picture, judged from the standpoint of adaptation, is inferior to that of directed thinking. The ideal instance of autism is found in schizophrenia, whereas infantile autoeroticism is more characteristic of neurosis. Such a view brings a perfectly normal process like non-directed fantasythinking dangerously close to the pathological, and this must be ascribed less to the cynicism of doctors than to the cir-:umstance that it was the doctors who were the first to evaluate this type of thinking. Non-directed thinking is in the main subjectively motivated, and not so much by conscious motives as-far more -by unconscious ones. It certainly produces a world-picture very different from that of conscious, directed thinking. But there is no real ground for assuming that it is nothing more than a distortion of the objective world-picture, for it remains to be asked whether the mainly unconscious inner motive which guides these fantasy-processes is not itself an objective fact. Freud himself has pointed out on more than one occasion how much unconscious motives are grounded on instinct, which is certainly an objective fact. Equally, he half admitted their archaic nature. 
	38 	The unconscious bases of dreams and fantasies are only 
apparently infantile reminiscences. In reality we are concerned with primitive or archaic thought-forms, based on instinct, 28 

	• 	'J 	- j -~ ..•..••.•..•..••.••.•.••••..•. .I.\J\J\..I. l.LJ.ClI~ tlIey uu 
later. But they are not in themselves infantile, much less patho- 
logical. To characterize them, we ought therefore not to use expressions borrowed from pathology. So also the myth, which is likewise based on unconscious fantasy-processes, is, in meaning, substance, and form, far from being infantile or the expression of an autoerotic or autistic attitude, even though it produces a world-picture which is scarcely consistent with our rational and objective view of things. The instinctive, archaic basis of the mind is a matter of plain objective fact and is no more dependent upon individual experience or personal choice than is the inherited structure and functioning of the brain or any other organ. Just as the body has its evolutionary history 
and shows clear traces. of the various evolutionary stages, so too does the psyche.38 
Whereas directed thinking is an altogether conscious phe- 
nomenon,39 the same cannot be said of fantasy-thinking. Much of it belongs to the conscious sphere, but at least as much goes on in the half-shadow, or entirely in the unconscious, and can therefore be inferred only indirectly.40 Through fantasy-thinking, directed thinking is brought into contact with the oldest layers of the human mind, long buried beneath the threshold of consciousness. The fantasy-products directly engaging the conscious mind are, first of all, waking dreams or daydreams, to which Freud, Flournoy, Pick, and others have devoted special attention; then ordinary dreams, which present to the conscious mind a baffling exterior and only make sense on the basis of indirectly inferred unconscious contents. Finally, in split-off complexes there are completely unconscious fantasy-systems that have a marked tendency to constitute themselves as separate personalities.41 
38 See my paper "On the Nature of the Psyche" (1955 edn., pp. 41 If.). 
39 Except for the fact that the contents entering consciollsness are already in a high state of complexity, as Wundt has pointed out. 
40 Schelling (PhilosoPhie der Mythologie, 11) regards the "preconscious" as the creative source, just as Fichte (Psychologie, I, pp. 508ff.) regards the "preconscious region" as the birthplace of important dream contents. 
41 Cf. Flournoy, From India to_ the Planet Mars. Also my "On the Psychology and Pathology of So-called Occult Phenomena," "The Psychology of Dementia Praecox," and "A Review of the Complex Theory." Excellent examples are to be fOund in Schreber, Memoirs of My Nervous Illness. 
29 

have III common wIth mythoLogy. We should theretore have to conclude that any introversion occurring in later life regresses back to infantile reminiscences which, though derived from the individual's past, generally have a slight archaic tinge. With stronger introversion and regression the archaic features become more pronounced. 
	II 	This problem merits further discussion. Let us take as a con- 
crete example Anatole France's story of the pious Abbe Oegger.42 This priest was something of a dreamer, and much given to speculative musings, particularly in regard to the fate of Judas: whether he was really condemned to everlasting punishment, as the teaching of the Church declares, or whether God pardoned him after all. Oegger took up the very understandable attitude that God, in his supreme wisdom, had chosen Judas as an instrument for the completion of Christ's work of redemption.43 This necessary instrument, without whose help humanity would never have had a share in salvation, could not possibly be damned by the all-good God. In order to put an end to his doubts, Oegger be took himself one night to the church and implored God to give him a sign that Judas was saved. Thereupon he felt a heavenly touch on his shoulder. The next day he went to the archbishop and told him that he was resolved to go out into the world to preach the gospel of God's unending mercy. 
	[2 	Here we have a well-developed fantasy-system dealing with 
the ticklish and eternally unresolved question of whether the legendary figure of Judas was damned or not. The Judas legend is itself a typical motif, namely that of the mischievous betrayal of the hero. One is reminded of Siegfried and Hagen, Baldur and Loki: Siegfried and Baldur were both murdered by a perfidious traitor from among their closest associates. This myth is moving and tragic, because the noble hero is not felled in a fair fight, but through treachery. At the same time it is an event that was repeated many times in history, for instance in the case of Caesar and Brutus. Though the myth is extremely old it is still 
42 Le Jardin d'Epicure. 
43 The Judas-figure assumes great psychological significance as the sacrificer of the Lamb of God, who by this act sacrifices himself at the same time (suicide). See Part n. 
30 

does not let mankind sleep in peace. This rule can be applied to the mythological tradition in general: it does not perpetuate accounts of ordinary everyday events in the past, but only of those which express the universal and ever-renewed thoughts of mankind. Thus the lives and deeds of the culture-heroes and founders of religions are the purest condensations of typical mythological motifs, behind which the individual figures entirely disappear.44 
	43 	But why should our pious Abbe worry about the old Judas 
legend? We are told that he went out into the world to preach the gospel of God's unending mercy. Not long afterwards he left the Catholic Church and became a Swedenborgian. Now we understand his Judas fantasy: he was the Judas who betrayed his Lord. Therefore he had first of all to assure himself of God's mercy in order to play the role of Judas undisturbed. 
	44 	Oegger's case throws light on the mechanism of fantasies in 
general. The conscious fantasy may be woven of mythological or any other material; it should not be taken literally, but must be interpreted according to its meaning. If it is taken too literally it remains unintelligible, and makes one despair of the meaning and purpose of the psychic function. But the case of the Abbe Oegger shows that his doubts and his hopes are only apparently concerned with the historical person of Judas, but in reality revolve round his own personality, which was seeking a way to freedom through the solution of the Judas problem. 
	45 	Conscious fantasies therefore illustrate, through the use of 
44 Cf. Drews' remarks in The Christ Myth. Intelligent theologians, like KaIthoff (The Rise of Christianity), are of the same opinion as Drews. Thus Kalthoff says: 
"The documents that give us our information about the origin of Christianity are of such a nature that in the present state of historical science no student would venture to use them for the purpose of compiling a biography of an historical Jesus" (ibid., p. IQ). "To look behind these evangelical narratives for the life of a natural historical human being would not occur to any thoughtful men today if it were not for the influence of the earlier rationalistic theologians" (p. 13)· "In Christ the divine is always most intimately one with the human. From the God-man of the Church there is a straight line back, through the Epistles and Gospels of the New Testament, to the apocalypse of Daniel, in which the ecclesiastical conception of Christ makes its first appearance. But at every single point in this line Christ has superhuman features; he is never what critical theology would make him-a mere natural man, an historical individual" (p. 11). Cf. also Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus. 
31 

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It will readily be understood that a tendency which we fail to recognize and which we treat as non-existent can hardly contain anything that would fit in with our conscious character. Hence it is mostly a question of things which we regard as immoral or impossible, and whose conscious realization meets with the strongest resistances. What would Oegger have said had one told him in confidence that he was preparing himself for the role of Judas? Because he found the damnation of Judas incompatible with God's goodness, he proceeded to think about this conflict. That is the conscious causal sequence. Hand in hand with this goes the unconscious sequence: because he wanted to be Judas, or had to be Judas, he first made sure of God's goodness. For him Judas was the symbol of his own unconscious tendency, and he made use of this symbol in order to reflect on his own situation-its direct realization would have been too painful for him. There must, then, be typical myths which serve to work out our racial and national complexes. Jacob Burckhardt seems to have glimpsed this truth when he said that every Greek of the classical period carries in himself a little bit of Oedipus, and every German a little bit of Faust.45 
The problems with which the simple tale of the Abbe Oegger confronts us will meet us again when we examine another set of fantasies, which owe their existence this time to the exclusive activity of the unconscious. We are indebted to a young American woman, known to us by the pseudonym of Miss Frank Miller, for a series of fantasies, partly poetical in form, which 
45 Cf. Burckhardt's letter (1855) to his student Albert Brenner (trans. by Dru~ p. 116, modified): "I have no special explanation of Faust ready prepared and filed away. And in any case you are well provided with commentaries of every kind. Listen: take all those second-hand wares back to the library from which they originally camel (Perhaps in the meanwhile you have already done so.) What you are destined to discover in Faust, you will have to discover intuitively (N.B. I am only speaking of the first part). Faust is a genuine myth, i.e., a great primordial image, in which every man has to discover his own being and destiny in his own way. Let me make a comparison: whatever would the Greeks have said if a commentator had planted himself between them and the Oedipus saga? There was an Oedipus chord in every Greek that longed to be directly touched and to vibrate after its own fashion. The same is true of Faust and the German nation." 
32 

the /irClUves de psychologie (Geneva), under the title "Quelques faits d'imagination creatrice subconsciente." 46 
46 [See the Appendix for the full Miller account, translated into English.EDITORS.] 
33 

IH 
THE MILLER FANTASIES: ANAMNESIS 
	7 	Experience has taught us that whenever anyone tells us his 
fantasies or his dreams, he is concerned not only with an urgent and intimate problem but with the one that is most painful for him at the moment.1 Since, in the case of Miss Miller, we have to do with a complicated fantasy system, we shall have to give attention to details which I can pest discuss by keeping to Miss Miller's own account. In the first section, entitled "Phenomena of Transitory Suggestion or of Instantaneous Autosuggestion," she gives a number of examples of her unusual suggestibility, which she herself regards as a symptom of her nervous temperament. She seems to possess an extraordinary capacity for identification and empathy; for instance she identifies herself to such 
1 There is an example of this in C. A. Bernoulli, Franz Overbeck und Fried?'ich Nietzsche, I, p. 72. Bernoulli describes Nietzsche's behaviour at a party in Basel: 
"Once at a dinner he said to the young lady seated next to him, 'I dreamed a short while ago that my hand, lying before me on the table, suddenly had a skin like glass, shiny and transparent; in it I saw distinctly the bones, the tissues, the play of the muscles. All at once I saw a fat toad sitting on my hand and I felt at the same time an inesistible compulsion to swallow the creature. I overcame my terrible loathing and gulped it down.' The young lady laughed. 'Is that a thing to laugh at?' Nietzsche asked, dreadfully serious. his deep eyes fixed on his corn· panion, half questioning, half sorrowful. She then knew intuitively. even thoug,h she did not quite understand it, that an oracle had spoken to her in a parable, and that Nietzsche had allowed her to glimpse. as through a narrow crack, into the dark abyss of his inner self." Bernoulli makes (p. 166) the following observation: "One can perhaps see that behind the faultless exactitude of his dress there lay not so much a harmless plea!'ure in his appearance. as a fear of defilement born of some secret, tormenting disgust." 
Nietzsche came to Basel very young; he was just at the age when other young 
people are contemplating marriage. Sitting beside a young woman. he tells her that something terrible and disgusting has happened to his transparent hand. something he must take completely into his body. We know what disease caused the premature ending of Nietzsche's life. It was precisely this that he had to tell his young lady, and her laughter was indeed out of tune. 
34 

- / 
de Jjergerac that she feels a piercing pain in her own breast, the very place where the hero receives his death wound. 
	48 	One might describe the theatre, somewhat unaesthetically, 
as an institution for working out private complexes in public. The enjoyment of comedy, or of the blissful denouement of the plot, is the direct result of identifying one's own complexes with those personified by the actors, while the enjoyment of tragedy lies in the thrilling yet satisfying feeling that what is happening to somebody else may very well happen to you. The palpitations of our author at the sight of the dying Christian mean that there is a complex in her awaiting a similar solution, which whispers a soft "today to you, tomorrow to me"; and lest there should be any doubt as to the critical moment, Miss Miller adds that she felt the pain in her breast "when Sarah Bernhardt throws herself upon him to stanch the bleeding of his wound." The critical moment, therefore, is when the love between Christian and Roxane comes to a sudden end. If we examine Rostand's play as a whole, we shall be struck by certain passages whose effect it is not so easy to escape, and which we must emphasize here because they are of importance for everything that follows. Cyrano de Bergerac of the long ugly nose, on account of which he undertakes innumerable duels, loves Roxane, who is in love with Christian, because she thinks he is the author of the beautiful verses which really come from Cyrano's pen. Cyrano is the misunderstood one whose passion. ate love and noble soul no one suspects, the hero who sacrifices himself for others and, in the evening of life, with his dying breath, reads her once more Christian's last letter, the verses of which he has composed himself: 
Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I 
Feel my soul heavy with a love untold. I die! No more, as in the days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast 
On your least gesture-ay, the least! 
I mind me of the way you touch your cheek So softly with your finger, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! 
My heart cries outl I cry "Farewelll 
35 

Why, I do believe 
He dares to mock my nose! Ho! insolent! 
(He raises his sword) 
What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know! But who fights ever hoping for success? 
I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you?-You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! 
(He strikes the air with his sword) 
Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! 
Prejudice! Treachery! ... 
(He strikes) 
Surrender, I? 
Parley? No, never! You too, Folly, you? 
I know that you will lay me low at last; 
Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all; and when tonight 
I enter Christ's fair courts, and lowly bowed, 
Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left that, void of stain or smutch, 
I bear away despite you-my panache! 3 
	1. 	J ----I -- --. --- - ---- -_ .... - •.•..•....••.••...•••.•....•...•. -""' ••... - ..•..•...•.••... 
clear in the course of our analysis. 
	51 	The identification with Christian is followed by an extraor- 
dinarily plastic memory of the sea, evoked by a photograph of a steamer plunging through the waves. ("1 felt the throb of the engines, the heave of the waves, the roll of the ship.") We may here hazard the conjecture that the sea-voyages of our author were associated with particularly impressive memories which bit deep into her soul and, through unconscious sympathy, threw the screen memory into particularly vivid relief. We shall see later how far these conjectured memories hang together with the problem touched on above. 
	52 	The example that now follows is remarkable: Once, while 
she was having a bath, Miss Miller wound a towel round her hair to prevent it from getting wet. At that moment she had the following vivid impression: H ... it seemed to me, for one moment and with an almost breath-taking clarity, that 1 was on a pedestal, a veritable Egyptian statue with all its details; stifflimbed, one foot forward, holding insignia in my hand, etc." So Miss Miller is now identifying herself with an Egyptian statue, obviously on the basis of an unrecognized similarity. What she means is: 1 am like an Egyptian statue, just as stiff, wooden, sublime, and impassible, qualities for which the Egyptian statue is/proverbial. 
	53 	The next example lays stress on the personal influence she 
wields over a certain artist: 
MY ne art was yours m every Deatl M 
Whereupon Roxane recognizes him as the true beloved. But it is already too late, death comes, and in an agonized delirium Cyrano rouses himself, draws his sword: 
Cyrano, who beneath his hideous exterior hides a soul so much more beautiful, is full of misunderstood yearnings, and his final triumph lies in his departing with a clean shield-Hvoid of stain or smutch." The author's identification with the dying Christian, who in himself is not a very inspiring figure, tells us that a sudden end is destined for her love, just as for Christian's. But, as we have seen, the tragic intermezzo with Christian is played against a background of far wider significance, namely 
2 Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, trans. by Thomas and Guillemard, p. 282. 
3 Ibid., p. 293. 
However, I succeeded in making him draw landscapes, such as those of Lake Geneva, where he had never been, and he used to pretend that I could make him depict things that he had never seen and give him the sense of a surrounding atmosphere that he had never felt; in short, that I was using him as he himself used his pencil; that is, simply as an instrument. 
36 
	54 	This remark stands in abrupt contrast to the fantasy of the 
Egyptian statue. Miss Miller evidently has an unspoken need to emphasize her almost magical influence over another person. This, too, could not have happened without an inner compulsion, such as is particularly noticeable in one who often does not succeed in establishing a real emotional relationship. She 
87 

'UVVCJ.i) VJ.. i)U56L.,LJ.V.1.I.. 
With that, we come to the end of the examples illustrating he autosuggestibility and suggestive influence of our author. fhe examples are neither particularly striking nor particularly nteresting in this respect, but are all the more valuable from he psychological point of view because they allow us to glimpse ame of her personal problems. Most of the examples show how iable Miss Miller was to succumb to the powers of suggestion, lOW the libido gained control of certain impressions and in tenified them, which would naturally not have been possible but or the free-floating energy placed at her disposal by her lack of elation to reality. 
38 

IV 
THE HYMN OF CREATION 
	56 	The second section in the Miller material bears the title: 
" 'Glory to God': A Dream Poem." 
	57 	In 1898, as a girl of twenty, Miss Miller went on a long 
journey through Europe. We leave the description to her: 
After the long and rough voyage from New York to Stockholm, then to St. Petersburg and Odessa, it was a real pleasure [une veritable voluptti] 1 to leave the world of cities, of roaring streets, of businessin short, of the earth-and enter the world of waves, sky, and silence . . . . I spent hours on end on the deck of the ship, dreaming, stretched out in a deck chair. All the histories, legends, and myths of the different countries I saw in the distance came back to me confusedly, dissolved in a kind of luminous mist in which real things seemed to lose their being, while dreams and ideas took on the aspect of the only true reality. At first I even avoided all company and kept to myself, lost in my reveries, where everything I had ever known that was truly great, beautiful, and good came back to mind with renewed life and vigour. I also spent a good part of my days writing to absent friends, reading, or scribbling little bits of poetry in remembrance of the various places we visited. Some of these poems were of a rather serious character. 
	58 	It may perhaps seem superfluous to go into all these details 
more closely. But if we remember what we said above, that when people let their unconscious speak it always blurts out the most intimate things, then even the smallest detail often has a meaning. Miss Miller is here describing a "state of introversion": after the life of the cities, with their many impressions, had absorbed her intel'est (with that suggestive power which, as 
1 The choice of words and comparisons is always significant. [The words "a real pleasure," however, may not be PEecisely those which Miss Miller originally wrote in English and which Floumoy rendered as "une veritable volupte:' the phrase being remarked on here.-EDlToRS.] 
39 

i9 

treely agam on the ocean and became wholly engrossed in her inner world, deliberately cutting herself off from the environment, so that things lost their reality and dreams became truth. We know from psychopathology that there is a certain mental disturbance2 which is initiated by the patient's shutting out reality more and more and sinking into his fantasies, with the result that as reality loses its hold, the determining power of the inner world increases. This process leads up to a climax when the patient suddenly becomes more or less conscious of his dissociation from reality: in a sort of panic he begins making pathological efforts to get back to his environment. These attempts spring from the compensating desire for re-association and seem to be the psychological rule, valid not only for pathological cases but also, to a lesser degree, for normal people. 
One might therefore expect that after this prolonged introversion, which even impaired her sense of reality for a time, Miss Miller would succumb to a new impression of the external world, and one whose suggestive influence would be at least as great as that of her reveries. Let us proceed with her narrative: 
But as the voyage drew near its end, the ship's officers outdid themselves in kindness and amiability [se montrerent tout ce qu'il y a de Plus empresses et aimables], and I passed many an amusing hour teaching them English. 
Off the coast of Sicily, in the port of Catania, I wrote a sea-chanty, which, however, was little more than an adaptation of a well-known song about the sea, wine and love ("Brine, wine and damsels fine"). The Italians are all good singers, as a rule; and one of the officers, 
2 This illness had until recently the not altogether suitable name given it by Kraepelin: dementia praecox. Bleuler later called it schizophrenia. It is the particular misfortune of this illness that it was discovered by the psychiatrists, for its apparently bad prognosis is due to this fact, dementia praecox being synonymous with therapeutic hopelessness. How would hysteria appear if judged from the standpoint of psychiatry! The psychiatrist naturally sees only the worst cases in his asylum, and because of his therapeutic helplessness he is bound to be a pessimist. Tuberculosis would indeed be in a deplorable situation if it were described solely on the basis of experiences acquired in a Home for Incurables. The chronic cases of hysteria who slowly degenerate into idiots in lunatic asylums are rw more characteristic of real hysteria than schizophrenia is characteristic of the early forms of the disease, so frequently met with in practice, that hardly ever come under the supervision of the institutional psychiatrist. "Latent psychosis" is an idea that the psychotherapist knows and fears only too well. 
40 

60 

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could be fitted to his melody. 
Soon afterwards, I nearly did what the proverb says, "See Naples and die," for in the port of Naples I began by being very ill (though not dangerously so) ; then I recovered sufficiently to go ashore and visit the principal sights of the city in a carriage. This outing tired me extremely; and as we were intending to visit Pisa the next day, I soon returned on board and went to bed early, without thinking of anything more serious than the good looks of the officers and the ugliness of Italian beggars. 
One is slightly disappointed at meeting here, instead of the powerful impression one expected, an apparently insignificant episode, a mere flirtation. Nevertheless one of the officers, a singer, had evidently made a considerable impression on her. The concluding remark-"without thinking of anything more serious than the good looks of the officers" -does, it is true, tone it down somewhat. Even so, the assumption that this impression had no little influence on her mood is supported by the fact that a poem in honour of the singer was immediately forthcoming. One is only too ready to make light of such an experience and to accept the assurance of those concerned that everything is quite simple and not at all important. I am inclined to pay rather more attention to it, because experience has shown that an impression which comes after an introversion of that kind has a profound effect and may possibly have been underestimated by Miss Miller herself. The sudden, passing attack of sickness requires psychological explanation, though this is not possible for lack of data. But the phenomena about to be described can only be understood as arising out of a convulsion that reaches into the very depths of her being: 
From Naples to Leghorn is one night by boat, during which I slept moderately well-my sleep is rarely deep or dreamless-and it seemed to me that my mother's voice woke me up just at the end of the following dream, which must, therefore, have taken place immediately before waking. 
First, I was vaguely conscious of the words "when the morning stars sang together," which served as the prelude, if I may so put it, to an involved idea of creation and to mighty chorales reverberating through the universe. But, with the confusion and strange contradic- 
41 

Miss Miller then wrote down the following poem, which she rearranged slightly a few months later, in order to make it more nearly, in her opinion, like the dream original: 
Before we examine her attempts to get at the roots of this subliminal creation through her own associations, let us take a quick look at the material already in hand. The impression of the ship has already received due emphasis, so it ought not to 
42 
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York, and with indistinct memories of Milton's Paradise Lost. Then, slowly, out of this medley, words appeared, and a little later they arranged themselves in three stanzas, in my handwriting, on a sheet of ordinary blue-lined writing-paper, in a page of myoId poetry album that I always carry about with me: in short, they appeared to me exactly as they did in reality, a few minutes later, in my book. 
First Version 
When God had first made Sound, A myriad ears sprang into being And throughout all the Universe Rolled a mighty echo: 
"Glory to the God of Sound!" 
When beauty (light) first was 
given by God, 
A myriad eyes sprang out to see And hearing ears and seeing eyes Again gave forth that mighty 
song: 
"Glory to the God of Beauty (Light)!" 
When God has first given Love, A myriad hearts lept up; 
And ears full of music, eyes all full of Beauty, 
Hearts all full of love sang: 
"Glory to the God of Lovel" 

Second Version (more exact) 
When the Eternal first made 
Sound 
A myriad ears sprang out to hear, And throughout all the Universe There rolled an echo deep and 
clear: 
"All glory to the God of Sound!" 
When the Eternal first made 
Light, 
A myriad eyes sprang out to look, And hearing ears and seeing eyes, Once more a mighty choral took: 
"All glory to the God of Light!" 
When the Eternal first gave Love, A myriad hearts sprang into life; Ears filled with music, eyes with 
light, 
Pealed forth with hearts with love all rife: 
"All glory to the God of Love!" 

uu~ PUCllL lCVCldllUU; .ll Wd~ ~Ul')i!.C~lCU l.Ul UlCl UdU,_ Uldl lVl.l~~ Miller may have considerably underestimated the scope of the erotic impression she had received. This assumption is the more probable in that experience has shown that relatively weak erotic impressions are often underestimated. One can see this most clearly in cases where an erotic relationship is regarded as impossible on social or moral grounds (for instance between parents and children, brothers and sisters, older and younger men, etc.). If the impression is comparatively slight, it does not exist at all for the persons concerned; if it is strong, then a tragic dependence develops which can lead to all sorts of trouble. This lack of judgment can go unbelievably far-a mother who sees her small son having an erection in her own bed; a sister who half-playfully embraces her brother; a twentyyear-old daughter who still sits herself in her father's lap and then has "strange" sensations in her "tummy." And yet they are all highly indignant when anyone speaks of "sexuality." There is a certain kind of education that tacitly aims at knowing as little as possible about these unmentionable facts in the background, and which shrouds them in the deepest ignorance.3 No wonder, then, that most people's judgment in regard to the scope of erotic impressions is precarious and inadequate. Miss Miller was, as we have seen, quite prepared for a deep impression. But not many of the feelings it aroused seem to have come to the surface, for the dream had to repeat the lesson over again. We know from analytical experience that the initial dreams of patients at the beginning of an analysis are of especial interest, not least because they often bring out a critical evaluation of the doctor's personality which previously he would have asked for in vain. They enrich the patient's conscious impression of the doctor, often on very important points, and they frequently contain erotic comments which the unconscious had to make in order to counterbalance the patient's underestimation and uncertain appraisal of the impression. Expressed in the drastic and hyperbolic manner peculiar to dreams, the impression often appears in almost unintelligible form owing to the incongruity of the symbolism. A f~rther peculiarity, which seems due to the 3 The reader must remember that these lines were written before the first World War. Much has changed since then. 
43 

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'orm of relationship. That explains why young girls, at the :ime of their first love, have great difficulty in expressing them,elves owing to disturbances brought about by regressive reac:ivation of the father-imago.4 
We may suppose that something similar has happened to \1iss Miller, for the idea of a masculine Creator-God is appar~ntly derived from the father-imago,5 and aims, -among other hings, at replacing the infantile relation to the father in such l way as to enable the individual to emerge from the narrow :ircle of the family into the wider circle of society. Naturally his is far from exhausting the meaning of the dream-image. 
In the light of these reflections, the poem and its prelude lppear as the religiously and poetically formulated product of m introversion that has regressed back to the father-imago. )espite inadequate apperception of the operative impression, ts essential ingredients have been built into the substitute )roduct, as marks of its origin, so to speak. The operative im)ression was the handsome officer singing in the night-watch'When the morning stars sang together" -whose image opened )Ut a new world to the girl ("Creation"). 
This "creator" created first Sound, then Light, and then Here I purposely give preference to the term "imago" rather than to "complex," [l order to make clear, by this choice of a technical term, that the psychological lctor which I sum up under "imago" has a living independence in the psychic ierarchy, i.e., possesses that autonomy which wide experience has shown to be b.e essential feature of feeling-toned complexes. This is brought out by the term imago." (Cf. my "Psychology of Dementia Praecox," chs. 2 and 3.) My critics ave seen in this view a return to medieval psychology and have therefore reudiated it. This "return" was made consciously and deliberately on my part, ecause the psychology of ancient and modern superstition furnishes abundant vidence for my point of view. Valuable insight and confirmation is also given s by the insane Schreber in his autobiography. My use of "imago" has close ,arallels in Spitteler's novel of the same name, and also in the ancient religious lea of the "imagines et lares." In my later writings, I use the term "archetype" Istead, in order to bring out the fact that we are dealing with impersonal, allective forces. 
The idea that the masculine deity is derived from the father-imago need be lken literally only within the limits of a personalistic psychology. Closer investiation of the father-imago has shown that certain collective components are conlined in it from the beginning and cannot be reduced to personal experiences. :f. my essay, "The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious," pp. 129fI. 
44 

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voice corresponds to the sun,6 in the sounds or cries of lamentation mentioned in Poimandres/ and in God's laughter at the creation of the world (KOCT}.107roLLa) in a Leiden Papyrus.8 Hence we may hazard the conjecture, which will be amply confirmed later on, that there was the following chain of association: the singer-the singing morning star-the God of Sound-the Creator-the God of Light-of the sun-of fire-and of Love. Most of these expressions are also characteristic of the language of love and are found wherever speech is heightened by emotion. 
	66 	Miss Miller has tried to understand this unconscious creation 
by means of a procedure which agrees in principle with the methods of psychological analysis and therefore leads to the same results. But, as is usually the case with laymen and beginners, she gets stuck at associations which bring the underlying complex to light only in an indirect way. Nevertheless, a simple procedure, a mere matter of carrying the thought to its logical conclusion, is enough to help one find the meaning. 
	67 	Miss Miller finds it astonishing, first of all, that her uncon- 
scious fantasy does not, like the Biblical account of the Creation, put light in the first place, but sound. There now follows a truly ad hoc theoretical explanation. She says: 
It may be of interest to recall that Anaxagoras, too, makes the cosmos arise out of chaos by means of a whirlwind 9-which does not normally occur without producing a noise. But at that time I had not yet made a study of philosophy and I knew nothing either of Anaxagoras or of his theories about the povs which I found I had 
6 "But the voice and the name [are] sun and moon." Hippolytus, Elenchos, VI, 13.-Max Miiller, in his foreword to the Sacred Books of the East, I, p. xxv, says ()fthe sacred syllable Om: "He therefore who meditates on Om, meditates on the spirit in man as identical with the spirit ... in the sun." 
7 Schultz, Gnosis, p. 62. Text in Scott, Hermetica, I, p. 115' Lib. I, 4. 
8 Pap. J 395, in Dieterich, Abraxas, p. 17: "And God laughed seven times Cha Cha Cha Cha Cha Cha Cha, and as God laughed, there arose seven gods." 
9' In Anaxagoras, the living primal power of vou. imparts movement to inert matter. There is, of course, no mention of noise. Also, Miss Miller stresses the wind nature of vou. more than is warranted by ancient tradition. On the other hand, this voU. is related to the 7rv.up.a of late antiquity and to the >.o'yOi tT7rEp/JanKo. of the Stoics. In the incest fantasy of one of my patients, her father covered her face with his hands and blew into her open mouth-an allusion to inspiration. 
45 

:alculat fit mundus." 
fhe allusions to Anaxagoras and Leibniz both refer to creation hrough thought, so that divine thought alone is held capable )f producing a new material reality-a reference which seems mintelligible at first, but will soon become more understandlble. 
We come now to the associations from which Miss Miller nainly derives her unconscious creation: 
n the first place, there is Milton's Paradise Lost) of which we had a ine edition at home, illustrated by Gustave Dare, and which I have ;nown well since childhood. Then the Book of Job, which has been ead aloud to me ever since I can remember. Now, if you compare ny first line with the first words of Paradise Lost) you find it is in he same metre (~-/ ~-/ v-J ~-): 
Of man's first disobedience ... When the Eternal first made sound. 
vloreover, the general idea of my poem is slightly reminiscent of 'arious passages in Job, and also of one or two places in Handel's 10 ,ratorio The Creation (which appeared in the confusion at the leginning of the dream). 
So the "lost paradise," which is as we know closely associated vith the beginning of the world, is defined more precisely hrough the line "Of man's first disobedience"-a clear reference o the Fall, which in this connection is not without significance. 
know the objection which everyone will raise here, namely hat Miss Miller could just as well have chosen any other line as n example, that she picked on the first suitable one purely by ccident, and that its content was equally accidental. The critiism levelled at the association method generally operates with rguments of this kind. The misunderstanding arises from the act that the law of psychic causality is never taken seriously nough: there are no accidents, no "just as wells." It is so, and here is a very good reason why it is so. It is a fact that Miss v.Iiller's poem is associated with the Fall, and this focuses our ttention on the very same problem whose existence we have lready surmised. Unfortunately, the author neglects to tell us ) Probably Haydn's Creation is meant. 
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broad conjectures. 1<1rst ot all, the analogy to t'aradzse Lost: Job loses everything he has, because Satan made God doubt his integrity. In the same way, paradise was lost through the temptation of the serpent, and mankind was cast out into a life of earthly travail. The idea, or rather the mood, expressed by this recollection of Paradise Lost is Miss Miller's feeling of having lost something which was somehow connected with Satanic temptation. Like Job, she is an innocent victim because she did not succumb to the temptation. Job's sufferings are not understood by his friends; 11 none of them knows that Satan has a hand in the game and that Job is really innocent. Indeed, he never wearies of protesting his innocence. Does this, perhaps, give us a clue? We know that certain neurotics and mentally diseased people continually defend their innocence against nonexistent attacks; but on closer inspection one discovers that in defending their innocence apparently without cause they are simply indulging in a self-deceiving manoeuvre, which derives its energy from those very impulses whose unpleasant character is plainly revealed by the content of the alleged accusations and calumnies.12 
	70 	Job suffers doubly, firstly through the loss of his fortune, sec- 
ondly through the lack of understanding of his friends, a theme that can be traced all through the book. Tile misery of being misunderstood reminds us of the figure of Cyrano de Bergerac: he too suffers doubly-on one side through unrequited love, on the other through misunderstanding. He falls, as ,ve have al· ready seen, in the last hopeless struggle against "Falsehood, Compromise, Prejudice, Treachery, and Folly": 
You strip from me the laurel and the rose! 
	71 	Job laments: 
God hath delivered me to the ungodly, 
and turned me over in to the hands of the wicked. I was at ease, but he hath broken me asunder: 
11 See Job 16: 1-11. 
12 I remember the case of a crazy young girl of 20, who continually imagined that her innocence was suspected despite all my efforts to talk her out of it. Gradually her indignant defence developed into a correspondingly aggressive erotomania', 
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"U~ u~ •• u~ ~.t' .~ •• uu u."U~. 
Ris archers compass me round about, 
he cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare; he poureth out my gall upon the ground. 
He breaketh me with breach upon breach, 
he runneth upon me like a giant,13 
The emotional analogy lies in having to suffer a hopeless struggle against overwhelming odds. It is as if this struggle were accompanied from afar by the clangour of "creation," as if it constellated in the unconscious a wonderful and mysterious image that has not yet forced its way into the light of the upper world. We surmise, rather than know, that this struggle has got something to do with creation, with the unending battle between affirmation and negation. The allusions to Rostand's Cyrano through the identification with Christian, to Milton's Paradise Lost} to the sorrows of Job, misunderstood by his friends, plainly betray that in the soul of the poet there is something that identifies with these ideas. She too has suffered like Job, has lost paradise, and dreams of "creation" -creation through thought-and of fructification through the rushing wind of the pneuma. 
We submit ourselves once more to Miss Miller's guidance: 
I remember that, at the age of fifteen, I was very much excited by an article my mother had read to me, about "the Idea spontaneously creating its own object," and I passed almost the whole night without sleep, wondering what it could all mean.-From the age of nine to sixteen, I used to go on Sundays to a Presbyterian church, where the pastor was a highly cultivated man, now president of a well"Tlown college. And in one of the earliest memories I have of him, I sce myself, still quite a little girl, sitting in our large pew in church and struggling to keep myself awake, without being able to understand what in the world he meant when he spoke to us of "Chaos," "Cosmos:' and "the Gift of Love." 
There arc, then, fairly early memories of the awakening of puberty (n:ine to sixteen), which connect the idea of the cosmos born of chaos with the "Gift of Love." The medium in which this happy connectIOn took place is the memory of a muchr('spected ecclesiastic who spoke those dark words. From the 13 Job 16: uli. 
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	- - .-- -1" 	n_u __ ----J -- ----uO _w ~ •• -- ~~ J--" ~ •• ~ "~IU~. ~.~" 
tion are here hinted at: creative t}:IOught, and the mysterious reference to the "Gift of Love." 
	75 	During the latter part of my medical studies I had an oppor- 
tunity of gaining, through long observation, a deep insight into the soul of a fifteen-year-old girl. I then discovered, to my astonishment, what the contents of unconscious fantasies are like, and how far removed they are from what a girl of this age shows in her outward demeanour and from what an outsider would suspect. They were far-reaching fantasies of a positively mythical nature: the girl saw herself, in her split-off fantasy, as the racial mother of uncounted generations of men.14 Even allowing for the markedly poetic cast of her imagination, there still remained elements that are probably common to all girls of her age,Jor the unconscious is infinitely more common to all men than are the contents of their individual consciousnesses. The unconscious is, in fact, the condensation of the average run of historical experience. 
	76 	Miss Miller's problem at this age was the common human 
problem: How am I to be creative? Nature knows only one answer to that: Through a child (the gift of love). But-how does one get a child? Here arises the problem which, as experience has shown, is connected with the father,15 so that it cannot be tackled properly because too much preoccupation with the father at once brings up the incest-barrier. The strong and natural love that binds the child to the father turns away, during the years when the child is outgrowing the family circle, to the higher forms of the father, to authority, to the "Fathers" of the Church and to the father-god visibly represented by them, where there is even less possibility of coming to grips with the problem. Nevertheless, mythology is not lacking in consolations. Did not the Word become flesh? And did not the divine pneuma enter into the Virgin's womb? (pI. Ill.) The whirlwind of Anaxagoras was that same divine nous which produced the world out of itself. Why do we cherish the image of 
14 The case is published in my "On the Psychology and Pathology of So-called Occult Phenomena." 
15 Cf. Freud, "Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy," and my "Psychic Conflicts in a Child." 
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