The Search for the Self, Volume 1: Selected Writings of Heinz Kohut, 1950-1978 volume 1

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THE SEARCH FOR THE SELF SELECTED WRITINGS OF HEINZ KOHUT: 1950-1978 VOLUME I Edited by

PAUL H. ORNSTEIN

KARNAC

THE SEARCH FOR THE SELF volume

1

by the same author

The Analysis of the Self: A Systematic Approach to the Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders The Restoration of the Self

THE SEARCH FOR THE SELF Selected Writings of Heinz Kohut: 1950-1978 volume

1

Edited with a new foreword by Paul H. Ornstein

KARNAC

First published by International Universities Press in 1978 This edition published in 2011 by Karnac Books Ltd 118 Finchley Road London NW3 5HT Copyright © 2011 The Estate of Heinz Kohut The rights of Heinz Kohut to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with §§ 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A C.I.P. for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-85575-869-8 www.karnacbooks.com

Foreword

The re-issuing of the four volumes of Heinz Kohut’s writings is a major publishing event for psychoanalysts who are interested in both the theoretical and the therapeutic aspects of psychoanalysis. These volumes contain Kohut’s pre-self psychology essays as well as those he wrote in order to continue to expand on his groundbreaking ideas, which he presented in The Analysis of the Self; The Restoration of the Self; and in How Does Analysis Cure? These volumes of The Search for the Self permit the reader to understand not only the above three basic texts of psychoanalytic self psychology more profoundly, but also to appreciate Kohut’s sustained openness to further changes—to dare to present his self psychology as in continued flux, influenced by newly emerging empirical data of actual clinical practice. Kohut turned his self-knowledge and his clinical experience to formulate his “experience-near” theories and offer a new paradigm for psychoanalysis. His theory of the self is rooted where Freud left off in his 1914 paper ‘On Narcissism—An Introduction’ in which he wrote: “The disturbances to which the child’s original narcissism is exposed, the reactions with which he seeks to protect himself from them and the paths into which he is forced in doing so—these are the themes which I propose to leave on one side, as an important field of work that still awaits exploration.” Kohut’s writings deal with these explorations extensively. It must have encouraged him to be an innovator in the very area that Freud left for future analysts to pursue. The motivation for the re-issue is, in some sense, the same as was the motivation when I first assembled Kohut’s published and unpublished papers in Volumes I and II in 1978 and Volumes III and IV in 1990. These volumes make the total oeuvre available in chronological order so that the reader can discern the meanings and linkages between them that cannot be detected when reading the individual papers in isolation. However, this time we have an

additional motivation. Since the original publication of the four volumes, psychoanalysis had undergone many changes. Clinical reports and theoretical discussions attest to the fact that during the last few decades some of Kohut’s ideas were silently absorbed into contemporary pluralistic psychoanalysis. However, others still await more rigorous consideration in many of the ongoing psychoanalytic debates. For example, the centrality of empathy as a mode of observation and as the definer of the field, and the explanatory power of the selfobject concept above and beyond its clinical significance, have not yet penetrated the thinking of mainstream psychoanalysis and deserve further consideration. The current re-issue of the four volumes of The Search for the Self would assure that the younger generation of psychoanalysts would be exposed to a clinical theory that could contribute greatly to solving the therapeutic dilemmas facing psychoanalysis today. Paul H. Ornstein, 2011

Contents VOLUME 1 Introduction: T h e Evolution of Heinz Kohut's Psychoanalytic Psychology of the Self— by

PAUL H . ORNSTEIN

1

1. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann: A Story About the Disintegration of Artistic Sublimation

107

2. August Aichhorn — Remarks After His Death

131

3. On the Enjoyment of Listening to Music—by H E I N Z K O H U T and

S I E G M U N D LEVARIE

135

4. Discussion of "The Function of the Analyst in the Therapeutic Process" by Samuel D. Lipton

159

5. Book Review of Psychanalyse de la Musique (1951) by Andre Michel

167

6. Discussion of "Natural Science and Humanism as Fundamental Elements in the Education of Physicians and Especially Psychiatrists" by Henry von Witzleben

171

7. Discussion of " 'Eros and Thanatos': A Critique and Elaboration of Freud's Death Wish" by Iago Galdston

177

8. Book Review of The Haunting Melody: Psychoanalytic Experiences in Life and Music (1953) by Theodor Reik

187

9. Book Review of Beethoven and His Nephew: A Psychoanalytic Study of Their Relationship (1954) by Editha and Richard Sterba

191

10. Discussion of "Modern Casework: T h e vii

viii

CONTENTS

Contribution of Ego Psychology" by Annette Garrett

195

11. Discussion of "The Role of the Counterphobic Mechanism in Addiction" by Thomas S. Szasz

201

12. Introspection, Empathy, and Psychoanalysis: An Examination of the Relationship Between Mode of Observation and Theory

205

13. Observations on the Psychological Functions of Music

233

14. Book Review of The Arrow and the Lyre: A Study of the Role of Love in the Works of Thomas Mann (1955) by Frank Donald Hirschbach

255

15. Discussion of "Some Comments on the Origin of the Influencing Machine" by Louis Linn

259

16. Discussion of "A Note on Beating Fantasies" by William G. Niederland

263

17. Discussion of "Looking Over the Shoulder" by Morris W. Brody and Philip M. Mechanik

267

18. Childhood Experience and Creative Imagination — Contribution to Panel on the Psychology of Imagination

271

19. Beyond the Bounds of the Basic Rule: Some Recent Contributions to Applied Psychoanalysis

275

20. Discussion of "Further Data and Documents in the Schreber Case" by William G. Niederland

305

21. Discussion of "The Unconscious Fantasy" by David Beres

309

22. The Psychoanalytic Curriculum

319

23. Concepts and Theories of Psychoanalysis—by H E I N Z K O H U T and

PHILIP F. D . SEITZ

337

ix

CONTENTS

24. The Position of Fantasy in Psychoanalytic Psychology — Chairman's Introductory Remarks to the Symposium on Fantasy

375

25. Some Problems of a Metapsychological Formulation of Fantasy — Chairman's Concluding Remarks to the Symposium on Fantasy

379

26. Franz Alexander: In Memoriam

387

27. Values and Objectives

389

28. Autonomy and Integration

395

29. Discussion of "Correlation of a Childhood and Adult Neurosis: Based on the Adult Analysis of a Reported Childhood Case" by Samuel Ritvo

405

30. Discussion of "Termination of Training Analysis" by Luisa G. de Alvarez de Toledo, Leon Grinberg, and Marie Langer

409

31. Discussion of "Some Additional 'Day Residues' of 'The Specimen Dream of Psychoanalysis' " by Max Schur

423

32. Forms and Transformations of Narcissism

427

33. The Evaluation of Applicants for Psychoanalytic Training

461

34. The Psychoanalytic Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders: Outline of a Systematic Approach

477

VOLUME 2 35. Psychoanalysis in a Troubled World

511

36. Narcissism as a Resistance and as a Driving Force in Psychoanalysis

547

x

CONTENTS

37. Peace Prize 1969: Laudation

563

38. Discussion of "The Self: A Contribution to Its Place in Theory and Technique" by D. C. Levin

577

39. Scientific Activities of the American Psychoanalytic Association: An Inquiry

589

40. Thoughts on Narcissism and Narcissistic Rage

615

4 1 . Discussion of "On the Adolescent Process as a Transformation of the Self" by Ernest S. Wolf, John E. Gedo, and David M. Terman

659

42. The Future of Psychoanalysis

663

43. The Psychoanalyst in the Community of Scholars

685

44. Letter to the Author: Preface to Lehrjahre auf der Couch by Tilmann Moser 45. Remarks About the Formation of the Self—Letter to a Student Regarding Some Principles of Psychoanalytic Research

737

46. The Self in History

771

47. A Note on Female Sexuality

783

48. Creativeness, Charisma, Group Psychology: Reflections on the Self-Analysis of Freud

793

49. Preface to Der falsche zur Drogenkarriere

Weg zum Selbst,

725

Studien

by Jürgen vom Scheidt

845

Letters—1961-1978

851

Conclusion: T h e Search for the Analyst's Self

931

References

939

Name Index

955

Subject Index

961

Introduction The Evolution of Heinz Kohut's Psychoanalytic Psychology of the Self

by PAUL H.

ORNSTEIN

The idea of tracing the evolution of Heinz Kohut's insights into the problem of narcissism occurred to me after I had listened to the delivery of his contribution "The Psychoanalytic Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders" (1968) which was the Third Freud Anniversary Lecture of the Psychoanalytic Association of New York on May 20, 1968. This paper made immediately clinically relevant what I was beginning to absorb at that time, first hand, from clinical experience. I decided after that Freud Lecture to assemble all of Kohut's contributions into one collection and to include both his published and unpublished papers and discussions and even some that were originally not meant for publication. The now widespread and profound interest in all aspects of Kohut's work makes it timely that I share the results of my journey through the development of his ideas with others, who are interested in traveling along the same road and making their own discoveries along the way. T h e reader has a distinct advantage over those who read the papers in this collection at the time of their publication, 1

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or who heard the discussions in their original context. By having the total oeuvre available in chronological sequence, he can discern meanings and linkages that could then not be discerned from the "fragments" in isolation. He can also discover for himself the mode of thinking and the precursors of Kohut's current ideas. The reader who is familiar with his recent work will have added incentives and guidelines for his explorations and discoveries. All the more so, since knowledge of current terminology and concepts will alert him not only to Kohut's own, earlier language and conceptualizations, within the classical paradigm, but also to the nuances of changed and changing meanings, which, although expressed in the old language, nevertheless already here reveal their novelty. Our interest is especially aroused when we notice, with hindsight, the limitations of some of the earlier conceptualizations, and especially the errors in technique that they have inevitably led to even with the grasp of the nature of the psychopathology. Such examples are particularly instructive, since they show us the clinical necessity for some of the basic conceptual changes. The previously unpublished discussions are included here in order to show the evolution in Kohut's thinking; he used the papers of others at local, national, and international meetings to sharpen his own clinical and theoretical grasp — and, I suspect, in order to test out his formulations in the more direct presenter-audience contact. While the papers discussed may seem to have been randomly chosen, the discussions, both individually and collectively reveal the gradual advances of the main themes in his work and thereby reveal their underlying unity. Thus, these discussions should be of interest to the reader, even without his familiarity with the papers to which they refer. Since this study has been a most meaningful personal and professional experience for me, it is relevant (and therefore perhaps necessary) to start with a brief description of the

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circumstances that led me to this undertaking. I also hope that this will illuminate some aspects of the subject matter itself. Heinz Kohut taught the two-year course on psychoanalytic theory during my training at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis. T h e brilliantly synthesized and most coherently delivered lectures were in a sense —a "traumatic experience" for me. As I recall them, these lectures were organized in historical sequence to convey the vicissitudes of the development of psychoanalytic theory. They always contained the empirical findings that gave rise to successive new clinical theories, as experience with new categories of patients confronted Freud with the limits of his previous conceptualizations. These lectures also showed how and why the new clinical concepts necessitated a revision, expansion, or even a complete reformulation of existing metapsychology. Psychoanalytic theory, psychoanalytic technique, and the empirical data upon which both were founded thus changed repeatedly; in the evolution of psychoanalysis, sometimes technique seemed ahead of theory, other times theory seemed ahead of technique. What struck me most in these lectures was Kohut's precision—he insisted on nuances of meaning, as if we were dealing with an "exact science"—showing us the logic of the creative leap from the clinical data to clinical theory and to metapsychology, and at the same time he invariably showed us the areas of uncertainty, the vagueness and ambiguity of various concepts and those areas, where basic knowledge was still lacking. Equally striking was his ability to move with ease from the clinical to the theoretical and from the theoretical to the clinical, so that we had an immediate sense of the basic clinical data upon which psychoanalytic theory had been built. T h e "traumatic experience" to which I have alluded had to do not only with the fact that all of this was too much, too soon, but mainly that it appeared unique; an idiosyncratic

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gift for synthesis which seemed to me then unlearnable. Yet, as traumatic experiences may sometimes do, they stimulated in me a lasting interest in the kind of synthesis and in the kind of natural and seemingly effortless movement from the empirical to the theoretical and from the theoretical to the empirical which were the hallmark of those lectures. It was with this interest in acquiring some of the capacity for psychoanalytic theorizing that I originally turned to Dr. Kohut for regular consultations after completing my formal training. I expected a further consolidation of my clinical skills and the expansion of my ability to move from there to clinical theory and to metapsychology. To put it still another way, I expected to learn to use the metapsychology I had acquired, to illuminate and to deepen what I could grasp clinically, to narrow the gap between clinical data and theoretical abstractions in my own work. In addition, quite unexpectedly, I experienced a slow and inevitably difficult entry, into a new realm of psychoanalysis, which Kohut was then systematically opening and finally described in great detail in The Analysis of the Self (1971), in a series of subsequent publications and hitherto unpublished essays, culminating in The Restoration of the Self (1977), all of which are included in this collection (except the two books). My entry into this new territory of his investigations occurred through the experience of analyzing a patient with a narcissistic personality disorder. The emotional and cognitive demands of working with novel conceptualizations so soon after the completion of my formal psychoanalytic training raised anxieties and resistances against the suggested new approach. How could Kohut espouse such a distinctly different conceptual and technical framework for the analysis of my patient without my having detected such a difference in his teaching just a few years before? If it was not only a difference in style and emphasis, but something fundamentally

INTRODUCTION

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new—which it obviously was —then how did his technique, his clinical theory and his metapsychology develop? I had the distinct impression that there must have been some precursors of these ideas in his previous work which we all might have overlooked. If so, tracing them and following their evolution from their beginnings to their current systematic development ought to make it easier for us to grasp them and to discover their significance. To find these precursors, then, to Heinz Kohut's ideas on narcissism in his own writings was the impetus that sent me off on the first of the many trips on this exploratory venture. Our objectives are therefore specific and circumscribed: to outline his essential contributions to theory and treatment, to identify further landmarks beyond his initial basic findings and theories, and finally, to demonstrate how all of these have led to his expansion of the field of psychoanalysis. Prospective Overview: Lines of Thought and Nodal Points A quarter of a century of Kohut's productive psychoanalytic life is readily demarcated into three periods. In the writings of the first period (1950-1959) one can detect the themes that ultimately develop into three major lines of thought and then reach several nodal points. Nearly all of these contributions lead from and ultimately return to the center of our field, the psychoanalytic method, within the psychoanalytic situation. They always have a broad range and deal with fundamental issues, even when their manifest content seems peripheral to the psychoanalyst's main concerns such as, for example, the papers on music. These three lines of thought converge into a major nodal point in the paper, "Introspection, Empathy and Psychoanalysis — An Examination of the Relationship between Mode of Observation and Theory" (1959b), a methodologic paper which Gedo (1975)

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has aptly called revolutionary and whose message and programmatic content has remained largely undiscovered by the psychoanalytic community. Almost a decade of work found clear expression of the essential method in "Introspection, Empathy . . .," a paper which also marked the end of the first period, while at the same time it ushered in an equally productive second period in Kohut's work (1959-1966). "Introspection, Empathy could therefore be considered a pivotal essay which during the second period gave rise to the completion of two previously significant lines of thought. These lines — applied psychoanalysis and metapsychology—reach their nodal points in "Beyond the Bounds of the Basic Rule" (1960a), on the one hand, and in "Concepts and Theories of Psychoanalysis" (Kohut and Seitz, 1963) on the other. The second period was marked by the application of recently established methodologic considerations to a variety of clinical-theoretical, educational, and organizational problems in psychoanalysis. In many of these contributions we also recognize the continuation of the original threads in Kohut's thinking, which led u p to the "Introspection" paper. These may clearly be considered the precursors of his ideas on narcissism, which now in the third period culminated in the twin papers "Forms and Transformations of Narcissism" (1966b) and "The Psychoanalytic Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders" (1968) and the monograph The Analysis of the Self (1971). Indeed, the monograph, far from completing the work on narcissism and thus closing this third period, opened the way for further original contributions (1972b, 1976). These constitute significant advances toward a broader psychoanalytic psychology of the self. Thus the monograph and the essay on narcissistic rage opened up new vistas (1973, 1975a, 1975c, 1976). This new central line of thought, then, narcissism — the direct continuation of the earlier psychoeconomic point of view—broadened into the

INTRODUCTION

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psychoanalytic psychology of the self and developed into the major creative breakthrough in Kohut's work, a breakthrough still in progress, with additional landmarks already visible in the final few papers in this collection and in the recently published The Restoration of the Self (1977). The themes of the early works which constitute the three main lines of thought can be subsumed under the following topical headings: (1) T h e application of psychoanalytic insights to literature and music and its reverse: the gaining of clinical insights from these nonclinical sources. (2) The appreciation of the importance of the psychoeconomic aspects of the psychoanalytic experience and the capacity for theoretical abstractions (metapsychological formulations) from them, especially as these illuminate the earliest phase of personality development. (3) T h e definition, refinement, and reconceptualization of the psychoanalytic method—its range, the areas it can encompass, and the boundaries beyond which it can not reach — leading to corrections, reformulations, and extensions of theory. In all these lines of thought the consistent application of the psychoeconomic point of view and the recognition of the range and of the limitations of empathy and introspection were of major significance for the subsequent development of Kohut's ideas on narcissism. Even this sketchy outline immediately points to the fact that those psychoanalysts who have for years maintained that the psychoanalytic method in the psychoanalytic situation exhausted its heuristic potential, that we have learned all we could about the h u m a n mind through it, gave u p on refining our classic method too soon. I hope to show, in this introductory essay, how Kohut did indeed refine and elaborate the basic method. He has conclusively demonstrated that the psychoanalytic situation remains the central wellspring of new knowledge and has recently stated that " . . . our present analytic investigations do not yet penetrate very far beneath

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the surface" (1975a). Clearly he himself successfully transcended the existing paradigm. The First Period (1950-1959): Emerging Synthesis and the Thrust Toward a Method Undoubtedly, a full appreciation of Kohut's contributions during this first period is only possible retrospectively and by bringing together in chronological sequence both the published papers and the previously unpublished discussions. Another, to my mind significant, early component in this process of evolution toward a unifying theme in Kohut's work, was his two-year course on psychoanalytic theory, which he taught at the Chicago Institute for more than a decade. Since neither the content, nor the format of that course can be presented here in detail and since some further remarks about it will be in order in the discussion of the second period, only one aspect of it is at this time relevant for a proper perspective on these early works. Against the background of a growing tendency to discard the concept of psychic energy, and with it the psychoeconomic point of view in metapsychology, in favor of the topographic-structural, dynamic, genetic and adaptive points of view, Kohut always stressed the uniquely psychoanalytic quality of the psychoeconomic theory. There were, indeed, other psychologies with dynamic, genetic, structural, and adaptive points of view. True, these points of view did have specific distinguishing features within psychoanalysis — but the psychoeconomic point of view was exceptional in that it existed only in the context of psychoanalytic psychology. This emphasis and the special place accorded the psychoeconomic theory did not necessarily entail then, and certainly does not entail now, more than a metaphor when we speak of "psychic energy." The essential point is that Kohut's sensitivity to increase or decrease of inner tension, to the manifold

INTRODUCTION

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distribution of cathexes, permitted him to conceptualize psychic events, especially in early life, without adultomorphic formulations, without resorting to the postulation of archaic fantasies in the "prepsychologic" period of infancy. This classically Freudian stance, coupled with the recognition of the limitations of introspection and empathy in the reconstruction of the beginnings of psychic life—yet applying both introspection and empathy consistently and persistently to the limit — contributed considerably to the heuristic value of Kohut's early work. We may thus say that from the outset, Kohut has used the language of the psychoeconomic point of view to express his introspective-empathic findings in the experience-distant concepts of classical metapsychology. It is for this very reason that we are justified in viewing the role of the psychoeconomic point of view in Kohut's work as one of the most important methodologic precursors of his work on narcissism. We here pursue the study of the works of the first period along the three main lines of thought indicated earlier: (1) applied psychoanalysis — literature and music; (2) the psychoeconomic point of view; (3) method, clinical theory, and metapsychology. Kohut's scientific interests as a psychoanalyst were immediately engaged in all three of the areas just mentioned in a complex yet thoroughly integrated fashion. I shall deal with them in a more linear and thereby inevitably simplified fashion, because I realize that as a guide for this journey with some definite goals in mind and as a first appraisal of the entire terrain, this introductory essay need not be a complex treatise on all aspects of the area to be explored. On this exploration I must guard against taking the many fruitful side-trips possible in Kohut's writings. I shall stay close to the main roads, but occasionally point to some fruitful idea which thus far has remained unelaborated or unintegrated with the main themes.

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Psychoanalysis—Literature

ORNSTEIN

and Music

An essay on Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice" (1957b) was Kohut's first psychoanalytic paper (though published only some years after it was written, in fact, after Mann's death). At the core of this contribution is the clinical grasp of the protagonist Aschenbach's personality: the role of creativeness in his psychic economy and the etiology, genetics, and dynamics of the disintegration of his capacity for artistic sublimation and idealization "under the influence of aging, loneliness, and guilt over success." Kohut elaborates his understanding of Aschenbach on a level of clinical theory and metapsychology, both expressed in a more or less contemporary frame of reference and terminology. Therefore, we can study here some of the precursors of his clinical and theoretical insights into narcissism and also compare this early understanding and explanation to his more recent up-dated interpretation of Aschenbach's central psychopathology (1976). Kohut presents a clear, vividly condensed outline of the plot to highlight his perception of the protagonist's predicament—the equivalent of a good clinical history gathered with the empathic-introspective mode of observation. Kohut then uses every literary detail and formal characteristic of the narrative — the four apparitions, the travel, the cholera epidemic in Venice, and others —as points of interpretive entry into a deeper layer of Aschenbach's inner world to find the reasons for its inevitable crumbling. Even though some of the explanatory concepts are drawn from the realm of objectinstinctual cathexes, the essential pathology is correctly grasped as the "disintegration of artistic sublimation," the expression of the psychopathology of the narcissistic sector of the personality. Kohut's perception of the end stage of the disintegration which Mann portrays in Aschenbach's relationship to Tadzio, the young boy he meets in Venice,

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affords us a good view at the precursors of his ideas on narcissism. The narcissistic regression manifested by hypochondriacal preoccupations is clearly evident before Aschenbach recognizes his passionate longing for Tadzio. Both Mann and Kohut see Aschenbach's love for Tadzio as having a disintegrating effect upon his personality, as shown by its regressive (homosexual) nature. (The reader familiar with Kohut's recent work on narcissism might see Aschenbach's desperate and uncontrollable longing for Tadzio as an attempt to ward off the ultimate disintegration of his artistic self with the archaic, crudely sexualized relationship. Tadzio is the archaic selfobject in relation to whom Aschenbach is to regain the beauty, perfection, and creativity of his own youth.) In his love for Tadzio, Aschenbach "identifies with the father . . . who loves only the son," but his "ambivalence is intensified by the narcissistic, envious recognition that another is getting what he really wished for himself, and hostile, destructive elements enter into his feelings toward Tadzio." Kohut then goes on to say: "it remains true that the destructive impulses toward Tadzio are secondary, arising only in so far as the narcissistic identification with the boy and the enjoyment of love by proxy are not entirely successful." But what is most threatening to Aschenbach is not his envious hostility or hatred, says Kohut, but "the breakdown of sublimated homosexual tenderness and the nearly unchecked onrush of unsublimated homosexual desire in the aging writer." Kohut wonders about the genetic sources of the danger that threatens Aschenbach with disintegration and the relation of this to the capacity for artistic sublimation that has prevented such disintegration up to this time. He finds a clue in Aschenbach's dream and emphasizes the traumatic overstimulation of a primal-scene experience and the ensuing passivity in coping with it. The passivity may undo the child's

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identificatory participation in the frightening experience, which defensively turns him into an "emotionally uninvolved observer." This particular defense may become important in the subsequent development of the artistic attitudes as an observer and describer —a hypothesis that is clinically testable. He thus introduces the problem of creativity, a subject that receives emphasis throughout his writings. Several years later, reviewing a broader study of Mann's work (by F. D. Hirschbach) Kohut (1957a) remarked that "a careful psychoanalytic investigation of the life and work of Thomas Mann should . . . prove to be a worthy challenge to the student of the role of sublimation in h u m a n adjustment." Kohut obviously refers here to sublimation as the larger issue of creativity in general, which he addressed later on in his writings in relation to the transformations of archaic narcissism (1966b, 1971, 1973, 1976). Hirschbach's main thesis revolves around "the omnipresence in Mann's stories of a battle between Eros and Agape," roughly translated by Kohut into its approximate psychoanalytic analogue as a conflict between sexual and sublimated libido. "The analyst would not deny the presence of this factor," Kohut goes on to say, "but would be inclined to assign to it a secondary role; it determines the form in which the conflict is expressed but it is not its cause." This "secondary role" can now be better appreciated if we do not conceive of a pathogenic conflict between sexual and sublimated libido, but see the disintegration of artistic sublimation as primary and the sexualized attempts at its recovery as secondary. Kohut extended this idea by the further recognition that one theme stood out repeatedly in Mann's writings (buttressing the notion of its biographic significance): " . . . his heroes' precarious psychological adjustments, and their fight against narcissistic regression and hypochondriacal preoccupation. . . . T h e heroes . . . who are threatened by disintegration [can be] contrasted with Joseph and Felix Krull

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[heroes in other works of Mann, who are] in narcissistic balance." A remark about the composer Schumann fits into this context. Kohut, encountering the opinion "that Schumann forestalled the outbreak of his psychosis by the intensive study of the works of Bach which . . . was an attempt to make peace with the father superego" (1957e), suggested instead "that the inner experience of the disintegration of ego functions"—read now fragmentation of the self—"may lead to desperate efforts at self-healing through musical contact (or identification) with omnipotent figures." Turning to the writings on music (1951b, 1952, 1955a, 1955b, 1957e; Kohut and Levarie, 1950), our interest is in the manner in which Kohut poses questions that can be answered with the aid of psychoanalytic insights, the methods he applies, and the explanatory concepts he uses for his investigations. T h e music papers are a first sample of a systematic examination of a seemingly circumscribed problem, a method repeated in each of his significant works. What seems a narrow area for psychoanalysis and off center regarding clinical-theoretical concerns turns out not only to yield insights into the genesis and functions of musical activity (composition, performance, listening), but is at once a contribution to music, to the method of applied psychoanalysis, and to a clinical-theoretical understanding of infantile psychic organization, the "archaic mental apparatus." Kohut in collaboration with a musicologist (Kohut and Levarie, 1950) sought to clarify the genetic, topographic, and psychoeconomic aspects of why music is enjoyed. Some years later, Kohut (1957e) investigated the psychologic functions of music staking out the field between "The area of 'primary autonomy' of musical function (innate musical talent, sequence of musical maturation, etc.) [and the] area of 'secondary autonomy' (the mature musical functions)," namely, "the chronologically and structurally intermediate

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area of c o n f l i c t . . . " Applying the structural point of view and the tripartite model, Kohut concludes that "With the aid of the structural point of view we comprehend how the pressure of unacceptable strivings, the despair of being incapable of inner or outer mastery, and the demands of an outmoded or tyrannical sense of duty lead us in our musical activities to substitutive forms of discharge, mastery, and compliance in a nonverbal medium that lies, usually, outside the field of most structural conflict." We should take notice of Kohut's recognition that the concepts of the structural theory only explain "the significance of musical experiences for the fully structuralized psyche. . . . To encompass more broadly and in greater depth both the participation of and the impact of musical activities and experiences on the total personality and to be able to answer the question regarding the specifically musical element in the enjoyment of music, Kohut introduces three interrelated psychoanalytic principles which govern the relation of the "fully structuralized psyche" to the "early psychic organizations." This permits him to extend the limitations (but not yet to break out of the confines) of the structural theory and tripartite model. (1) Using the principle of the gradual development of psychological function from primary processes to secondary processes permits the formulation of "primary and secondary musical processes," the details of which are also part of the answer to the question of what is psychologically specific to music that is not found in other forms of art. The simultaneous consideration of the polarities and transitions "between the deeply threatening sound of the primitive layers and the less threatening verbalizable contents of the surface layers" avoids a reductionist view and gives richer meaning to melody, tonality, rhythm, tune, form, and (genetically) the parental voice in the various layers of the psyche, which may all be simultaneously activated in any given musical experience.

INTRODUCTION

15

T h e fact that Kohut focuses upon the "primitive forms of tension mastery by direct, rapid discharge" in the primaryprocess layers and the "refined and complex means of tension mastery via . . . concept formation and logical thinking, of problem solving, planning, and deliberate action" in the secondary-process layers, demonstrates his preference for the psychoeconomic point of view over the construction of adultomorphic fantasies in the most primitive layers of the psyche. (2) Employing what he refers to as "the principle of the developmental hierarchy of psychological stages," he extends the primary process-secondary pr jcess conceptualizations. This principle refers to the sequential layering of increasingly more complex psychic organizations in which the earlier and least differentiated psychic organizations are retained beneath the most highly differentiated recent attainments — although usually under their control. Music may reverberate in the more primitive as well as in the higher forms of psychic organizations. (3) Employing what he refers to as "the principle of regression," according to which there can be a return to earlier modes of functioning and psychic organization (both voluntary and controlled or involuntary and unmastered), we have one aspect of the modus operandi of the primary processsecondary process relation and thus also of the relation between the psychic organizations at various levels of differentiation. "The extraverbal nature of music lends itself particularly well by offering a subtle transition" — (by means of regression) — "to preverbal modes of psychological functioning." In conjunction with these three principles, Kohut describes the nature of the archaic mental apparatus: "The earliest psychological organization (pre-ego, pre-object . . . preverbal) is characterized by increases and decreases of inner tensions." He is then more specific: "The psyche [at this level of organization] can neither register its needs (that is, expe-

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rience them as wishes) nor provide for their relief: the tensions remain, without psychological elaboration, on the physical level." The earliest acoustic trauma, the tendency of the archaic mental apparatus "to perceive sound as a direct threat and to react reflexly to it with anxiety" (Kohut and Levarie, 1950), may be re-enacted in each musical experience, with a chance to resolve it within the medium of music "through musical mastery." The threat and its mastery are reproduced in each sequence of dissonance to consonance. "Thus the playful mastery of the threat of being overwhelmed by sounds becomes an enjoyable ego activity, which contributes to the total enjoyment of music." Psychoeconomic ally, such mastery, if it leads to a rapid discharge of tension, seems to contribute to the definition of the special quality that characterizes musical enjoyment. But more important than the conclusions about music is the detailed reasoning that lead to them and the use of introspection and (empathic) observation to make sense of a wide variety of data about musical activities, which can then be explained. All this soon attained methodologic significance in Kohut's writings. The explanatory concepts used in these essays were not simply speculatively applied to the various phenomena of music (although speculations were included and named as such, where clinical experience was lacking); they served as additional "instruments of observation." Their relevance ultimately emerged from the analysis of Mr. H. (1957e; 1971, p p . 150, 318), in whom the psychoeconomic role of musical activity was a central feature. T h e insights gained from this analysis led Kohut to advance his original contributions to the psychology of music. His formulation of 1

1

A later remark of Kohut's related to a possible early acoustic trauma is of interest in this connection: " . . . a diffuse, chaotic, early threat of contentless sensory overstimulation [is] mastered through erotization, with the aid of the contents of the oedipal period" (1957d).

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INTRODUCTION

the nature of Mr. H.'s psychopathology and the necessary steps in the psychoanalytic treatment process with similar patients is undoubtedly one of the significant clinical-theoretical precursors of his current systematic understanding of the theory and treatment of narcissistic personality disorders. This contribution may well have remained unnoticed, since it was "buried" in one of the music papers. The Psychoeconomic

Point of View

Kohut has always stressed the psychoeconomic concept of trauma (as in "traumatic neurosis"), and he retained as useful some clinical-theoretical elements of Freud's (1898) "actual neurosis." Anxiety neurosis, neurasthenia, some forms of insomnia, and, later on (1911b), hypochondriasis were Freud's "actual neuroses," endogenous replicas of the traumatic neurosis. Instead of the etiologic significance which was attributed to "undischarged libido" and its direct transformation into anxiety, Kohut emphasized that the actual neuroses reflect the economic imbalance of forces with which a weak or weakened ego cannot effectively cope. The psychoeconomic point of view has been more generally accepted in its central role in the psychoanalytic theory of grief and mourning, of play and humor, of artistic enjoyment, and finally, of the process of working through (although Freud [1914b] spoke of large quantities of undischarged "object libido" in all other actual neuroses, but of a psychoeconomic imbalance of "narcissistic libido" in hypochondriasis). Kohut re-emphasized Freud's notion that there was an "actual-neurotic core" in every neurosis, i.e., a psychoeconomic imbalance as a nucleus or first stage in the symptom formation of a psychoneurosis. If we link this formulation with Kohut's previously quoted description of the earliest psychological organization (see p p . 15-16, above), we will recognize that it is the absence of psychological elaboration in

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fantasies of mounting tension that is of significance to us for grasping the core of Mr. H.'s psychopathology. A partial regression to such functioning as is described for the archaic mental apparatus occurs in the "organ neuroses" (with selected and narrowly circumscribed areas of tension), and in a group of "diffuse personality disorders" (with a wide variety of tensions). Mr. H. is an example of this latter group, where "an insufficient ego system [read now an enfeebled or fragmentation-prone self] is unable to deal with any of a wide variety of tensions." Mr. H. entered analysis with complaints about his work, but underneath suffered from vague, diffuse, and unbearable tensions. He could only describe these by localizing them "either in the pit of his stomach, in his throat, in his extremities, or in his head." He did not elaborate these tensions into delusions, although he occasionally worried about having cancer. In characterizing these tensions, Kohut points to "their diffuseness and lack of elaboration by fantasies even during childhood or in his adult dream life." Their genesis could be related to "certain typical childhood situations in which the adults repeatedly stimulated his greed or created rage by sudden frustration, while at the same time they prevented an expression of the need or the frustrated anger by their contemptuous coldness and withdrawal." Kohut presents a highly condensed version of the details of the "psychoeconomic efficacy" of the psychoanalytic process with Mr. H. T h e gradual decrease of tension and the over-all improvement—puzzling at first, since Mr. H.'s life and work seemed unchanged — could ultimately be related to his having developed a "passion for music" — playing several instruments and beginning to compose. It turned out that when he was a young child he listened to recorded music for long periods of time and immersed himself in the pleasing sounds. This was already "an early regression from the painful world of people and their words to an extraverbal

INTRODUCTION

19

world whose stimulations could be kept within bounds and could therefore be enjoyed." Although Mr. H.'s musicality had been potentially available to him since childhood, his early musical interest was passive listening, and he attained no significant musical skills. "Musicality was thus not integrated into the ego ideal and was given u p during latency and adolescence under the social pressure of peer groups." T h e analytic process liberated Mr. H.'s potential musical gifts and demonstrated "the psychoeconomic efficacy of musical activity for the relief of pregenital libidinal and aggressive tensions." Kohut's discussion includes an attempt to grasp certain aspects of diffuse personality disorders, the schizoid defenses, and the schizophrenic psychoses by looking at their relation to musical activities. It is evident that he considered Mr. H.'s psychopathology an analyzable narcissistic personality disorder, but he could then not yet separate this conceptually from the whole cluster of narcissistic disturbances. Mr. H.'s analysis seems to have ended (among other effects) on a note of "passion for music," expressed in heightened and sustained musical creativity—one of the end points of transformed archaic narcissism. From among the many technical principles made explicit on the basis of Mr. H.'s analysis, one might be lifted out here for illustration. It is undoubtedly one of those analytic perceptions that have kept Kohut's third ear open for new possibilities of meaning and of response. He remarks, "The schizoid balance may be disturbed by an experience of rejection—often negligible to the observer—which results in a sudden decrease of object cathexis." (We would now speak of narcissistic equilibrium and of a disruption of a "selfobject" relationship if the rejection occurred outside of the analytic situation, or of a disruption of a "selfobject" transference if it occurred within the analytic situation.) Kohut states that if such experiences take place within the psychoanalytic or psychotherapeutic setting,

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the ensuing "flow of narcissistic regression can most often be halted [since] . . . the regressive movement is usually started in the therapeutic situation itself by the severely taxed therapist's mistakes and ambivalence." This last remark contains an important principle that leads to significant advances in the technique of psychoanalysis. It calls attention to the fact that the analyst cannot focus his view exclusively on the patient's psychopathology without violating the process of the analytic experience itself. T h e psychoanalytic process can only be understood—in relation to the analysis of both narcissistic personality disorders and structural conflicts —if the analyst's contributions to the process are kept clearly in mind. The erroneous view which holds that such episodes of regression within the process are inevitable (although they are determined by the patient's intrinsic potential for such regressions) and that they are due to "negative therapeutic reactions" has seriously retarded advances in psychoanalytic technique.

Method,

Clinical Theory, and

Metapsychology

The third main line of thought, the issues of method and theory, while also represented in the two lines just described, evolve at this stage in relation to the psychoanalytic situation and process more clearly in the unpublished discussions. What we see in the published writings is their presentation in the final form. It is noteworthy that these discussions span the same time period as the published papers on applied psychoanalysis. This overlap or simultaneity attests to the intrinsic interrelationship of the three main lines of thought and their ultimate compelling synthesis in the "Introspection" paper. It is clear, indeed, throughout Kohut's writings that it was clinical necessity, the experiences with patients in the analytic situation and process, that demanded reconceptualization of theory and technique. Another way of expressing this is to say

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that Kohut's original scientific work immediately began in the problem areas of our field, namely, where the expansion of clinical psychoanalysis beyond the neuroses was groping for more effective theoretical and technical solutions. His first discussion of the psychoanalytic process (1951a) reflects both his solid classical orientation and the beginning of his contributions to the theory of the psychopathology of "borderlinestates," which were then not matched by the technical innovations yet to come. T h e details deserve closer inspection. Kohut focused on Freud's "bipolar orientation toward psychopathology," according to which, at one pole, in the psychoneuroses, the main conflict is intrapsychic, "while the ego in its relations with reality, including the interpersonal relationships, is disturbed only secondarily in the limited field of the specific conflict." At the other pole, in the psychoses—later on enlarged to include the much wider field of "ego modifications" — "the interpersonal defects, the loss of reality, the ego alterations, are paramount, while the intrapsychic conflict is of secondary importance." When Kohut examined the available technical correlates to this formulation, he discovered some difficulties in attempting to articulate a unified approach to patients with psychoneuroses and to those with ego modifications or "borderline" psychopathology. His recognition of the differences in the psychopathology as these appeared in the form and content of the transferences of the two groups of patients contained some elements with a remarkably current flavor. But his schematic description of the analytic process with patients in the "borderline" category shows all the problems that only his much later conceptualizations were able to 2

1

In another context Kohut (1957c) calls attention to the fact that some analysts examine the psychoses from a dynamic-structural point of view, while others emphasize the psychoeconomics of the total prestructural regressive psychological organization. Freud did both.

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resolve. One can already sense here, however, that it is the perception and clear articulation of the specific nature of the transferences that will contribute to a decisive progress in the technique of psychoanalysis with these patients. Metapsychologically, " . . . transference describes the tendency of the repressed infantile drive, which is attached to old objects, to seek new objects in its search for satisfaction." Transference, to the extent that it is "repetition and . . . confusion between old and new object," is characteristic of both groups of patients. But in the psychoneuroses, the third, decisive, element, the repressed drive is seeking satisfaction, whereas in the "borderline" patient "an injured, narcissistic ego is seeking reassurance. " "The emphasis of all the psychological maneuvers is on restoring or keeping u p a precarious balance of self-esteem." Kohut cogently explains why this difference is so frequently overlooked: T h e clamoring presence of "oral demands" is taken as evidence of repressed "oral drives" seeking satisfaction through transference. "But, as ego functions can become libidinized in the transference neuroses (for example, in hysterical writer's cramp) so also can drives be used for predominantly narcissistic purposes. If we recognize that some forms of frantic genital activity are by no means necessarily indicative of a strong genital drive, are not primarily performed for pleasure but for reassurance, there is also no need to assume that the oral demands of the 'borderline' patients are necessarily an indication of strong oral drives striving for pleasure, but rather that they too serve the narcissistic purpose of gaining the reassurance of being given something." In response to this conception of the psychopathology of these "borderline" patients, Kohut formulates three stages of their analysis. He says: "The therapy has to proceed in several stages which are, theoretically and schematically, as follows: (1) the overcoming of what in older psychoanalytic language used to be called the 'narcissistic barrier'; consisting, from the

INTRODUCTION

23

side of the patient, in a continuous, repetitive testing of the personality of the analyst; from the analyst's point of view in a scrutiny of the ego-alterations of the patient, especially insofar as they lead to misinterpretation of reality, and, concomitantly that participation of the analyst in the relationship which enables the patient to give u p the faulty expectations regarding the analyst's intentions and powers. (2) A gradual shift of attention from the narcissistic interpersonal manoeuvers to the underlying intrapsychic conflict that had impoverished the ego and had led, secondarily in the genetic sense, to its narcissism. (3) The re-enactment of the intrapsychic conflict in the transference and its analysis" (1951a). This treatment plan, understandably, still views narcissism as a resistance to be overcome under the impact of the analysis of the ego, which should then gradually correct "faulty interpersonal expectations" and replace the "narcissistic barrier" with a more "reality-adapted rapport with the analyst." Once the latter is accomplished, contingent upon the patient's "capacity for rapport," based on the extent of nontraumatic infantile and childhood experiences and early interpersonal successes, "the patient is enabled to allow the emergence of the transference and can tolerate its analysis." Why is the more advanced conception of the psychopathology not matched here with an equally advanced conception of technique? From our current vantage point, the limiting factors are clear. T h e theoretical straitjacket of the single-axis theory of narcissism (the developmental sequence of autoerotism, narcissism, and object love) only permitted a conceptualization of narcissism as a resistance, precluding the discovery of the narcissistic transferences and their expressions of narcissism as a developmental driving force. References to the ego and its alterations still retained the structural theory as an ordering principle for the psychopathological processes in the narcissistic disorders, and this did not provide the basis for a qualitative differentia-

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tion of the analyzable from the nonanalyzable narcissistic disorders. Before further progress could be made and a creative reconceptualization of the entire problem of narcissism became possible, Kohut had to acquire the conceptual tools for a redefinition of psychoanalysis and its method. On the way toward this redefinition, still in the unpublished discussions (1953, 1954, 1956a), we find the initial attempts to delineate the conceptual boundaries of psychoanalysis vis-avis biology and social psychology, to clarify the psychology of the "drives," and finally, to define the mode of theorizing and the articulation of the method that will make the final synthesis in the "Introspection" paper (1959b) a truly pivotal nodal point of his contributions. In response to careless mixing of biologic, social-psychologic, and psychologic concepts, within psychoanalysis, medicine, psychiatry, and allied disciplines, Kohut (1953, 1954, 1956a) argues for the intrinsic relation of method to theory. He says (1953), "If we recognize that psychology and biology use different conceptual frameworks and different methods, then we will also accept the fact that they can arrive at divergent judgments concerning the same issue — and yet both of them may be right." T h a t both are right, however, frequently leads to the error of mixing these truths and thereby "biologizing psychology" or "psychologizing biology." Kohut cogently advocates that meaningful synthesis of the two truths as one moves across the boundaries (and is thereby in a new realm) requires "a new area of cognition dominated by the rules of the new conceptual framework." He focuses on the ambiguity of the concept of dependence (and the related concept of symbiosis) and on Freud's "Eros" and "Thanatos" to exemplify the theoretical problems involved. The concept of "dependence" is a good example, because it is so frequently a favored "dynamic" to be invoked as an explanatory hypothesis, since it conveys both a biologic

INTRODUCTION

25

and psychologic meaning. It is a biologic concept when we refer to "the condition of dependence," and it is a psychologic concept when we refer to "the wish to be dependent." For Kohut, the biologist's or the social psychologist's observations of dependence do not become a psychologic concept unless the psychologist's introspective-empathic observation actually finds "the wish to be dependent." We are not accustomed to being so careful in our formulations. Kohut's critique of Freud's mixing of biology and psychology in relation to his concepts of "life drive" and "death drive" is a good test of both the reliability and the usefulness of Kohut's emerging method. He does not join those who either completely repudiate the "life drive" and the "death drive," or those who embrace both concepts within psychology. Instead, he examines the theory to evaluate its scientific nature. T h e guiding principle for this scientific evaluation is clearly stated (1954): "What is legitimately arrived at as a result of scientific investigation is intimately bound up with the methods used because it is not only the subject matter that defines the limits of a science, but also, operationally, its predominant method of research." Kohut separates the theory into elements that Freud formulated on the basis of the psychologic method of introspection and those that he obtained with a method other than introspection (for example, with the aid of the theory of evolution). T h e first set of concepts, which includes primary narcissism, primary masochism, and primary aggression, was "extrapolated from the clinical phenomena of narcissism, masochism, and aggression" and can therefore be accepted "as legitimate abstractions of psychoanalytic theory." The second set, which includes the "life drive" and the "death drive," can therefore be accepted as "legitimate abstractions within the field of general biology." The former can be judged as to its relevance and usefulness by psychological research, but the latter can

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be judged only by biological research. When Freud combined these biologic and psychologic concepts for his new dual-drive theory, he m a d e a methodologic error. The introduction of the bridging concept of the "repetition compulsion" made matters worse, since, as with "dependence," it too has both a psychologic and biologic meaning, which has contributed its share to the biologizing of psychoanalysis. Some psychoanalysts who have discarded the "death drive" as Freud's mythology but embraced the "life drive" might not have considered the fact that, from a scientific point of view, both "drives" are biologic concepts and thus not part of our introspectively arrived-at psychoanalytic theories. Kohut's examination of the origins of certain aspects of the dual-drive theory also contributes toward a clarification of the psychology of "drives." He describes Freud's theorizing as "double-layered": "Whatever [Freud] observed as a clinical fact in himself and in his patients, he described with such terms as 'secondary,' 'manifest,' 'actual.' In addition, he assumed a readiness or tendency toward such a reaction to have been present before the clinical circumstance that brought it about. These potentialities or prior tendencies he called 'primary.'" Although these are not clinical concepts, neither is drive; Kohut considers them "psychological abstractions, valid within the framework of knowledge obtained by the method of introspection." He spells out this process of introspection in relation to drives as follows (1959b): "introspection . . . reveals the presence of wishes. When we observe a wish in ourselves, we recognize not only a content, aim, or goal . . . but also a driving power of a certain intensity. T h e latter we call, in our theoretical generalization, a drive, i.e., the general aspects of being driven toward something." Thus, in this framework, drives are not biological concepts. The psychoanalytic method does not allow us to say anything more about the nature of the drive as a biologic

27

INTRODUCTION

entity, only its introspected aspects are on the psychological level and can be the subject of psychoanalysis. Kohut's evolving conceptualization of drive psychology avoids the frequent psychoanalytic biologizing. In this context the arguments about "psychic energy" and the need to purify psychoanalysis of the "biological drives" is almost irrelevant. Thus, our pride in psychoanalysis as a biologically anchored general psychology is clearly not justified. It should be added, however, that Kohut does not argue against careful attempts at combining the insights of two different fields, he only cautions against the methodologic pitfalls that may ensue by the careless mixing of the two conceptualizations. These formulations of the developing synthesis and the clearly discernible thrust toward a method then find expression in a systematic, broad definition of the field of psychoanalysis. We should now turn our attention to those aspects of this synthesis that stand out as having paved the way for the emergence of subsequent nodal points in the second period and the breakthrough of the third period. The First Nodal Point: The Essay on Introspection

and

Empathy

T h e pieces of the mosaic we have assembled so far on this exploratory journey fit together into an unexpectedly rich design that both integrates the work that had gone on during this first decade and establishes the methodologic foundation for what is to follow. The complexity of the integrative work that Kohut accomplished in this essay makes the imagery of fitting together individual pieces of the mosaic no longer sufficiently evocative. The metaphor of the "mosaic" served us well at the beginning of this journey as long as we viewed the recognizable precursors of subsequent conceptualizations as isolated insights. But as we reach this first nodal point—our findings appear to be part of a cohesive multilayered clinical-

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theoretical structure. We may come closer, perhaps, to an appreciation if we use a different imagery and speak of the gradual taking shape of a painting on a canvas whose grand design is more or less present from the outset, but whose concrete shape and actual details have to be worked out in careful juxtaposition and arrangement of the various forms and contents in the process of painting. Introspection and empathy might well be regarded as a broad methodologic foundation for scientific contributions to psychoanalysis; it undoubtedly served as a basis for Kohut's own later contributions. Kohut (1959b) states that the investigation of the external world with our sense organs parallels the investigation of our inner world with the methods of introspection and empathy. He expresses this operationally: "We speak of physical phenomena when the essential ingredient of our observational method includes our senses, we speak of psychological phenomena when the essential ingredient of our observation is introspection and empathy." This relatively simple statement unambiguously establishes his view of the scientific nature of psychoanalysis. It permits him to relate the mode of observation of psychoanalysis to its theories and to circumscribe the boundaries beyond which the method cannot reach. "Only a phenomenon that we can attempt to observe by introspection or by empathy with another's introspection may be called psychological. A phenomenon is 'somatic,' 'behavioristic,' or 'social' if our methods of observation do not predominantly include introspection and empathy." This crucial shift in redefining the psychoanalytic method emphasizes what we can observe with introspection in ourselves and with empathy (i.e., vicarious introspection) in others. Thus, the major tool of psychoanalysts ή not free association, but introspection, vicarious introspection, and prolonged, persistent, introspection, i.e., free association and the analysis of the resistances that usually arise against such introspection.

INTRODUCTION

29

Kohut makes this point forcefully and persuasively: The scientific use of introspection and empathy (initiated by Breuer and Freud [1893-1895]) was made possible by its refinement in the form of free association and resistance analysis. Yet —and this is an element of the definition with far-reaching consequences to be discussed later —"free association and resistance analysis are . . . to be considered as auxiliary instruments, employed in the service of the introspective and empathic mode of observation." He does not assert that our psychoanalytic observations are always purely introspective-empathic. They may often be combined with other forms of observation, even in the analytic situation. But introspection and empathy are never absent from psychological observation and may also be used exclusively, as in self-analysis. Kohut systematically examines a number of key concepts to see if they are psychologic, sociologic, or biologic in nature and to demonstrate that "the observational method defines the contents and the limits of the observed field . . . and [thereby also determines] the theories of an empirical science." In relation to early mental organizations (e.g., the actual neuroses), he reasserts and further elaborates the crucial findings of Freud, " . . . persistent introspection (even in the form of free association and resistance analysis) could not uncover any psychological content." When we approach the prestructural psyche, therefore, "We must thus be satisfied with loose empathic approximations and should speak, for example, of tension instead of wish, of tension decrease instead of wish-fulfillment, and of condensations and compromise formation instead of problem solving." It is precisely in relation to such clinically and theoretically crucial tasks that the method advocated by Kohut is usually most difficult to carry out. To respond to such a task, many analysts resort to mixing psychologic, sociologic, and biologic concepts, and

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use observational methods other than those of empathy and introspection. Failure to extend even a rudimentary form of empathic introspection into early mental states leads, for example, to treating the mother-child relation as a social situation, and to providing social-psychologic, or biologic rather than introspected or vicariously introspected data, thus "moving to a frame of reference that must be compared but not equated with the results of introspective psychology." In relation to the psychoanalytic view of endopsychic and interpersonal conflict, the methodologic statements reveal important precursors of later conceptualizations. In the transference neuroses: "Persistent introspection leads . . . to the recognition of an inner struggle between infantile strivings and inner counterforces against these strivings: the structural conflict. The analyst, to the extent that he is a transference figure, is not experienced in the framework of an interpersonal relationship but as the carrier of unconscious endopsychic structures (unconscious memories) of the analysand." In the narcissistic disorders (i.e., the psychoses and borderline states, before the clinical and conceptual delineation of the analyzable narcissistic personality disorders): "persistent introspection . . . leads . . . to the recognition of an unstructured psyche struggling to maintain contact with an archaic object or to keep up the tenuous separation from it. Here the analyst is not the screen for the projection of internal structure (transference), but the direct continuation of an early reality that was too distant, too rejecting, or too unreliable to be transformed into solid psychic structures. T h e analyst is therefore introspectively experienced within the framework of an archaic interpersonal relationship." A detailed examination of the concepts of dependence, sexuality, and aggression — the drives in general—with the methods just suggested, exemplifies the manner in which Kohut determines how far the method may reach and what

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its natural limits may be. He addresses the question which of the above concepts denote a further reducible versus a nonreducible, i.e., "primal psychological gestalt." "Dependence" as a psychologic concept, on closer introspective-empathic inspection, turns out to be a "further reducible" psychic state and thus not a basic concept in psychoanalysis. Sexuality, aggression — the drives—on the other hand, are basic concepts, since they cannot be further reduced by introspection and empathy. They are primal psychological states. He concludes this study by examining the age-old issue of free will versus determinism by posing the question in a novel way —again illustrating the power of his method: "For a science that obtains its observational material through introspection and empathy, the question may be formulated as follows: We can observe in ourselves the ability to choose and to decide; can further introspection (resistance analysis) resolve this ability into underlying components?" The answer is no. Only the impediments that block such freedom of choice and decision can be "broken down" and cleared away, to re-establish a greater degree of free choice and decision. The experiencing of free choice cannot be further analyzed with the methods of introspection and empathy. "The limits of psychoanalysis are given by the limits of potential introspection and empathy. Within the observed field reigns the law of psychic determinism, which comprehends the assumption that introspection, in the form of free association and resistance analysis, is potentially capable of revealing motivations for our wishes, decisions, choices, and acts." 3

4

T h e reader will find the detailed and systematic examination of the various psychoanalytic concepts (of which only a

3

Compare this early formulation with the more recent concept of the drives as constituents of the bipolar self, even in its most rudimentary form (see p. 102, and Kohut, 1974, 1977). Note the resolution of this problem in Kohut, 1977, pp. 243-244. 4

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schematic view is given here) a most important basic guide to Kohut's later writings. It will also prevent him from colliding with assertions that are methodologic clarifications and are not meant to be critical or polemic about other methods. These clarifications not only afford us unusual precision in our formulations, but also aid us in determining which of them qualify as psychoanalytic propositions. Kohut in this essay prepares us for both a clinical-theoretical and an introspective-empathic view of his later contributions. But why have contemporary readers failed to appreciate the redefinition of the psychoanalytic method, in spite of the fact that Kohut was able to suggest the correction of ". . . specific inaccuracies, omissions, and errors in the use of [some] psychoanalytic concepts"? Gedo (1975, p . 315) recently went so far as to say that Kohut's then "radical" proposals " . . . signified the end of the leading paradigm of ego psychology." Psychoanalysts of that period must not have allowed themselves to become fully aware that the predominant use of the available explanatory concepts from ego psychology left no room for further progress in depth psychology. There were frequent expressions of the pessimistic assessment that the principal source of further knowledge — the psychoanalytic situation —no longer had its erstwhile heuristic value. This should have primed the readers of this essay to recognize that psychoanalysis as a science and as a method was being updated. This updating—as Gedo correctly perceived it — reintroduced "self-analytic introspection" to the center of our field. Perhaps without the demonstrated yield in fresh clinical and theoretical insights, the potential heuristic value of these formulations could not be grasped. With hindsight, we can readily appreciate that Kohut's success in redefining his method led him to further "closures" in his second period and to a systematic opening up of the wellspring from which his subsequent contributions burst forth in his third period.

INTRODUCTION

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The Second Period (1960-1965): A dvances in Clinical, Theoretical, and Applied Psychoanalysis As I have already observed, there is no sharp demarcation between the First period and the second period in Kohut's scientific work. Quite to the contrary. Whatever the manifest content of any of his single contributions, Kohut's work (in method and theory) shows a discernible unity, an internal cohesion and consistency. We can readily see the three main lines of thought (applied psychoanalysis; the psychoeconomic point of view; method, clinical theory and metapsychology) converge and reach the first nodal point in "Introspection, Empathy. . . ." From this point the line of applied psychoanalysis continues directly to the second nodal point in "Beyond the B o u n d s . . . " (1960a), whereas the line of method, clinical theory, and metapsychology continues directly to the third nodal point in "Concepts and Theories . . . " (Kohut and Seitz, 1963). T h e psychoeconomic point of view, the central line of thought in the first period, no longer retains its importance, however, as a separate line, but is part of the total fabric of the evolving new central line of thought: narcissism and its expansion into the psychoanalytic psychology of the self. It was the achievement of the remarkable synthesis of his ideas about the psychoanalytic method and its relation to theory that enabled Kohut to arrive at a similarly elegant closure (very soon thereafter) in relation to the other two lines of thought: applied psychoanalysis and metapsychology, without any break in the continuity of his central ideas. Characteristically, no sooner do the ideas in these essays reach a comprehensive systematic formulation than they lead to further questions and then to renewed advances in relation to many of the key issues of psychoanalysis. We will recognize these advances in the third period. To lead up to them, let us

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first examine the contributions at the second and third nodal points and then survey the remaining lines of thought of the second period, which will once again point toward the work on narcissism. The Second Nodal Point: "Beyond the Bounds of the Basic

Rule"

Kohut uses the occasion of a critical review of psychoanalytic biographies (1960a) to articulate his own, now systematic views on the problems, methods, and goals of applied psychoanalysis. Having just recently defined the method of psychoanalysis in the clinical situation, he immediately asks: "Can there be psychoanalysis without the persevering study of transference and resistance in the consistent and relatively objective form of free association, supported by the (at least initially present) cooperation of the analysand?" He recognizes that this is an important question, but nonetheless academic, since " . . . psychoanalysts, beginning with Freud, have not restricted themselves to observing under optimal conditions, but have employed findings and principles obtained in the area of the central experiment in that borderland which has come to be known as Applied Psychoanalysis." While acknowledging both legitimate and irrational attacks upon applied psychoanalysis from those in other fields, Kohut turns quickly to "the existence of genuine problems" within the field. He examines these problems in relation to the expertise of those who work in this area, to the subject matter chosen for analysis and the method of investigation, and finally, to the appropriateness of the goals of each endeavor. Expertise both in psychoanalysis and in the subject matter to which it is to be applied would be ideal, but is rarely achieved (Kohut refers to Kris for such an example). T h e method suffers from the fact that free association "as

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the central instrument for the investigation of the unconscious" cannot be employed. Kohut goes on to say that "What is lacking . . . in such a study is the still more informative interplay between interpretation and resistance and the living ebb and flow of transference . . . in the reverberations to interpretations in the dreams of the subsequent night." He also points out that analytic investigation of the personality of the artist and of his work is made more difficult because investigations in applied analysis are not aided by the subject's therapeutic incentive toward self-revelation and by his emotional tie to the analyst. Regarding the goals of applied psychoanalysis, Kohut asks: "Do we contribute anything of importance to the understanding of great men and their creations when we apply our psychoanalytic clinical insights into this nonclinical subject matter or do we force our methods and values upon a field where they do not belong?" He recognizes that the reproach of "psychoanalytic reductionalism" was at one time justified. But now, "the modern psychoanalyst is aware of the fact that the customary psychoanalytic approach to psychopathology is inadequate when he attempts to deal with the distinctive qualities of the personality of creative men or with their works." As long as psychoanalysts were mainly interested in uncovering the unconscious, "The work of art was . . . important [to them] only in so far as it admitted access to the unconscious complexes. Applied analysis at that stage was not primarily oriented toward the secondary field, but toward the central area of psychoanalysis itself." With advances in ego psychology, especially in relation to the ego's primary and secondary autonomy, Kohut saw an expansion of the scope of applied analysis. We should note that Kohut stops here (temporarily) with his focus on the ego psychologists' recent contributions. It is curious that he does not go beyond the limits of ego psychology at this point, when in fact he had already succeeded in

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doing so recently in his own work in applied psychoanalysis and in his redefinition of the psychoanalytic m e t h o d , nor does he draw here on his own study of literature and music explicitly to give a broader basis for his formulations. It is mainly on the basis of the detailed critique of each biography under review that Kohut formulates his principles for a sound application of psychoanalysis to other fields. Each review is of interest both in regard to its content and its method and contains many remarks relevant to the problem of narcissism. Let us focus directly on Kohut's concluding clarification " . . . of the objectives of this branch of applied analysis and to determine its significance for the whole of present-day psychoanalysis." In an appropriately tentative fashion he delineates three major categories of approach to psychoanalytic biography: Biography supported by psychoanalysis or biography in depth, where established psychoanalytic insights are used to understand the personality of significant individuals; psychoanalytic pathography, where either an expansion or the illustration of existing clinical knowledge is the aim; and psychoanalysis of creativity and of disturbances of creativity, where the aim is to find the connection between conflicts and other psychological constellations and creative capacity. Usually, there is a mixture of all these aims and methods in any one biography. 5

Kohut's answer to the question he posed at the outset, whether there can be a psychoanalysis "beyond the bounds of the basic rule," is cautiously affirmative when he says (in reference to the pedagogic value of contributions to applied analysis): "After all, there are many similarities between the free association obtained in the clinical interview and the 5

Kohut's contribution to a panel on the Psychology of Imagination (1959a), "Childhood Experience and Creative Imagination," is pertinent here, for it successfully uses the psychoeconomic point of view to illuminate aspects of creativity by focusing upon the "artistic temperament," which is without reliable neutralizing and buffering structures.

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material at the disposal of the analyst who investigates the personality of the artist from the data of his biography and the details of his work." His own enthusiasm seems to be reserved for a particular kind of application of psychoanalytic knowledge to the study of personality, namely, when "extending surface features into the depth [occurs] without replacing the living, struggling, and suffering man with . . . shadowy 'formulations' and 'dynamisms.' " I sense that he is decidedly less enthusiastic about the kind of work that merely demonstrates in other contexts (with perhaps less reliable methods) existing clinical knowledge. T h e whole issue of creativity both within and outside of psychoanalysis will be more thoroughly explored in the third period. At that time additional light will be shed upon the genetic sources and later functions of creativity. Perhaps we will then also better understand why Kohut stopped short of transcending the boundaries of ego psychology here, as he had recently done on the panel on the Psychology of Imagination (1959a) and in "Introspection, Empathy . . . " (1959b). Here, we can only amplify his explicit conclusions regarding certain goals and methods for applied psychoanalysis and spell out what is also implicit in them by drawing upon his redefinition of the psychoanalytic method. Instead of the (often forced) application of psychoanalytic concepts and theories to nonclinical data, on the one hand, or the focus upon the absence of free association and resistance analysis, on the other, we can recognize the value of empathy and introspection for applied psychoanalysis (of which free association and resistance analysis are significant refinements but, ultimately, only auxiliary instruments). Empathy and introspection can indeed be applied with appropriate caution to the psychoanalytic understanding of works of art, the artist, and the audience (cf. 1959a). T h e psychoanalytic method as redefined by Kohut, it seems to me, can more successfully be lifted out of its clinical context and applied to

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illuminate nonclinical subject matters and also to yield further knowledge for psychoanalysis. This will become more evident when we reach the third period. The Third Nodal Point: Concepts and Theories of

Psychoanalysis

"Concepts and Theories . . . " (Kohut and Seitz, 1963) is the distillate of more than a decade of teaching psychoanalytic psychology. This essay is a highly abbreviated and masterfully condensed version of what might have been a basic textbook of psychoanalytic theory, based on the material of the two-year course Kohut conducted at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis. It is Kohut's single most comprehensive treatment of classical theory and should thus serve as an excellent backdrop against which to appraise all of his subsequent contributions. Although the vivid clinical explications of the lectures are omitted (only one clinical example is given to illustrate the genetic point of view), this presentation nevertheless retains the richness of the interplay of clinical and theoretical considerations so characteristic of Kohut's teaching. The continuity of the major lines of thought from the first period is readily apparent. Perhaps, as Gedo (1975, p . 316) sensed, there was some reluctance to publish this work. I suspect that Kohut underestimated his own originality in it. I should therefore like to call attention to the elements that are clearly his expansions of existing knowledge — expansions so embedded in a coherent 6

6

Dr. Seitz joined as co-author when the material that evolved from Kohut's teaching at the Chicago Institute was to be prepared in the form of a summarizing essay. Although this paper was designed for a nonpsychoanalytic audience —Kohut first presented its contents in a series of three public lectures given at the University of Chicago—it is even now of more than historical interest for the psychoanalytic reader.

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formulation of classical psychoanalytic theory that they might otherwise remain unrecognized as such (see also 1961). All concepts from earlier writings are reworked, reformulated, and their place in psychoanalytic theory properly "assigned." In other words, this is again a systematic presentation. Method and theory are related to each other, and the reader is thereby aided in recognizing how a particular concept arose and what it was to explain. The basic concepts are organized around the developmental axis, the specific functions of the mental apparatus at various stages of development, and the process of the structuralization of the psyche, using all "vantage points of psychoanalytic observation"—the topographic, dynamic, economic, structural, and genetic points of view. It is in reference to the process of structuralization that Kohut has updated the model of the mind. He referred to the dichotomized segment of the psyche where "the barrier of defenses separates only a small part of the infantile psychological depth from the areas of major functioning" as "the area of transferences" and to the uninterrupted segment of the psyche where "the deep, unconscious activities . . . are in uninterrupted contact with the preconscious layers of the surface as the "area of progressive neutralization." T h e former results from "traumatic frustration," the latter develops in response to "optimal frustration," concepts which Kohut elucidates metapsychologically (especially with the aid of the psychoeconomic point of view) and developmentally (see also 1961 and his letters of September 12, September 23, 1972, below). 7

7

An unexpected result of this systematic presentation may well be the recognition that it is now possible and perhaps also preferable to teach this material in a systematic fashion, rather than in a chronological developmental sequence, without necessarily leaving out the developmentally significant steps in the history of psychoanalysis. An especially cogent example is the discussion of the changes from the topographic to the structural model in this essay. (For a discussion of the systematic versus historical presentation of psychoanalytic theory, see 1962.)

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In the essay under consideration, the psychoeconomic point of view itself attains a broader formulation. It serves not only as a central explanatory principle for understanding the processes in the prestructural psyche, but retains its relevance as one of the metapsychologic points of view for the structuralized psyche as well. It is related to the dynamic point of view, wherein "wishes, urges, drives are expressions of psychological forces." The relative strength of these forces (e.g., lukewarm wishes and burning desires) is appraised within the psychoeconomic point of view. Kohut defines the genetic point of view with such precision that it can readily be differentiated from historicaldevelopmental formulations. For him, the genetic point of view refers to "a specific set of experiences, which occurred at a specific time or during a specific period of childhood, following which a particular symptom, character trait, or behavioral tendency arose for the first time." Thus, a genetic experience or a set of genetic experiences can be reconstructed only in the course of an analysis, rather than by merely correlating various repetitive dynamic patterns in adult psychopathology with known historical data from childhood (death of parents, siblings; family constellations, e t c . ) . T h e effects of traumatic frustrations and optimal frustrations upon the structuralization of the psyche can only be grasped with the aid of the genetic point of view (see H a r t m a n n and Kris, 1945). The over-all tone and structure of the essay invite leisurely

8

8

For an instructive example of the relation between adult psychopathology and childhood experience, see also Kohut (1960b), where the origins and meaning of Schreber's delusions are discussed in the light of new anamnestic data from Schreber's childhood. Kohut makes the important point that, in his interpretation of Schreber's psychosis, Freud "was not concentrating on specific anamnestic data, but was . . . investigating empathically the presenting psychosis in depth."

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and careful study of the mode of Kohut's theorizing and of his philosophy of science as it pertains to psychoanalysis, especially to his own interpretation of classic metapsychology. He offers us some additional guidelines for a critical evaluation of our theories and theorizing. Considering, for instance, hypotheses about early psychological states, he acknowledges that some of them " . . . may not stand on very firm ground when contemplated in isolation, they must support each other by their internal consistency and cohesion when we form our tentative constructions . . . and they must be checked against the empirical data obtained from the direct observation of children and from childhood memories of adults. They are therefore open to correction or rejection as the evidence demands." He follows this (as he does repeatedly in his writings) with offering an ever widening perspective on the scientific nature of psychoanalysis: "Neither the most ingenious and empathic interpretations of adult psychological states, however, nor the most 'pure' observation of children is sufficient in psychoanalysis. As we observe adult behavior, we discern the remnants of childhood experiences; and as we observe childhood behavior, we recognize the seeds for adult functions and experiences. The interplay of present and past, of direct observation and interpretation, is among the most characteristic features of psychoanalysis as a method and as a theory." To be sure that his systematic presentation will not create the illusion of a monolithic, unchangeable "final word of wisdom," Kohut ends this essay by calling attention to the fact that "if we take a broad view we can safely say that, while the theory of psychoanalysis influences the analyst's mode of observation and the evaluation of his data, it remains itself open to change by the impact of new experiences." This is precisely what Kohut's contributions to narcissism demonstrate.

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Some Leading Markers on the Road Toward a New Conceptual Framework We might do well to pause here briefly to identify the additional markers in the second period that lead us directly to the work on narcissism. In "Introspection and Empathy . . . " Kohut gave full and unhesitating expression to his creativity. In his essays on applied psychoanalysis and on metapsychology, however, we have already detected some hesitations, seeming to reflect a dawning recognition that some of his clinical-theoretical insights could no longer be encompassed within the existing paradigm. There is ample evidence for this view in the published and unpublished works of the second period. For instance, in connection with his attempt to understand Schreber's psychosis in relation to his father's personality, Kohut was already groping for a new diagnostic category for the elder Schreber, and he also perceived new elements in the etiologic significance of the father-son relation, for the development of the son's psychosis (1960b). T h e elder Schreber was seen as having " . . . a special kind of psychotic character structure in which reality testing remains broadly intact. . . ." T h e description of the nature of this character and its impact upon the son represent those clinical insights upon which the later systematic elaborations on narcissism are built and should therefore be given in Kohut's own words: 9

. . . The absolute conviction father Schreber had toward his ideas, the unquestioning fanaticism with which he pursued them, betrays, I believe, their profoundly narcissistic character, and I would assume that a fear of hypochondriacal tensions lies behind the rather overt fight 9

For an instructive comparison, see a schizophrenic mother's relation to her son and the impact of this relation on the son's psychopathology (1966b).

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against masturbation. His fanatical activities, too, although lived out on the body of the son, belong to a hidden narcissistic delusional system. The son, in other words, is felt as part of the father's narcissistic system, and not as separate. I believe that here lies a major source of the son's narcissistic fixation. To be stimulated and oppressed while included in the hidden narcissistic-delusional system of the stimulating and oppressing adult does not further the child's elaboration of object-libidinal sexual fantasy or of vengeful fantasies directed against the object; it predisposes to a narcissistic distribution of the sexual and aggressive drives. Another instance where a new theoretical framework is needed to encompass new observations or to reinterpret or better understand old ones occurs in his contributions to the metapsychology of unconscious fantasy (1961) where Kohut explicitly states that " . . . early narcissistic fantasies of power and greatness must not have been opposed by sudden and premature experiences of traumatic disappointment; they must have become gradually neutralized [he will later say: tamed and transformed] by education and experience in order to fit into the ego's reality-oriented organization." We may view this statement as one of the forerunners of undoing the sharp dichotomy between "pathological" and "normal" narcissism and of overcoming the prejudicial view that maturation and development, at least in the ideal case, should entail a complete transformation of narcissism into object love. In this same discussion Kohut recognized the analyst's frequent reaction of boredom to narcissistic fantasies, in contrast to those borne of "object-directed transferences" (those suffused with object love and not with narcissism) which usually arouse the analyst's unconscious response. This introspective-empathic recognition seems to have served as a fore-

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runner of his later understanding of the analyst's countertransference responses to the patient's narcissistic transferences. Further work on fantasy (1964a, 1964b) did not bring Kohut explicitly closer to his subsequent formulations. He seemed rather to be testing the limits of the classical hypotheses and the alternative views suggested by others. A remark about the central position of fantasy in psychoanalysis is worth noting, however, since it highlights for us the distance Kohut traversed in his own theoretical understanding of the nature and position of drives in the psychology of the self: "From the interaction of the child and his environment (or to be more exact, of the child's drives and rudimentary ego functions, on the one hand, and the environment, on the other) arises the area of rich inner elaboration of experience that has become the central focus of psychoanalytic inquiry" (1964a). It is, of course, the idea that the drives as such ordinarily do not appear activated independently, but are from the outset integrated into the emerging selfobject and later on into the mature differentiated self that will lead to the attainment of a new perspective on the drives, as well as on the relation between drive psychology and self psychology (1972b, 1975d, 1977). It was around the time of completing the essay on "Concepts and Theories . . . " that Kohut gave up teaching the theory course at the Chicago Institute, marking the end of a chapter in the evolution of his scientific work. He recognized that the gap between theory and practice had by then considerably widened. Some psychoanalysts were already approaching the therapeutic problems of a broader category of patients with empathic skills that went, although gropingly and unsystematically, beyond contemporary theoretical formulations. There was, however, a recurrent, widely held, and frequently expressed opinion that classical psychoanalysis would have to be considerably altered for the successful treat-

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ment of patients encompassed by the "widening scope of psychoanalysis" (Ornstein, 1974, p . 129). Kohut in 1964 returned to his clinical work with fresh and methodologically sharpened, empathic-introspective skills. Simultaneously, he offered a new course at the Institute, focusing upon empirical data and exemplifying his method of arriving at clinical-theoretical formulations that were closer to direct experience and also capable of accommodating new observations. Kohut's study then, logically and with consistency, both in his own clinical work and in his teaching, centered upon elucidating the forms and qualities of the transference. This renewed concentration upon the transference followed earlier studies (1951a, 1959b; Kohut and Seitz, 1963) in which the re-emphasis of Freud's (1900a) original metapsychologic definition permitted a fruitful differentiation of "true" transferences from "transference-like" clinical manifestations. This was especially useful in Kohut's initial attempts to differentiate the transferences in psychoneuroses from those in "borderline" psychopathology (1951a, 1959b). These clinical-theoretical formulations were precursors of the major step soon to be taken in Kohut's conceptualization of the "narcissistic transferences." In its original meaning transference referred to ". . . the tendency of the repressed infantile drive, which is attached to old objects, to seek new objects in its search for satisfaction" (1951a). Kohut subsequently (1959b) generalized this even further by adding that, as an endopsychic phenomenon, "transference is the influence of the unconscious upon the preconscious across an existing (though often weakened) repression barrier." T o put it still another way: transference, as "the penetration of unconscious psychic contents and forces into preconscious thoughts, feelings, or wishes" (Kohut and Seitz, 1963), is the mechanism for the formation of dreams, slips of the tongue, neurotic symptoms, and clinical manifestations of "therapeutic trans-

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ference." It is important to keep the three components of clinical transference in mind: the infantile repressed drive, the element of repetition, the confusion between old and new objects, all of which are present in patients with psychoneuroses. In patients with "borderline" psychopathology the "transference-like" manifestations contain "the repetition and the confusion between old and new object," but instead of the "repressed drive element . . . seeking satisfaction . . . an injured narcissistic ego is seeking reassurance" (1951a). Thus, in the more precise metapsychologic sense, "all transferences are repetitions [but] not all repetitions are transferences." We may now recognize that further clinical-theoretical elucidation of the "narcissistic ego's" seeking of reassurance led Kohut to a fundamentally new understanding of the nature of transferences in narcissistic disturbances. This in turn led him to replace the concept of the "narcissistic ego" with that of the "narcissistic self" (1966b)—still later, the "grandiose self" (1968)—opening the way for the evolution of his psychoanalytic psychology of the self. Reference should be made here to a brief, hitherto unpublished extemporaneous discourse on Freud's self-analysis (1966a), which Kohut also approached anew through his study of the transferences. He viewed the nature and (unconscious) purpose of Freud's self-analysis from a novel perspective, which permitted a better understanding of some aspects of Freud's creativeness, creativeness in general, and 10

10

This discussion was offered from the floor in response to a paper presented by Max Schur at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society and was summarized immediately thereafter. Although it was delivered after the presentation of Kohut's first paper on narcissism and thus technically belongs to the third period, it is placed here because it can be viewed as a harbinger of his evolving conceptualizations. It also exemplifies (along with most of the discussions of papers by others included in this volume) Kohut's remarkable capacity to present something drastically new, but blending it harmoniously with existing knowledge.

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the creative process in psychoanalysis and in psychoanalysts. Kohut concluded that Freud's self-analysis was not primarily "an act of self-healing through insight," but rather, "a creative spell which was simultaneously worked through analytically." T h e presentation of these ideas had immediate impact on the work of others who studied Freud's biography and his mode of scientific work (Gedo and Pollock, 1976, p p . 286288; 379-381). Kohut himself returned to the issues raised in this preliminary communication on a number of occasions (1971, 1975a, 1975c), culminating in a major, expanded study (1976), in which Freud's idealizing transference to Fliess was further delineated in its uniqueness as a "transference of creativity." T h e new direction of Kohut's empirical study of transferences was explicitly indicated earlier as he reflected upon the values and objectives of our science and profession in his incoming Presidential Address (1964c). Thus we have a clear-cut marker for the main road he was to take: " . . . we have not yet been able to push our explorations of the infantile roots of narcissism as far as those of infantile objectdirected libidinal and aggressive attitudes. This failure may in turn account for the fact that the psychoanalytic understanding of group behavior has lagged behind the psychoanalytic insights concerning motivations for individual behavior. The detailed scrutiny of the influence of the infantile narcissistic fantasy may well become as important for the understanding of group psychopathology as is the examination of the infantile object-directed fantasy in the psychopathology of the individual. Thus, the large field of social behavior which so far has been studied mainly through the interpersonal and transactional approaches of social psychology (which of necessity exclude a full appreciation of the role of narcissism) appears to me to await careful psychoanalytic exploration." Kohut emphasized here the advantages that

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would accrue to our understanding of group psychopathology from a study of infantile narcissism, since he was talking to a group of psychoanalysts about their problems as a group. But in his clinical work he first embarked upon a study of the fate of infantile narcissism in individual psychology and psychopathology, and then, as a logical extension of his studies he turned to group psychology, to a study of man in history (1975c, 1976). We have thus concluded our broad survey of the precursors of Kohut's contemporary ideas on narcissism as they were expressed in his writings between 1950 and 1966, and have brought into sharp focus: (a) his early clinical grasp of some crucial elements of the psychopathology in the narcissistic sector of the personality, e.g., Aschenbach (1957b) and Mr. H. (1957e); (b) his early attempts at a systematic description of the psychoanalytic process in patients with narcissistic disorders (1951a, 1957e); and (c) his special attention to and early articulation of the difference in the nature of the transference in psychoneuroses and in narcissistic disturbances (1951a). These early works clearly contain a clinical grasp and the germs of some of his later conceptualizations on narcissism. It was undoubtedly his emphasis upon introspection and empathy as the primary ingredients of the psychoanalytic method that led him to his most significant contributions. This emphasis has enabled him to redefine the method and the boundaries of the field of psychoanalysis and to reformulate some of its basic concepts (1959b, 1960a, 1961; Kohut and Seitz, 1963). With this methodologic advance—we have retraced its development in some detail —Kohut returned to the empirical data of the psychoanalytic situation and process. He was determined to close the widened gap between theory and practice. He did this with a renewed and persistent introspective-empathic immersion in the transference experiences of his analysands. In the course of this work, he has opened u p a new territory for psychoanalytic under-

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standing and treatment in relation to the therapeutically mobilized transferences. We should now continue our exploratory journey and follow Kohut into this new territory to observe what led him to the breakthrough to new discoveries and to witness his transition from isolated insights to systematic knowledge. Our objectives are specific and circumscribed: (1) to outline his essential contributions to theory and treatment; (2) to identify further landmarks beyond his initial, basic findings and theories; and finally, (3) to demonstrate how all of these have led to his expansion of the field of psychoanalysis.

Breakthrough

The Third Period (1966-1977): on Narcissism—The Opening of New Vistas

In keeping with our avowed purpose, we began this introductory essay by searching for those "isolated" insights which we could recognize as antecedents of later work on narcissism. However, as we progressed in studying the writings of the first period (1950-1959) and then those of the second period (1960-1966), our attention was soon drawn to the fact that these insights were not only forerunners of a major breakthrough on narcissism in the third period (1966-1977), but were simultaneously also the building-blocks of a broad range of basic contributions to psychoanalysis as a whole. We described our findings in the first period in relation to three main lines of thought (applied psychoanalysis; the psychoeconomic point of view; method, clinical theory, and metapsychology). We traced their individual development and ultimate convergence into the essay on "Introspection, Empathy . . . " (1959b), at the first nodal point, where basic methodologic issues attained their first closure. We described our findings in the second period (19601966): (a) as a first closure attained by the first line of thought (applied psychoanalysis) in "Beyond the Bounds . . . "

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(1960a), the essay at the second nodal point; (b) as the inclusion of the second line of thought (the psychoeconomic point of view) into the total fabric of the emerging conceptual framework of narcissism; (c) as a first closure attained by the third line of thought (method, clinical theory, and metapsychology) in "Concepts and Theories . . . " (Kohut and Seitz, 1963), the essay at the third nodal point. During the remainder of the writings of the second period, all three main lines of thought converged again and attained new or expanded meanings in the emerging, systematic studies on narcissism. We have now reached the point of entry into the third period, the new territory of narcissism, which will gradually expand into the area more properly designated as the psychoanalytic psychology of the self. T h e continuation of this "guided tour" requires at this juncture a different strategy in keeping with the goals already stated and the nature of this new terrain. It is difficult to find an appropriate strategy of introduction to the complex, multilayered, and multidimensional, tightly reasoned presentations, most of which require close study, paragraph by paragraph and often sentence by sentence. This dilemma brought back to mind experiences with two very different tour-guides at the Cathedral of Chartres. One of them restricted himself to a scholarly, detailed exposition of the cultural-historic, theologic, and philosophic ideas, depicted on only two of the many famous stained-glass windows (two different windows on each tour he guided), after a brief, cursory survey of the Cathedral as a whole. T h e other guide offered a very general, more popularized, broad survey only, but he stopped in front of one window at the end of the tour (perhaps a different one each time) and spent just a few moments, at a seemingly randomly selected single image on that window — as if to indicate that to encompass all that was in the Cathedral would require a lifetime of study, an endless

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journey. Both guides expressed the identical hope, that their respective methods of introduction would engage many visitors' interest in repeatedly returning for a prolonged, indepth study of the treasures of Chartres. Neither of these approaches is quite satisfactory for our task ahead. Up to this point it seemed fair to assume that the contemporary reader of this volume might be less familiar with Kohut's earlier writings, aside from those that had not been published before, and that he had not systematically searched, on his own, for the antecedents of the work on narcissism. Thus, guiding him through the writings of the first two periods with the explicit aim of identifying these antecedents appeared to be a logical approach. But what sort of a survey is appropriate for the work of the last decade? A cursory, general introduction is certainly not needed, since The Analysis of the Self (1971) and The Restoration of the Self (1977) captured the imagination of many psychoanalysts who have not merely read, but have studied these carefully, much like the first guide at Chartres, window by window. An in-depth, systematic presentation of Kohut's entire work now deserves a monograph or a textbook and is thus beyond the scope of this introduction. As a more fitting alternative, recognizing that the reader will undoubtedly avail himself of the original contributions assembled in this volume, we should examine the structure of the entire work, by sampling the content and method of its various levels. This will not only free us from having to include all of the content, which would in any case be impossible in the present context, but will permit us to focus more sharply upon Kohut's method and its relationship to his findings. This should afford us an over-all appreciation of the significance of his clinical observations and interpretations; his generalizations and theories; and finally the metapsychologic formulations he derived from them and their applications beyond the clinical situation. T h e fact that Kohut was able to

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advance his contributions from new clinical observations to all these increasingly higher levels of abstraction led him from earlier, isolated insights to systematic knowledge in the third period. The Essential Contributions

to Theory and

Treatment

Kohut's return to the empirical data of the psychoanalytic experience is amply illustrated in brief clinical vignettes or in somewhat longer excerpts of analyses throughout his writings. T h e reader, on his own unguided journey, by using the basic observations and interpretations dispersed in Kohut's writings (along with his own clinical experiences) as points of departure, will be able to grasp, step by step, inductively, the various levels of conceptualizations which have arisen from them. Through such a method it is possible to discover (from within, as it were) the few basic observations and interpretations on which Kohut's fundamental generalizations and theories rest. These fundamental generalizations and theories served as additional "instruments of observation" (1956a) and led him to a new set of clinical observations and interpretations from which further generalizations and theories were made possible. Their validity can be assessed only by further introspection and empathy and by the careful and consistent application of Kohut's conceptual tools. In so doing, we can retrace the repetitive cycles from observations to theories, to new observations, to new theories and thus re-experience the systematic expansion of psychoanalysis. Clinical Observations and Interpretations. A particularly instructive example is presented from the analysis of Miss F. (1968 and also 1971, p p . 283-293). Kohut noted that Miss F., whose psychopathology he did not understand at that time, frequently proceeded during the first half of her session with what appeared to be "a well-moving self-analysis when the analyst is . . . little else than an interested observer who holds

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himself in readiness for the next wave of resistances" (1968). This stage, however, lasted much longer than usually encountered, and Kohut was unable to maintain an attitude of interested attention and the usual effortless listening to "relatively unimpeded self-analysis." Somewhere around the mid-point in these sessions the patient would become violently angry at him for being silent, but immediately calmed down, when he "simply summarized or repeated what she h a d in essence already said." Miss F. again became furious if Kohut went even one step beyond what she had stated herself and then accused him of "wrecking the analysis." " . . . the crucial recognition that the patient demanded a specific response to her communications and that she completely rejected any other [dawned on Kohut only] after a prolonged period of ignorance and misunderstanding during which [he] was inclined to argue with the patient about the correctness of [his] interpretations and to suspect the presence of stubborn, hidden resistances." For a long time he "insisted" that the patient's reproaches related to specific transference fantasies and wishes on the oedipal level, but "could make no headway in this direction." Kohut described the slow but decisive change in his attitude and understanding in a moving self-analytic passage, in which he recognized his resistances against perceiving himself as "an impersonal function" for Miss F. and not as an object of love and hate in the transference. How easy it would have been to continue to view Miss F.'s repeated, anguished, bitter, and persistent accusations as defensive, as negative therapeutic reactions to essentially correct interpretations, rather than as perhaps accurately reflecting the analyst's lack of understanding and intrusive interference with the analytic process! Analysts, of course, regularly attain self-reflective, selfanalytic corrections of attitudes and understandings that preclude empathic contact with their patient's transference

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experience at certain moments in the analytic process. But what occurred in the analysis of Miss F. was more than a simple correction. T h e truly creative leap occurred when, as a result of overcoming some inner resistances, Kohut attained a new posture vis-ä-vis Miss F. and could first empathically experience and later cognitively grasp the validity of her urgent and persistent demands by recognizing them as accurately portraying an early childhood reality and her attempts to cope with it, which were now revived in the transference. Their working through brought forth Miss F.'s own childhood memories, which confirmed how precisely she re-enacted in the transference her more or less phase-appropriate expectations and demands to which her depressively self-preoccupied mother was unable to respond. Thus, it became clear that she assigned the analyst the specific role of " . . . an archaic object that would be nothing more than the embodiment of a psychological function that the patient's psyche could not yet perform for itself: to respond empathically to her narcissistic display and to provide her narcissistic sustenance through approval, mirroring, and echoing." Another instructive example (from a consultation experience) is presented from the analysis of Miss L. with a focus upon a prolonged analytic stalemate, occasioned by a similar lack of recognition of the patient's specific transference needs and demands, for some time. Kohut noted the patient's emotional shallowness, promiscuity, lack of meaningful relationships and her history of severe childhood traumata. T h e analyst felt that the severity of the patient's narcissistic fixations precluded a successful analysis, a conclusion Kohut initially shared. But he soon learned that this Catholic patient had several early dreams, which "contained the figure of an inspired, idealistic priest," foreshadowing the patient's transference needs for an admired, idealized, analyst-priest parental-imago. These dreams were not interpreted then, but

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the analyst, concerned about the patient's tenuous hold on reality, later told her that he was not a Catholic. Here again, the patient m a d e "an initial, tentative transference step [and] had reinstated an attitude of idealizing religious devotion" that she h a d adopted at the beginning of adolescence, a revival of awe and admiration from early childhood. Kohut understood the analyst's reality-oriented remark as a significant rebuff, meaning: "I am not an idealized good and healthy version of you," leading to the stalemate. Although the details of this analytic process are not further elaborated, it is logical to extrapolate — as Kohut had done from similar experiences —that, if the analyst maintains such an attitude toward the patient's budding idealizations or if he interprets them as reaction formations against hostile impulses, the revival of these early childhood idealizations in the transference will be blocked and the analysis will be stalemated. It was once more the overcoming of inner resistances, but here against being perceived "as the embodiment of idealized perfection," that permitted the analyst to consider the patient's idealizations from a new perspective. How easy it would have been to continue to view Miss L.'s idealizations as stubborn resistances against the recognition of her underlying oedipal hostilities and as the desexualizations of her incestuous wishes toward the father in the priest figures of her dreams. Only the change in attitude and understanding toward these idealizations, as the remobilizations of early childhood attempts to find refuge "from the threat of bizarre tensions and fantasies caused by traumatic stimulations and frustrations from the side of her severely pathological parents" aided patient and analyst in overcoming the analytic stalemate. T h u s far, we have described a sample of each of two clusters of observations and interpretations from which Kohut elaborated the two major configurations of archaic (narcis-

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sistic) selfobject transferences, which are at the basis of his clinical generalizations and theories. Kohut later cites the case of Miss L. as "an example of a fleeting idealizing transference attitude . . . a short-lived attempt . . . where the analyst's mistake . . . delayed not the continuation of an idealizing transference but . . . a workable mirror transference" (1971, p p . 138-139). For our purposes, however, this example illustrates the discovery of the significance of the remobilization of archaic idealizing needs, although in this instance these idealizations were a prelude to a secondary mirror transference and not the forerunners to an idealizing transference. Clinical Generalizations and Theories. The analysis of Miss F. and of others with similar psychopathology led to significant clinical generalizations and theories, subsumed under the heading of mirror transference. Once Miss F.'s experiences in the analytic process were viewed as reinstatements of an infantile and early childhood reality and her attempts to cope with it, and not as defenses against or as regressive evasions from her oedipal conflicts, this created a readiness to perceive a new transference constellation. To put it another way, Kohut perceived that he was relegated by Miss F. to "an impersonal function" in the transference. His ultimate recognition that this was not in the service of avoiding conflicts of object love and hate prompted him to stop insisting that Miss F. should acknowledge him as a separate object with his own independent center of initiative. This change in the analytic climate and in the nature of interventions permitted the remobilization of a cohesive early infantile constellation in the mirror transference. Kohut called this constellation the grandiose self. He described it as a regular way station in the development of the narcissistic sector of the personality. Phase-appropriate maternal responses of reflecting, echoing, approval, confirmation, and admiration of the greatness and perfection of

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the grandiose self optimally lead the normal maturational steps of transformation and internalization of archaic grandiosity and exhibitionism toward a capacity for the pursuit of ego-syntonic ambitions, goals and purposes; a capacity for the enjoyment of various functions and activities; and the attainment of a realistic and stable self-esteem, all of which are end-points of this developmental line, i.e., functions of a mature, cohesive self. Should maternal responses to the infant's or child's mirroring needs be traumatic, these transformations and internalizations would to a greater or lesser degree be absent. T h e personality would remain fixated upon the grandiose self or on its more archaic regressive forms, with a lesser degree of differentiation of the developing self from its selfobjects, revealing regressions which already in infancy or in childhood were in the service of restitution. In the mirror transference these more archaic constellations of the grandiose self are revived as the twinship or as the merger transference. T h e analysis of Miss L. and of others with similar psychopathology led to significant clinical generalizations and theories subsumed under the heading of idealizing transference. Once Miss L.'s experiences in the early phase of the analytic process were viewed as attempts to reinstate an attitude of idealization from adolescence (already a revival of vague awe and admiration from early childhood) and not as a reaction formation against oedipal hostilities or incestuous wishes, this created a readiness to perceive another new transference constellation. Expressed differently, Kohut perceived Miss L.'s need to put her analyst on the pedestal as an idealized-priest-paternal imago, as her attempt to reopen an old traumatic fixation point in the narcissistic sector of her personality for belated maturation and development. The analyst's inadvertent rebuff of these idealizations prevented their full, unhindered emergence in the analysis. Their acceptance in the transference, rather than their rejection via

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confrontation with reality or their interpretation as reaction formations against hostile or incestuous impulses, changes the analytic climate and the nature of interventions, and permits the remobilization and gradual unfolding of a cohesive early infantile constellation in the idealizing transference. Kohut called this constellation the idealized parent imago. He described it as a regular way station in the development of the narcissistic sector of the personality. Phaseappropriate availability of an idealized, omnipotent selfobject is a necessary prerequisite for the normal maturational steps of transformation and internalization of archaic idealizations toward strengthening the drive-controlling matrix of the ego, sufficient idealizations of the superego (ego ideal), and increased capacity for empathy, creativeness, humor, and wisdom, all of which are end points of this developmental line (with added contributions from the transformation of archaic grandiosity and exhibitionism), i.e., they are functions of a mature, cohesive self. Should a traumatic loss or disappointment deprive the developing infant or child of the availability of idealized parent imagos, these transformations and internalizations would to a greater or lesser degree be absent. T h e personality would remain fixated upon the idealized parent imago or on its more archaic, regressive forms—depending upon the developmental phase at which the decisive traumatic experiences occurred — revealing regressions, which even in infancy or childhood were in the service of restitution. T h e more archaic as well as the more differentiated constellations of the idealized parent imago are revived in the idealizing transference. T h e mirror transference and the idealizing transference are thus revivals of those pathognomonic, earliest experiences whose cohesive therapeutic engagement is a sine qua non for the psychoanalysis of the core psychopathology of narcissistic personality disorders. T h e vicissitudes of these transferences (1966b, 1968, 1971, 1972b) show the regressive swings from

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more differentiated to more archaic forms; their disruption and its consequences (fragmentation of the self, hypochondriacal preoccupations, and perverse fantasies or actions), and the repeated re-establishment of the cohesiveness of the particular dominant transference constellation in response to appropriate analytic interventions. It is of clinical and theoretical interest to note here that once the resistances against both of these selfobject transferences are overcome, the initial manifestations of even the purest forms of mirror transferences and even the more mature idealizing transferences are not the direct replicas of the normal, phase-appropriate narcissism of childhood. They are the manifestations of an already altered childhood narcissism. Kohut (1971, p p . 124-125) puts this unambiguously when he describes the mirror transferences: They . . . are regressively altered editions of a child's demands for attention, approval, and for the confirmatory echoing of its presence, and they always contain an admixture of the tyranny and overpossessiveness which betrays a heightening of oral-sadistic and anal-sadistic drive elements produced by intense frustration and disappointments. T h e mirror transference in the stricter sense of the word is, nevertheless, closer to being a therapeutic reinstatement of a normal phase of development than the merger and the twinship, and, in a correctly conducted analysis, the latter two tend to change gradually into the former, and the mirror transference tends to become more and more akin to the normal developmental phase; i.e., the sadistic elements diminish and the demands for affection and response take on the vigor, and approximate giving the pleasure, which is encountered in the corresponding phase-appropriate interactions between parent and child. We now turn our attention to some of the key elements in

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the clinical generalizations and theories about the nature of narcissistic psychopathology and its psychoanalytic treatment that derive from the systematic study of these transferences and the analyst's reactions to them, including his countertransferences. The Quality of Object Relations—The Concept of the Selfobject. We are immediately struck by the significance of the quality of object relations that emerges from the transference-countertransference constellations. A relation to objects (in the social-psychologic sense of the external observer) acquires psychoanalytic meaning only with the introspectiveempathic recognition of the specific quality of that relation. On the one hand, this quality may be reflected in a complete differentiation of self from object ("true object" in the classic sense); such an object is related to with full recognition of its separateness and its own center of initiative. On the other hand, this quality may be reflected in a lack of differentiation, or only partial differentiation of self from object (hence the new term: "selfobject"); such an object is related to only in terms of the specific, phase-appropriate needs of the developing self, without recognition of the separateness of the object and its own center of initiative. Metapsychologically, we speak then of a "cathexis with narcissistic libido." In one line of this development, that of the grandiose self, three stages may be distinguished: (1) the most archaic configuration includes the object within the rudimentary self (hence it is a selfobject) without any differentiation as yet (as reconstructed from the merger transference); (2) in a less archaic configuration there is a recognition of the object, but only as a replica of the grandiose self (as reconstructed from the twinship transference); and (3) finally, in the least archaic configuration, with a greater degree of differentiation of self from object, the grandiose self needs the object for the fulfillment of its archaic needs and the object is recognized only in relation to those needs; to that degree, it is still a selfobject

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(as reconstructed from the mirror transference in the narrower sense). In another line of development, that of the idealized parent imago, three stages may be distinguished: (1) the most archaic form, from the earliest infantile period, represents a merger of the self with the omnipotent idealized object —to maintain its narcissistic balance, to obtain a barrier against traumatic overstimulation, and as a protection against diffuse narcissistic vulnerability (as reconstructed from the most archaic idealizing transference); (2) the less archaic form, from a later period in childhood, represents a need to maintain a relationship to the idealized object in order to attain drive control, drive channeling, and drive neutralization (as reconstructed from the less archaic idealizing transference); and (3) finally, the least archaic form, from the late preoedipal or oedipal period of childhood (when under optimal circumstances the parental imagos are already seen in most respects as separate and independent, invested with object love and hate), represents the parental imagos, experienced as idealized embodiments of power and perfection. Their support, approval, guiding ideals, and values still have to be "borrowed," since these idealizations have not yet been transformed and internalized into stable psychic structures and are therefore not securely available from within (as reconstructed from the least archaic idealizing transference). T h e concept of the "selfobject" as thus contrasted with that of the "true object" enriches and refines the analyst's observations and interpretations. Narcissism is here not the antithesis of object relations, but of object love. Both are object relations in the social-psychologic sense, but denote distinctly different qualities of relationship in the psychoanalytic sense. When we focus on the direction or the target of the instinctual investment to guide our perception of their differing qualities —i.e., whether the investment is directed toward the self or toward the object—we are often misled into

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contrasting the existence of object relations with that of their manifest absence. Narcissistic Defects—The Concept of Missing Psychic Structures. T h e various forms of the mirror transference and the idealizing transference and the manner in which the analyst is experienced in them provided the bases for the reconstruction that the selfobjects — the archaic narcissistic structures in both lines of development—served as precursors of psychic structures. T h e functions performed by the selfobjects ultimately develop into stable, permanent psychic structures within the ego and superego, under conditions of optimal frustration in infancy and childhood. If, however, the transformations and internalizations of the grandiose self a n d / o r the idealized parent imago are traumatically interrupted, certain psychic structures will fail to develop adequately. Thus, the developing self and the archaic selfobjects may manifest their defects globally in two ways: if they have not attained a sufficiently firm cohesiveness, they will then be prone to temporary but reversible fragmentation; if they have already attained a sufficiently firm cohesiveness, they will then remain unintegrated with the rest of the personality and reveal their specific deficiencies. In the developmental line of the grandiose self this will lead to an absence of the ability to pursue ambitions, goals, and purposes; of pleasure in various functions and activities; and of reliable self-esteem. In the developmental line of the idealized parent imago this will lead to an absence or inadequate firming up of the ego's drive-controlling, drive-channeling, and drive-neutralizing matrix; an insufficient idealization of the superego (ego ideal), i.e., an absence or an inadequate development of the idealization of its values and guiding principles; and an insufficient development of such highly differentiated psychological functions as empathy, creativeness, humor, and wisdom. Conceptualizing the core of narcissistic psychopathology as based upon the kinds of defects just described, a variety of

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manifestly disparate phenomena (e.g., certain types of drug addictions, some perversions and criminal behavior, various manifestations of yearning for mystical union with idealized, omnipotent religious or political figures) can be fruitfully understood as attempts to fill in these narcissistic defects. A prominent and frequent mode of self-healing effort is the regressive resexualization of the many needs and defects in the personality. From the transference constellations already described, Kohut reconstructed in great detail and with considerable precision both the etiology and the pathogenesis of the specific defects found in narcissistic personality disorders as well as in narcissistic behavior disorders. The study of the etiology led to the reconstruction of the pathogenic impact of parental psychopathology, especially parental narcissistic fixations. The study of pathogenesis led to the concepts of the vertical and horizontal splits which account for the disavowal and repression of the archaic narcissistic structures in response to the specific traumatic experiences with infantile and childhood selfobjects. Transmuting Internalization—The Concept of the Formation of Psychic Structures. T h e acquisition of permanent psychic structures (within the ego and superego) during development as well as during psychoanalysis occurs through the process of transmuting internalization. This developmental process is a slow, gradual—or massive but phaseappropriate — relinquishment of the functions of the archaic selfobjects, the idealized objects, and the oedipal objects, and their subsequent internalization. This leads to the attainment of psychic structures which now perform functions that the objects had to perform for the infant and child (1971, p . 50). T h e relinquishment of the oedipal objects leads through transmuting internalization to the acquisition of the contents of the superego (its values, ideals, commands, approvals, prohibitions, etc.). T h e relinquishment of the ideal-

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ized selfobjects (of varying degrees of differentiation) leads, through transmuting internalization to the acquisition of a stable stimulus barrier against painful and threatening overstimulation, a protection against diffuse narcissistic vulnerability, to effective drive control, and to lending the superego contents their exalted status. Kohut describes this process of transmuting internalization as consisting of three component steps: (1) There is a receptivity of the psychic apparatus for specific introjects; (2) under optimal frustration there is a "breaking u p " of those aspects of the object which are to be internalized, followed by a fractionalized withdrawal of the particular quality of investment in the object, akin to the work of mourning; (3) there is a concomitant depersonalization of the introjected features, which is accomplished by a shifting from the whole person toward some specific functions. It is this gradual, bit by bit, "broken-up" (rather than in toto identified with), depersonalized and thus transmuted image of the selfobject and its various functions that is then transformed into psychic structures. T h e concept of transmuting internalization is thus crucial to Kohut's theory and treatment of narcissistic personality disorders. Its pivotal role is related to the fact that it designates at once a developmental and a therapeutic process. As a developmental process, which may be interrupted or derailed genetically, it never fully ceases to operate, although structure building is phase-appropriately at its peak during early life. Therapeutically, the same process of structure building may be reopened in a psychoanalytic process, where the mobilization of a pathognomonic regression and the selfobject transferences provide the matrix for the acquisition of new psychic structures through belated transmuting internalization. Metapsychologic Formulations. In general, these are the most experience-distant abstractions in psychoanalysis. Their

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value and place in the total structure of psychoanalytic psychology and their relation to the theory and technique of the treatment process are much debated. Kohut's metapsychologic formulations have similarly been criticized. For some psychoanalysts they present an unnecessary stumbling block to their proper grasp and assessment of his contributions. A puzzling and frequently voiced criticism runs approximately as follows: Kohut's clinical understanding of narcissistic personality disorders and their treatment is innovative, significantly helpful, and rings true, but his metapsychology is all wrong! Why does he need to postulate two different kinds of libido and two separate lines of development for narcissism and for object love? Just as Freud always considered his metapsychologic formulations the most easily changeable or discardable layer, and his clinical observations and clinical theories the most fundamental of his contributions, so has Kohut expressed a readiness to replace abstractions should they no longer prove useful (1977). It is a curious fact, that in the light of such appropriately flexible scientific attitudes, metapsychologic formulations still arouse considerable passion among psychoanalysts, especially if such formulations are not merely corrections or improvements of classic metapsychology, but alternative conceptualizations or replacements. Thus far we have proceeded (inductively) from samples of clinical observations to clinical interpretations and from there to clinical generalizations and to clinical theories. We should now consider briefly some of Kohut's central metapsychologic formulations in a similar vein: their experiential and clinical theoretical roots; how great a leap of imagination we are expected to make from the data and their lower level abstractions to these metapsychologic concepts; and finally, what, if any, explanatory values or technical principles we may derive (deductively) from such highly abstract formulations. Separate Developmental Lines of Narcissism and Object Love—An Experience-Near Metapsychologic Postu-

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late. Kohut proposed a simple, but far-reaching correction of Freud's single-axis theory of the developmental line from autoerotism to narcissism to object love (Freud, 1914b). He postulated a second axis in which two separate lines of development lead from autoerotism to narcissism to higher forms of narcissism. He specified the existence of these two parallel developmental lines as the grandiose-exhibitionistic self and the idealized parent imago. It was on the basis of empirical data from the analyses of selfobject transferences and their working through that Kohut was compelled to consider the developmental lines of narcissism and of object love on a separate axis. His observations of the consequences of the changed analytic climate and the changed focus of his interventions resulted in his viewing narcissism as a developmental driving force sui generis, rather than as a resistance, in the analysis of narcissistic personality disorders. It was this new view of narcissism, then, that led him to adopt an analytic stance permitting full mobilization of the pathognomonic selfobject transferences. Once these transferences occupied the center stage of the psychoanalytic process and were no longer interpreted as resistances against the objectinstinctual transference neuroses, their working through led to the transformation of archaic narcissism into higher forms and to the acquisition of new psychic structures through transmuting internalization, and not to the direct transformation of narcissism into object love. How, then, does an increase or an expansion of the capacity for object love, regularly observed as a result of a successful analysis in the narcissistic sector of the personality, occur? Kohut views these as nonspecific, secondary effects. T h e increase might be due to the freeing up of a hidden capacity for object love which was hitherto blocked off behind a barrier of regressive narcissism, or it might be newly mobilized after a firming up of the self, its cohesiveness and its values. T h e expansion —an emotional deepening and refinement — of the capacity to love is

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due more specifically to the successful working through of an idealizing transference. T h e attained capacity for more mature idealizations then joins the capacity for love, adding "intensity and flavor" to the experience (1971, p p . 296-298). Within the confines of Freud's single-axis theory, persistent narcissism was inevitably viewed as a pathological remnant of an earlier phase of psychosexual development or as a later regression to it. In the course of the psychoanalytic process, narcissism was therefore consistently interpreted as a resistance against the emergence of the oedipal transference neurosis. However, the working through of the selfobject transferences as described by Kohut did not lead to the remobilization of the love and hate conflicts of the oedipal phase of childhood, but to the particular transformations and structure building already noted, secondarily increasing or expanding the capacity to love. These carefully garnered observations and interpretations Kohut then translated into the (relatively) experience-near metapsychologic abstraction of the two separate lines of development for narcissism and for object love. Narcissistic Libido and Object Libido—Legitimate A bstractions in Metaphors. In keeping with the separate lines of development for narcissism and object love, the concepts of selfobject and true object capture the different qualities of object relations. Selfobject and true object define the introspective-empathic recognition of these qualities, in contrast to references to "whole object" and "part object," which are social-psychologic designations, since it is the external observer who sees them as "whole" or as "part." For instance, the nipple or the breast while only "part" of the "whole" mother (as the adult observer knows), may yet be experienced as centers of initiative by the child, even though we assume that the baby usually experiences them as selfobjects. Thus, "cathexis with object libido" is a metapsychologic abstraction for the perception of the other as an independent center of

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initiative and of the relation to him as a relation to an independent center of initiative, whereas "cathexis with narcissistic libido" is a metapsychologic abstraction for the perception of the relation to the other as part of the self or in the service of the self. For those who have understood the essence of "Introspection, Empathy . . . " Kohut's language does not m e a n that he assumes the existence of two kinds of libido concretely as sources of psychic energy. He has repeatedly stressed that psychoanalysis as a clinical method can deal only with introspective-empathically observed experiences. Psychoanalysis as a science, however, can then expand its boundaries (and its method) by theoretical extrapolations from these observations into areas of potentially introspectable experiences. The terms "object libido" and "narcissistic libido" and the subdivisions of the latter into "grandiose-exhibitionistic libido" and "idealizing libido" (or any other libidinal-energic concepts employed by Kohut throughout his writings) refer to such theoretical extrapolations. These have long been the most evocative metaphors to describe the metapsychology of certain intrapsychic processes. Kohut fortuitously retained this classical language for quite some time for the expression of his findings and theories. He thereby underlined the importance of maintaining the continuity of the science of psychoanalysis. This approach has had certain advantages. Among them was the fact that initially—and Kohut's work on narcissism spans only a decade —the classical language permitted a swifter integration of the new with the old; it enhanced the assimilation of his contributions within the very context in which they arose. It is very likely that if he had introduced his new ideas in a new language, it would have made their rapid integration within the main stream of the field much more difficult. Yet, the classical language may have some disadvantages. There are now many psychoanalysts for whom a metapsychology that retains energy concepts and

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certain aspects of the libido theory is such an anathema that the classical language may unnecessarily obscure for them those aspects of Kohut's contributions which rightfully challenge the classical paradigm. Be that as it may in relation to the choice of language, the fact of the matter is that these particular metaphors could easily be replaced by others throughout his writings, without in the slightest altering the essential meaning of his contributions. A decisive shift away from using the language of classical metapsychology finally does occur when Kohut is ready to offer us a comprehensive outline of his psychology of the self (1977). Thorough familiarity with Kohut's clinical method and his mode of theory building (1959b) should in any case enable us to overcome a possible linguistic barrier and focus our attention on the comprehension of his central message. The Narcissistic Matrix of Shame and Rage— With Direct Implications for Treatment. Shame and rage, as the "two principal experiential and behavioral manifestations of disturbed narcissistic equilibrium" (1972b, p . 379) attained a special place and unique dimensions in psychological depth and complexity in Kohut's work (1966b, 1968, 1971, 1972b). In relation to both shame and rage, his clinical theories and metapsychologic formulations brought together a variety of seemingly disparate and unconnected behavioral phenomena and experiences beyond their conscious and preconscious configurations in terms of their unconscious dynamics and developmental-genetic roots. Our focus here is exclusively upon the metapsychologic formulations and upon showing their relative experience-nearness and direct relevance for the approach to both of these emotions in the psychoanalytic treatment process. Shame arises when the selfobjects do not respond with the expected mirroring, approval, and admiration to the "boundless exhibitionism" of the grandiose self. In the fully structuralized psyche, small "shame signals" appear when the

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breakthrough of archaic grandiose-exhibitionism meets a similar lack of approval from the idealized superego (1971, p . 181n). This lack of response creates a psychoeconomic imbalance in the simultaneous effort to express and inhibit the exhibitionistic urge, which leads to painfully unpleasant blushing, mixed with pallor, rather than to the smooth suffusion of the skin with the pleasant, warm glow that occurs in response to acceptance and admiration. Shame is thus the consequence of a mixture of massive discharge and inhibition (i.e., a psychoeconomic imbalance) of unmirrored, unapproved, and unadmired exhibitionism of the grandiose self. T h e analysis focuses upon the narcissistic matrix, the manifestations of disavowed or repressed grandiose-exhibitionistic wishes and fantasies, and aims at their transformations and transmuting internalizations in the slow workingthrough process. T h e psychic structures that are thereby newly acquired decrease the propensity to react with massive painful shame. This formulation of the genetic origins and the unconscious dynamics of shame and the treatment approach based upon it offers a more broadly applicable and more useful alternative to the structural theory of shame, according to which shame is a general reaction of a relatively weak ego to its failure to live u p to the excessive demands of a strong ego ideal. Kohut rejects this view on both theoretical and clinical grounds. Most shame-prone people, he says, are exhibitionistic and lack firmly established, strong ideals. Their shame is a reaction to the "flooding of the ego with unneutralized exhibitionism and not to the relative egoweakness vis-a-vis an overly strong system of ideals" (1971). He buttressed this view with the important empirical finding that "progress in the analysis of shame-prone people is usually not achieved on the basis of trying to diminish the power of overly strong ideals." Kohut regards aiming for such a diminution of the strength of supposedly hypertrophied ideals as a technical error. In contrast, he demonstrates in his

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clinical examples (1971) that progress results from the combination of increasing mastery over infantile grandiosity and exhibitionism and the increasing idealization of the superego, that is, from the transformations of the narcissistic matrix itself, from which the shame arises. Narcissistic rage, as a prototype of h u m a n aggression, encompasses phenomenologically diverse expressions of the aggressive drive. Aggression becomes activated and elaborated as narcissistic rage as it arises from the matrix of archaic narcissism in response to a wide variety of narcissistic injuries. Its genetic roots are " . . . the two great absolutarian psychological constellations: the grandiose self and the archaic omnipotent object" (1971, p . 378). T h e grandiose self, in childhood more or less phase-appropriately, in adulthood as a result of early traumatic fixations, responds with narcissistic rage to its failure to exercise absolute control over its own functions or over those of its omnipotent selfobjects. The frustrations related to this failure create a psychoeconomic imbalance. Thus, narcissistic rage is the consequence of a mixture of massive discharge and inhibition (i.e., a psychoeconomic imbalance) of aggression in response to frustrated omnipotence which expects perfect control over the functions of the self and total dominance over its selfobjects. Here again, the analysis focuses upon the narcissistic matrix from which the rage arises, specifically upon the manifestations of disavowed or repressed wishes and fantasies for perfection, omniscience, and omnipotent control. It aims at their gradual transformation and transmuting internalization in the working-through process. T h e psychic structures that are thereby newly acquired decrease the propensity to react with explosively acute or chronic narcissistic rage. This particular primary attention to the narcissistic matrix itself, which Kohut advocates, quickly leads the analyst beyond the preconscious motivational context to the reconstruction of the infantile origin, structure, and function

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of narcissistic rage, that is, to its unconscious determinants. Repeated scrutiny of the disruptions of the selfobject transferences at those points at which the rage emerges will facilitate such reconstructions. This scrutiny consists of the identification of the precipitating narcissistic injuries within the transference and the demonstration of their dynamicgenetic meaning, i.e., the acknowledgment that the rage reaction makes sense in the context of the archaic experience. It is this approach, rather than the investigation of the experiential content of the rage (and the various mental mechanisms that lead to its expression) that will restore the narcissistic equilibrium, i.e., the cohesiveness of the transference and with it the cohesiveness of the self. What remains to conclude this section of our guided tour is to highlight some elements of the psychoanalytic treatment process—especially issues related to the theory of technique — which can now be appreciated in the light of both the empirical data and of the theories derived from them. The Selfobject Transferences and Their Working Through. Kohut's comprehensive and systematic presentation of the various configurations of selfobject transferences and their working through (summarized in Ornstein, 1974) includes the statement that these transferences develop "spontaneously" and ultimately emerge in their cohesive totality in a "properly conducted" psychoanalysis of patients with narcissistic personality and behavior disorders. This notion of the spontaneous emergence of selfobject transferences and the proper conduct of their analyses deserves a further comment and will lead us directly into a brief discussion of some of the principal distinguishing features of such analyses. One of the selfobject transferences will spontaneously develop only in an analytic climate that is pervaded by the analyst's appreciation of the fact that the patient's archaic fantasies, expectations, and demands are phase-appropriate to the particular fixation point from which they re-emerge

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against a variety of resistances; that they are not regressive evasions from conflicts of object love and object hate and are thus not mere way stations toward the ultimate analysis of object-instinctual conflicts; and that their complete unfolding therefore must be allowed to occupy the center stage of the analytic process. It is abundantly clear from Kohut's writings that once he overcame his own inner resistances against the selfobject transferences and recognized his own countertransference responses, he could provide us with a cognitive m a p for the initiation and conduct of such analyses and he could also aid us conceptually in recognizing and overcoming our own resistances and countertransferences. As in every psychoanalysis (irrespective of the nature of the patient's psychopathology) here, too, the analyst's nonintrusive attentive presence, as well as his cognitive-emotional capacity to provide the necessary ambience for a pathognomonic, therapeutic regression, serve as a prerequisite for the spontaneous emergence of the specific transferences. T h e proper conduct of the psychoanalysis of selfobject transferences is therefore fundamentally similar to that of the object-instinctual transference neuroses. As always, the introspective-empathic grasp of the patient's psychopathology and what is revived of it in the unfolding transference guides the analyst in the choice of the content of his interpretive responses. T h e differences that do indeed exist (and Kohut offers numerous comparisons and contrasts) are based on differing perceptions of the core psychopathology, the pathogenesis, and the curative process in the psychoanalysis of narcissistic personality disorders. Significantly, then, the mobilization of the selfobject transferences and their working through is accomplished here without the use of "parameters," that is, without any active interventions or deliberate transference gratifications beyond the empathic acceptance

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and ultimate interpretation of the patient's archaic experiences. In the psychoanalysis of the transference neuroses, the curative process is primarily linked to conflict resolution and structural change through insight and only secondarily to the often unnoticed, silent, transmuting internalizations. In contrast, in working through the selfobject transferences, the curative process is primarily linked to the filling in of structural defects through building up new structures via transmuting internalizations, buttressed by the achievement of insight. The crucial point here is Kohut's empirical evidence for the fact — as exemplified in the various transformations of archaic narcissism achieved in such analyses — that in a given psychoanalytic context, namely, that of the selfobject transferences, developmental derailments or arrests which antedate or parallel the oedipal experiences may be reopened for belated maturation and development and for the acquisition of new psychic structures. Kohut describes each step in the working-through process that leads to structure-building through transmuting internalization (1971, 1972b). The selfobject transferences temporarily re-establish a feeling of cohesiveness and continuity of the self or re-establish the desired union with the idealized parent image. This enables the patient to mobilize and express the relevant archaic wishes, fantasies, and demands. When these are not met with the anticipated empathic response by the analyst (or because of physical separations from him on weekends, vacations, etc.), the patient will retreat to more archaic forms of transference or experience further regression with a temporary disruption of its stability and a concomitant fragmentation of the self or selfobjects. The working through centers upon restoring these inevitable repeated disruptions and fragmentations by discovering the precipitating events and their current dynamic-structural meaning, along with the analyst-selfobject's role in the

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maintenance of the patient's narcissistic equilibrium. In conjunction with such experiences and often in response to tentative, broad reconstructions, the patient will recover specific memories of antecedent early experiences, which will then permit further, more precise, and therapeutically significant genetic reconstructions. With each nontraumatic and therefore manageable disruption, the patient has a chance to take over the functions he assigned to his selfobject-analyst in the transference and to acquire them now as permanent psychic structures through transmuting internalizations. Thus, these fragmentation-restoration sequences serve to establish dynamic-genetic insight, along with the necessary transformations and transmuting internalizations described earlier as end points of successful resolution of the selfobject transferences. T h e three questions most frequently asked after a careful survey of Kohut's clinical-theoretical exposition of the analytic process relate to the sharpness or distinctness with which he describes the various configurations of the selfobject transferences; to his assertion that, on the whole, the primary or basic psychopathology tends to crystallize as a result of pathognomonic therapeutic regression, either in one or the other of the two lines of narcissism or in that of object love, hence the "pure" forms of transferences; and to the significance of the Oedipus complex in the analysis of narcissistic personality disorders. Theoretical preferences and therefore prior clinical experiences usually lead to the assertion that the outlines of the configuration of the selfobject transferences are much less sharply delineated. Furthermore, they appear in more mixed rather than in pure forms, i.e. the various selfobject transferences may show up simultaneously or in rapid succession. There is also a dominant expectation, even when the existence of selfobject transferences is acknowledged, that these appear either before or mixed with object-love transferences. T h e latter, of course, implies the

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expectation that the analysis of selfobject transferences is a preliminary step to or goes hand in hand with the analysis of the oedipal psychopathology in the transference neurosis. None of these interrelated questions can be meaningfully discussed in isolation. What Kohut says about the selfobject transferences, the technical principles that guide their analyses, and what he has been able to abstract from them as clinical generalizations, theories, and metapsychologic formulations, are so intrinsically intertwined that they can only be understood when their relationship to each other is fully grasped. Only our willingness to enter, introspective-empathically, into the psychoanalytic process as a whole, as Kohut presents it, will allow us a first-hand experience with its heuristic and therapeutic values. Since this is precisely what we have attempted to do on our exploratory journey, we should now be able to examine these questions from the vantage point of our familiarity with the total fabric of Kohut's contributions. Psychoanalysis is fundamentally an empirical science. It may well be that new observations and clinical interpretations are frequently described with a certain sharply drawn distinctness, in the attempt to order the new clinical phenomena on the basis of freshly won insights. Such distinctness might inevitably suffer some blurring or the same phenomena might even be differently perceived with further clinical experience, that is, with additional empirical data. T h e early and the more current descriptions of the infantile neurosis and its revival in the transference neurosis is a case in point. T h e sharpness and clarity with which the configuration (both the form and the content) of the transference neurosis was first described, later gave way to a much more blurred and less easily identifiable "entity" and to questions regarding what exactly is revived in the transference neurosis. Kohut himself 11

" The multiple clinical-theoretical reasons for this blurring are not immediately germane to our present line of thinking. However, it should be

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would certainly expect similar or even more far-reaching questions or modifications of his formulations on the basis of further empirical data. But at this point it is not heuristically fruitful to assume that the distinct configuration of the selfobject transferences and their clear-cut delineation from each other and from object-love transferences is simply the result of the ubiquitous tendency of the innovator to draw his findings and theories initially more sharply. T h e evidence favors the explanation that Kohut's mode of observation and the theories he has derived from them have led to an analytic climate and technique that is directly responsible for the particular distinctness with which the selfobject transferences are ultimately allowed to emerge in the analyses of narcissistic personality disorders and for their sharp distinction from the object-instinctual transference neuroses. More specifically, once these selfobject transferences attain their cohesiveness (i.e., a kind of stability with which the various dominant transference configurations appear over a period of time), their recognition and the consistency with which the analyst is then able to maintain his interpretive focus upon their disruptions, rather than upon the content of these states of regression or fragmentation, brings these transferences into sharper relief. T h e technical principle of using broad dynamic-genetic reconstructions rather than interpretations of isolated drive elements (which appear with particular urgency and peremptoriness in states of fragmentation) may well contribute to the maintenance of both the cohesiveness and the distinctness of the selfobject transference configurations. noted that some of the loss of the distinctness of the transference neurosis is undoubtedly related to the issues which the "widening scope of psychoanalysis" brought with it. Attempts to accommodate some of the clinical observations in the treatment of narcissistic disorders within the classic, paradigmatic transference neurosis undoubtedly contributed to our current difficulties in clearly identifying the transference neurosis (see also Ornstein, 1974).

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During the process of working through, a mixture of selfobject transferences regularly appears. Careful study of these mixtures clearly reveals, however, that they are brought about through temporary regressive swings to more archaic forms and subsequent restoration to their previously cohesive, higher forms in response to proper interventions. (See 1971, esp. diagram 2, p . 97). These regressive-progressive swings provide the empirical data which suggest that the pathognomonic transference crystallizes and attains its stability and cohesiveness in one particular line and on one particular level, thus locating the patient's core-psychopathology in its specific line of development. Once a particular cohesive transference — for instance, an idealizing transference — is fully established and worked through (with intermediate swings to more archaic idealizations or to temporary appearances of mirror transference), a shift toward a secondary cohesive mirror transference in the narrower sense may develop through further pathognomonic regression. T h e analysis is then brought to termination as a result of its working through. Is it not logical, then, many would ask, that after the working through of the selfobject transferences the analysis would have to continue toward the development of the objectinstinctual transference neurosis for the working through and resolution of the Oedipus complex? Kohut discusses this question extensively (1971, 1975a, 1977) and addresses many of its complexities on both empirical and theoretical grounds, mindful of the need for further knowledge in this area. His answers emerge from a comparison of "two paradigmatic forms of psychopathology: nuclear oedipal psychopathology which is hidden by a broad cover of narcissistic disturbance; and narcissistic disorders which are hidden by seemingly oedipal symptomatology" (1972b). In the former, the oedipal passions and anxieties of a firmly established, cohesive self will ultimately emerge in the course of the analysis and

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" . . . the oedipal transference will . . . reveal how the narcissistic manifestations are related to the central oedipal experiences." In the latter, an enfeebled, fragmentation-prone or temporarily fragmented self will emerge in the course of the analysis. T h e vicissitudes of the established selfobject transference will reveal how the oedipal passions and anxieties serve the purpose of "self-stimulation in order to retain the precarious cohesion of their experiencing and acting self." Kohut then spells out the significance of the Oedipus complex in the analysis of narcissistic psychopathology: "the oedipal phase, including its conflicts and anxieties, became paradoxically a remedial stimulant, its very intensity being used by the psyche to counteract the tendency toward the breakup of the self—just as a small child may attempt to use selfinflicted pain (head banging, for example) in order to retain a sense of aliveness and cohesion." Kohut offers compelling clinical evidence when he states: "Patients whose manifest psychopathology serves this defensive function will react to the analyst's interpretations concerning the object-instinctual aspects of their behavior with the fear of losing the stimulation which prevents their fragmentation; and they will respond with an intensification of oedipal dramatizing so long as the analyst does not address himself to the defect of the self. Only when a shift in the focus of the analyst's interpretations indicates that he is now in empathic closeness to the patient's fragmenting self does the stimulation of the self through forced oedipal experiences (dramatizing in the analytic situation, acting out) begin to diminish." Thus, the appearance of manifest triangular oedipal content in the early part of analysis does not signify the presence of an Oedipus complex in the classical sense. What appears manifestly oedipal does not here represent the primary psychopathology. Empirically, the self-stimulation that derived from "hypercathected oedipal strivings," ceases as the analysis progresses and then terminates on having

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achieved the transformation of archaic narcissism into higher forms and having built-up new psychic structures through transmuting internalizations. This then leads to a firming up and stabilization of the cohesiveness of the self. Experiential contents of an oedipal nature may also emerge during the termination phase of a successful analysis of a narcissistic personality disturbance. They arise de novo as a consequence of this firming up of the self, which can then turn to the other (who is now perceived as having a separate existence and his own center of initiative) with either a hitherto hidden or a newly acquired capacity for object love (1977). With these statements we have arrived at a crucial juncture of our explorations of the nature of the selfobject transferences and their working through: the recognition that Kohut has introduced here a new perception of the relationship between drive-psychology and self psychology. This is a decisive advance in his evolving understanding and treatment of patients with narcissistic personality and behavior disorders, and its broader implications for psychoanalysis will be examined after a brief survey of the heuristic value of his clinical findings and theories outside of the clinical context. T h e nature of Kohut's work and his method of approach affirm that the clinical-therapeutic situation is still the fountainhead of new psychoanalytic insights and knowledge; the very area, where "the investigations of depth psychology must in the main be undertaken" (1973). As we have seen, Kohut began his systematic clinical researches by reaffirming the primary role of introspection and empathy as the psychoanalyst's investigative-therapeutic tool. In these studies, undertaken with a renewed effort at prolonged and persistent introspective-empathic immersion into the transference experiences of his patients, Kohut has further refined the basic method of psychoanalysis by illuminating the nature and role of empathy. Since empathy

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emerges from the archaic narcissistic matrix, small wonder that the studies on narcissism also yielded new observations, which permitted new conceptualizations of this ubiquitous and fundamental h u m a n capacity. It is undoubtedly the creative use of empathy that has led Kohut to his significant clinical-theoretical contributions. Kohut successfully applied the same empathic process in his work "beyond the bounds of the basic rule," vastly extending previous cognitive possibilities. It is this added knowledge about empathy, its broadened role and function and the various extensions of psychoanalysis to which this has led, notably in the area of creativeness and the creative process, group psychology, and the historical process, which are the further landmarks still to be visited on this exploratory journey. Further Landmarks: Applications Beyond the Clinical

Situation

Both empathy and creativeness as his personal characteristics pervade the whole of Kohut's scientific work. And these are the very themes he continues to examine and elaborate in his writings. With his broadened and deepened understanding of empathy and creativeness, Kohut takes us on an exciting "side-trip" in four of his essays. T h e various occasions for which these essays were written appropriately stirred him to turn to more global issues and to give us his "civilization and its discontents" views and the range of applicability of the insights of the psychology of the self. At the celebration of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Berlin Institute, Kohut (1973) examined the role psychoanalysis might play in a mass society in a drastically changed external environment where the demands upon man's psychic life can only be anticipated. In this exemplary piece of psychoanalytic historicosociography, he ventured to spell out, in a remarkable flight of his imagination, what psychoanalysis could offer to aid in this new adaptation.

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At the celebration of his sixtieth birthday, which marked the first public appreciation of his work, Kohut turned from the personal to the communal and courageously explored "The Future of Psychoanalysis" (1975a) in terms of the impact of the relation of the community of psychoanalysts to the charismatic figure of Freud. He included his view of the task that lay ahead for psychoanalysis if it was to remain a vital force in our culture. On the occasion of receiving the honorary degree of Doctor of Science from the University of Cincinnati for his work as a psychoanalyst, Kohut (1975d), again turning from the personal to the communal, examined the reasons for the lack of integration of psychoanalysis within the universities. In his startling proposal —a line of thought already begun in his birthday address —he asked both the psychoanalysts and the scholars of other disciplines to renounce their "tool-andmethod pride" which has kept them isolated from each other and from their surroundings. He suggested the employment of empathy as a tool of observation and "its employment as the matrix into which all scientific activities must be embedded if they are not to become increasingly isolated from human life. . . ." It is this responsiveness from within an empathic matrix, more than the love of fellow m a n , which is to prevent or to counteract the Kafkaesque alienation, dehumanization, loneliness, fright, and painful anonymity of mass society, to which we seem to be more and more shifting. This analysis of the sociocultural forces within a circumscribed group (the community of scholars) in a circumscribed setting (the university) has much broader sociocultural and anthropologic-historical implications. In response to a request (see Gedo and Pollock, 1976) to enlarge upon some earlier (1966a) spontaneous comments regarding Freud's self-analysis, Kohut (1976) elaborated extensively on the subject from the vantage point of the psychology of the self. He used his understanding of Freud's

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self-analysis to penetrate more deeply into the issues of creativeness through the "idealizing transference of creativity" to grasp the characteristics of those who could serve as the appropriate targets for such transference needs and wishes: the charismatic and messianic personalities. And finally, as he wondered how we should understand, on a global scale, when and why such personalities are chosen as leaders by large groups or nations, Kohut centered on the analysis of groups and of the historical process. This work exceeds in both depth and breadth what has been available to us in "Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego" (Freud, 1921). We should now attempt to capture, if ever so briefly, the essential advances in our understanding of empathy and creativeness in order to grasp the method whereby Kohut extended psychoanalysis from the clinical situation with the individual patient to the arena of man in history. Empathy and the Empathic Process. In his methodologic paper, Kohut (1959b) has already reclaimed introspection and empathy as the key observational tools of psychoanalysis. He stressed the role of empathy as a mode of cognition and its scientific employment in the empathic process as the only "direct" access we possess to the mental life of the other. It was his clinical use of empathy for this "direct" access to the inner life of his patients that led him to the various additional discoveries about the genetic origin, role, and functions of empathy itself. T h e vicissitudes of the selfobject transferences and their working through brought forth experiences of temporary fragmentations, the regressive emergence of primitive rage, shame, hypochondriasis, and perverse fantasies or actions in response to the analyst's faulty empathy. Conversely, correct empathic responses to such states of fragmentation aided the re-establishment of the cohesiveness of the transference and thus the cohesiveness of the self and of the selfobjects. Such events led to the reconstruction of faulty

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parental empathy as an etiologic factor in the development of the various narcissistic psychopathologies. T h e empathic capacities of these patients are undeveloped or stunted, and in the successful analyses in the narcissistic sector of the personality a modicum of empathy regularly develops as a result of the wholesome transformations of their archaic narcissism. Kohut (1975c) has come to view psychoanalysis as the science of empathy par excellence, and he says, " . . . the decisive step analysis has taken in the development of scientific thought is that it has combined scientific truth-finding with regard to processes that can become accessible only through the scrutiny of the inner experiences of m a n . " He has defined empathy as " . . . a broad, autonomous mental function, present in all h u m a n beings, present at every level of development — from the baby's first instinctive enmeshment with his h u m a n surroundings to those rigorously controlled mental processes that supply the primary data of observation to any science of complex psychological states." Kohut summarizes the advances in his understanding of empathy in three elegantly synthesized and far-reaching propositions. These encompass the importance of empathy and its hitherto unforeseen functions both within and outside of the clinical situation: "(1) Empathy, the recognition of the self in the other, is an indispensable tool of observation, without which vast areas of h u m a n life, including man's behavior in the social field, remain unintelligible. (2) Empathy, the expansion of the self to include the other, constitutes a powerful psychological bond between individuals which—more perhaps even than love, the expression and sublimation of the sexual drive — counteracts man's destructiveness against his fellows. And (3), empathy, the accepting, confirming, and understanding h u m a n echo evoked by the self, is a psychological nutriment without which h u m a n life as we know it and cherish it could not be sustained."

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Kohut examines these propositions thoroughly and exemplifies each of them both in nonclinical and clinical situations. From the solid empirical base of his psychoanalytic practice, he boldly ventures to suggest that we replace our "truth-and-reality morality" and our "tool-and-method pride" as our guiding ideals with an idealization of empathy. He would have us move "from pride in clear vision and uncompromising rationality to pride in the scientifically controlled expansion of the self." T h e deidealization of our search for truth and of our expectations that above all we face reality, along with our insistence on perfecting our tools and methods and our insistence on pridefully enjoying their applications in our daily practice would then lead to their integration as reliable ego functions. T h e idealization of empathy, which would emerge instead to guide us in our work, could well lead the psychoanalyst to expand his clinical skills and knowledge more appropriately for the understanding and wholesome influence of sociocultural phenomena. T o put it another way, empathy and the empathic process could be more successfully lifted out of their clinical context and applied to the study of smaller and larger groups, with the ultimate aim, just as in relation to the individual patient, of gaining increasing control (i.e., ego dominance or ego autonomy) over the potentially disruptive and destructive psychosocial forces. Creativeness and the Creative Process. Kohut's work on narcissism, both its clinical and its theoretical aspects, also provided additional empirical data and a new theoretical framework for decisive advances in our understanding of creativeness and the creative process. Creativeness, too, is one of the regularly observed beneficial end-results of the transformations of archaic narcissism. Thus, it is the clinical study of the selfobject transferences and their working through that has shed new light on the sources of artistic and scientific creativeness and productivity, on the nature of the creative process, and on the intrapsychic events that permit the

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development of creativeness into a stable and reliable ego function. Tersely put, creativeness as it emerges in the clinical situation, either transitorily or as a more lasting endresult of sufficient transformations and transmuting internalizations, reveals the two archaic narcissistic constellations as its source. The nature of the creative process and the intrapsychic events that permit its emergence are reflected in the working through of the selfobject transferences. In the various forms of these selfobject transferences are well-established wishes and needs of the enfeebled or fragmentation-prone self to retain or re-establish its cohesiveness — by expanding temporarily into the psychic structure of the selfobject in the merger transference, by finding the self in the selfobject in the twinship transference, by insisting on being confirmed by the admiration of the selfobject in the mirror transference in the narrower sense, and finally, by obtaining strength from an idealized selfobject in the idealizing transference. In these clinical situations it is an ". . . observable fact that a modicum of empathic contact with the analyst is necessary for the maintenance of a newly acquired capacity for artistic sublimation. . . ." — i.e., creativeness (1976). Although Kohut's new knowledge of creativity derives directly from his clinical experiences, he is quick to point out that the broader issues of creativeness, especially the spontaneously emerging creativity of genius (e.g., Freud) are outside the realm of psychopathology and are only "distantly related" to the clinical experiences with the kind of creativity liberated or arising for the first time during the working through of selfobject transferences. In his extensive reflections upon Freud's self-analysis, Kohut (1976) forged a bridge, via his new concept of Freud's relation to Fliess as an "idealizing transference of creativity," to the study of the creative process in nonclinical contexts. He offers as his " . . . main thesis that during periods of intense creativity

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(especially during its early stage) certain creative persons require a specific relationship with another person —a transference of creativity—which is similar to that which establishes itself during the psychoanalytic treatment of one major group of narcissistic personality disorders." Such a transference figure can be dispensed with after the completion of the creative process. Kohut is explicit in his effort to separate the transference of creativity from the pathological context of the idealizing transference and offers his formulation of the spontaneous creative process, both in metapsychologic and in behavioral terms. He suggests that " . . . the psychic organization of some creative people is characterized by a fluidity of the basic narcissistic configurations, i.e., that periods of narcissistic equilibrium . . . are followed by (precreative) periods of emptiness and restlessness . . . and that these, in turn, are followed by creative p e r i o d s . . . . " Expressed in behavioral terms: "a phase of frantic creativity (original thought) is followed by a phase of quiet work . . . [which] is in turn interrupted by a fallow period of precreative narcissistic tension, which ushers in a phase of renewed creativity, and so on." There is an opportunity here, as Kohut himself points out, to compare these formulations, which derive from the psychology of the self, with earlier ones, which were derived from the structural model of the mind. Analysts may now profitably study the respective explanatory power of the various clinical and metapsychologic formulations. Kohut provides an example for such comparative study (in addition to the interpretation of Freud's self-analysis) when he returns, in this context, to reinterpret the artistic disintegration of Aschenbach in Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. The Broader Perspectives of Group Psychology and the Historical Process. T h e study of creativeness through the "idealizing transference of creativity" led to the intriguing question: what are the personality characteristics of those who

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serve as appropriate targets for such spontaneous transferences of the creative genius? In other words, what do Fliess, Daniel Schreber (the father of Freud's famous paranoiac), Hitler, and Churchill have in common that makes them suitable to absorb the transference wishes and needs of individuals, groups, and nations? Kohut (1976) describes them as charismatic and messianic personalities with differing psychological structures serving differing needs. T h e charismatic person's self is fully identified with his own archaic grandiose self—it is as if his real self and his grandiose self were one. He thus serves as a proper target for "identification" with an omnipotent selfobject, who is then the carrier of the subject's grandiose self. Kohut reconstructed the traumatic withdrawal of empathy, i.e., the responsiveness to the mirroring needs of the child, as the essential aspect of the genetic origin of these personality characteristics. T h e messianic person's self is fully identified with the idealized selfobject —it is as if the real self and the idealized selfobject were one. He thus serves as a proper target for the idealizing needs and wishes of the enfeebled or fragmentation-prone self and is thus the carrier of its greatness and perfection. Kohut reconstructed the traumatic disappointment in the archaic idealized selfobject as the essential aspect of the genetic origin of these personality characteristics. What is therefore common to the charismatic and messianic personalities is that "they seem to combine an absolute certainty concerning the power of their selves and an absolute conviction concerning the validity of their ideals with an equally absolute lack of empathic understanding for large segments of feelings, needs, and rights of other h u m a n beings and for the values cherished by them." Kohut arrived at this understanding of the relation between charismatic and messianic leaders and their followers again primarily on the basis of knowledge derived from the

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analysis of selfobject transferences. In these reflections, Kohut offers us "a blueprint for the future," not only for a more detailed study of the relation between Freud and Fliess and between the psychoanalytic community and the image of Freud (paramount as that is for a psychoanalytic historiography), but, more importantly on a broader scale and as a decisive shift in the nature of inquiry, for the study of the historical process itself; for seeking depth-psychologic explanations for the various sequences and trends in history. Thus, a grasp of the essence of the nature of charismatic and messianic personalities served Kohut as an entree to the study of group psychology and the dynamics of the historical process. Some of his questions indicate the direction and scope of his expanded search for understanding and explanations in this area: "How do the characteristic psychological features of the messianic and charismatic person dovetail with the widespread yearning for archaic omnipotent figures? And what are the specific historical circumstances which tend to increase this yearning?" Kohut expects that the answers to these and similar questions would lead to more comprehensive and scientifically valid explanations for the historical process and would ultimately offer m a n increasing mastery over his historical destiny. He spells out with considerable precision the details of his introspective-empathic approach: by positing a "group self," analogous to the self of the individual, Kohut focuses the future investigator's attention upon the nature and circumstances of group formation, upon the psychological forces that maintain their cohesion or lead to their regressive fragmentation, and especially to the oscillations between group fragmentation and group reintegration. With his empathic-introspective analysis, admittedly only sketchy, of certain aspects of the relation between the psychoanalytic community and the idealized image of Freud (1975a, 1976), Kohut illustrates in detail the potential impact of such

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psychoanalytic historiography upon psychoanalysts and psychoanalysis. These four essays reveal the distinct advances in Kohut's method of applied psychoanalysis since his earlier (1960a) systematic presentation of this subject, the increased explanatory power of the psychology of the self in the areas under consideration, the greater ease with which the clinical insights based on the psychology of the self can be utilized in relation to nonclinical problems, and finally, the relevance that a study of modern art, music, and literature has for a better sociocultural understanding of the leading clinical problems of our time. Kohut's scattered references to works of literature demonstrate with particular poignancy the elements of human experience that could not be adequately encompassed by the psychology of structural conflicts. We are now ready to return to the main road and to undertake the last leg of this journey: a survey of the experience-near and (comparatively) experience-distant abstractions that derive from Kohut's clinical-empirical studies and culminate at the end of a decade of creative productivity in his systematic presentation of a psychoanalytic psychology of the self. The Expansion of The Psychoanalytic

Psychoanalysis: Psychology of the Self

The clinical emphasis that characterized the presentations of Kohut's basic findings and conceptualizations of narcissism and the treatment of narcissistic personality and behavior disorders first drew attention to the fact that the nosologic spectrum of analyzable psychopathology had decisively been widened. It was immediately obvious that the narcissistic selfobject transferences and their interpretive working through, without parameters, offered us new insights into the psychology and psychopathology of narcissism not available

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from the treatment of neuroses and neurotic character disorders. And closer study reveals that Kohut's work on narcissism in its initial phases already contained an even more fundamental contribution: the outlines of an evolving psychoanalytic psychology of the self (Ornstein, 1974). Although the patients Kohut described (until then, loosely diagnosed as borderline states) were encountered with increasing frequency in psychoanalytic practice, they were nevertheless still considered to be on the outer edge of its "widening scope." Kohut's delineation of a specific category of patients from this larger group of "borderline states," his demonstration of their analyzability without parameters, and the increased therapeutic leverage of his systematic approach understandably first attracted wider attention to the therapeutic aspects of his work. This has, for many psychoanalysts, temporarily obscured the fact that Kohut raised his clinicaltherapeutic contributions to a level of theoretical-metapsychological abstraction that transcended ego psychology, on its way to becoming the leading paradigm of psychoanalysis. Such a development was already foreshadowed in "Introspection, Empathy . . . " (1959b), increasingly more explicitly articulated in his writings since 1966, and was finally firmly accomplished in The Restoration of the Self (1977). Thus, the broader and more fundamental significance of Kohut's work certainly does not rest with his having added another nosologic entity to the group of analyzable patients — although this in itself constitutes a major advance in our field. Rather, it rests with his carefully developed psychology of the self, which should be viewed as part of the sequence of the major leaps forward in psychoanalysis: from id psychology to ego psychology to self psychology. 12

" We shall restrict our focus here entirely upon Kohut's self psychology and resist the temptation to encompass the entire sequence just outlined. It should be noted in passing, however, that a comprehensive study of these "major leaps forward," these changes in the leading paradigms of psycho-

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Even if we can retrace only in broad outline the significant steps in the evolution of this self psychology as it arose from the matrix of Kohut's work on narcissism, it will be apparent how tentatively and cautiously he began to move from his clinical insights and theories of narcissism toward the breaking of new ground in the systematic presentation of his psychoanalytic psychology of the self (1977). This self psychology is clearly built upon, yet simultaneously transcends, the work on narcissism. It is a direct continuation and broadening of the theoretical abstractions derived from the clinical findings in the working-through process of the selfobject transferences. T h e fact that its clinical-empirical roots are in these transferences sets it apart from other attempts at developing a psychoanalytic self psychology. The tentativeness and caution with which Kohut proanalysis would now be quite timely and revealing if it could specify the clinical and theoretical problems resolved by each change; describe the methods and levels of theorizing involved, including the nature and source of the empirical data; and finally, identify the sociocultural and grouppsychological forces at work which were either inhibiting or enhancing each particular advance. This approach might also shed additional light on why some attempts at innovation in theory and technique have remained within the main stream of psychoanalysis, i.e., were integrated within the leading paradigm, while others were sequestered from it. Such a study could profitably utilize some aspects of Kuhn's (1962) seminal ideas regarding the history of science and simultaneously examine its relevance for psychoanalysis. Only the briefest summary of what is meant by an existing paradigm being superseded by a new one in psychoanalysis, can be given within the confines of this "guided tour." Explanatory concepts and theories that had been elaborated from valid and significant clinical observations (i.e., empirical facts) have to be recast into a new language and into new concepts in order to make clinical-theoretical sense within the emerging new paradigm. There are also clinical observations (i.e., empirical facts) with their correlated concepts and theories that lose both their validity and their significance within the paradigm which is newly emerging into dominance. Most frequently, however, it is the "superstructure" of concepts and theories and not the clinical findings that lose their validity and, with it, of course, their significance.

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ceeded in his work, at first toward the psychology of the self in the narrower sense and ultimately toward the psychology of the self in the broader sense, are an integral part of his credo as an empirical scientist (see 1975d). We should note here again —as we have throughout this survey—his clinical method and his mode of theorizing, in order to appreciate more fully the bold final step Kohut took in developing the paradigm of his self psychology (1977). Just as during the first and second periods, so now during the third period (1966-1977), Kohut tested out his new ideas almost in statu nascendi in his discussions of papers by others before he was ready to offer them in a systematic presentation. While still in the midst of his major work on narcissism (1971), which contains most of the key elements of his future psychology of the self, Kohut (1970a) began to introduce in a preliminary fashion, the heuristic advantages of accepting "the self as a deliminated psychic configuration," and defining it ". . . as an important content (a structure or configuration) within the mental apparatus, i.e., as self-representations (imagoes) of the self which are located within the ego, the id, and the superego." He did not yet speak explicitly of a psychology of the self even in the narrower sense. Characteristically and with far-reaching implications, however, he refrained from leaping ahead of compelling clinical evidence and suggested that we should not regard the self as a fourth agency of the mind, i.e., as one of the centers of identifiable functions, co-equal to id, ego, and superego. He offered two reasons to justify this position, and they are worthy of note: First, the self and the three agencies of the mind are not on the same level of concept formation. "The self [is a] . . . comparatively low-level, i.e., comparatively experience-near, psychoanalytic abstraction, as a content of the mental apparatus . . . a structure within the mind." In contrast, "ego, id, superego are the constituents of a specific,

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high level, i.e., experience-distant, abstraction in psychoanalysis: the mental apparatus." Second, he preferred to continue to keep the issues of concept formation, definition, and terminology open: " . . . at the present time the traditional theoretical framework provides adequate room for the self (as a subordinate concept) . . . none of the clinicalempirical phenomena so far adduced requires the introduction of a fourth agency of the mind." He then went on to underscore the need for openness to new empirical data, which may give rise to new theories by saying that " . . . we should not exclude the possibility that the continued investigation of the field of narcissism . . . will eventually lead to findings which could bring about a change in our theories, even in those concerning the basic constituents of the mind." He put this even more firmly in a programmatic statement that certainly governed his own work and led to the results we are now examining: "Although the possibility of a future acceptation of the self as one of the centers of identifiable functions and thus as an agency of the mind must not be completely ruled out, this question should not be confronted at this point. For the time being we should put aside the question of the advisability of a change of our conceptions of the basic mental constituents, but should devote our efforts to the collection and the critical evaluation of relevant clinicalempirical d a t a . " This is precisely what Kohut himself had done, and he soon came to a very different, thoroughly novel, assessment of the place of the self in psychoanalysis (including the relation of the self to the three agencies of the mind). As we reflect here upon the evolution of this psychology of the self, we see that it has essentially occurred (schematically put) in three considerably intertwined and clearly overlapping phases: Phase One (1966b, 1968, 1970a, 1970b, 1971): Here the concept of the self is entirely embedded, as stated earlier, in the work on narcissism and originates in the discovery of the

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selfobject transferences. T h e self thus emerges as a psychoanalytic concept, which can be metapsychologically defined and distinctly delineated from the ego, on the one hand, and from "personality" and "identity," on the other. T h e self is described in terms of its genesis, i.e., its earliest hypothetical origins; its earliest reconstructed cohesive archaic constellations (the grandiose self and the idealized parent imago), the centrally located nuclear self (which is derived from them), and finally, in terms of its various developmental stages as they lead to the mature configurations of the self as a content of the mind. Phase Two (1972a, 1972b): Here the concept of the self is further defined, both clinically and metapsychologically, especially in its relation to self-assertiveness (aggression) and narcissistic rage, with added emphasis upon its increasing clinical and theoretical significance. Kohut (1972a) asks: "What is the self, this continuum in time, this cohesive configuration in depth, which is the Τ of our perceptions, thoughts and actions?" He then contrasts two possible approaches to defining the self. One is his own preference for viewing " . . . the self as an abstraction derived from psychoanalytic experience [and thus considered] as a content of the mind." This, then, is his comparatively experience-near abstraction. T h e other is an axiomatic definition, which places the self " . . . into the center of our being from which all initiative springs and where all experiences e n d . " T h e consequences of these two fundamentally different approaches are clearly spelled out, and, because they are of such importance in aiding our grasp of the nature of the evolution of Kohut's psychology of the self, they should be quoted here in their entirety. Regarding the axiomatic definition, he says: "(1) The postulate of a single, central self leads toward an elegant and simple theory of the mind—but also toward an abrogation of the importance of the unconscious. And (2) this definition of the self is not derived from psychoanalytic

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material but from conscious experience; and it is introduced, from the outside as it were, in order to create a rounded out, cohesive theory of thought, perception, and action" (1972b). Regarding his own preferred experience-near abstraction he says: "As a result of this approach we recognize the simultaneous existence of contradictory selves: of different selves of various degrees of stability and of various degrees of importance. There are conscious, preconscious, and unconscious selves; there are selves in the ego, the id, and the superego; and we may discover in some of our patients contradictory selves, side by side, in the same psychic agency. Among these selves, however, there is one which is most centrally located in the psyche; one which is experienced as the basic one, and which is most resistant to change. I like to call this self the 'nuclear self.' " The concept of the self, then, as it emerged in the various developmental-genetic, dynamic-structural and transference configurations of the self during phase one and phase two, could now retrospectively be described (from the vantage point of its further evolution in The Restoration of the Self) as constituting the psychology of the self in the narrower sense where the self has already attained considerable heuristic significance and well-documented explanatory value, albeit still as a structure, or content within the mind. Kohut's preference for this conceptualization, as against viewing the self as the fourth agency of the mind, left clinical experience and theorizing open for further advances. These advances did indeed follow very rapidly and will now be summarized and then briefly discussed. Phase Three (1975c, 1975d, 1976, 1977): Here, the concept of the self with its bipolar structure in health and disease is expanded in many new directions. Foremost among these expansions are those related to the hypothetical earliest origins of the self and those related to the attainment of its earliest cohesive configurations (see 1975d, for an extensive

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discussion of various alternative theories). Kohut added many details to his previous descriptions of the genetic origins of the various constituents of the self, additions derived from his further studies of the selfobject transferences, especially the termination phase and the nature of psychoanalytic cure (1977), and from his studies of the personality of solitary resisters against totalitarian political power and of the psychology of the tragic hero in drama and religion. From these additional and still continuing studies, the self finally emerged as a bipolar, supraordinate configuration— but not as a fourth agency of the mind —with its own center of initiative and thus no longer only a content of the mind. We can now discern an additional reason why Kohut could not be persuaded earlier (in phase one) to accept the self as a fourth agency (a structure or constituent) of the mental apparatus, but felt it more felicitous to view the self, at least temporarily, as a delimited structure within the mind. T h e very idea of the self as an agency of the mind, he must have sensed, would have blocked him from freeing himself from mental-apparatus psychology and the structural theory, and this would probably have deferred or precluded his present conceptualizations. Instead, he continued with deepened commitment his use of the introspective-empathic method of data-gathering and the formulation of comparatively experience-near concepts and theories, as his clinical data demanded, which led him to find a totally new place for the self in psychoanalysis. T h e self, he now suggested, is a supraordinate bipolar configuration which is conceptually independent of the "mental apparatus" and its "agencies" and their entire theoretical context. This expanded view of the bipolar self, along with its correlated concepts and theories, constitutes the psychology of the self in the broader sense. It was a giant step toward the era of self psychology. A brief glance at this schematic overview of the three phases immediately reveals that both psychologies of the self

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were essentially present during phase one, in the works on narcissism. T h e advances into phase two consisted essentially of articulating the psychology of the self in the narrower sense by spelling out explicitly its correlated concepts and theories and, most significantly, its clinical-therapeutic implications. T h e clinical understanding and explanation and the therapeutic leverage these provided were amply demonstrated throughout the writings of phase one and two. Thus, it will not detract from the significance of the psychology of the self in the narrower sense as both an empirically and conceptually justifiable proposition if we recognize it as an intermediate conceptualization that was still embedded (albeit somewhat loosely) in a mental-apparatus psychology and ego psychology. T h e essential advance made from phase two to phase three, then, is the development of a self psychology that is conceptually independent from and has moved beyond drive theory and ego psychology. Within the metaphor of this exploratory journey, therefore, we may appropriately view the psychology of the self in the narrower sense as adjacent territory to structural psychology and recognize that it has certainly expanded and enriched the classical domain of psychoanalysis. And by the same token, the psychology of the self in the broader sense may then be rightly looked upon as a new continent, whose discovery and exploration have truly expanded our psychological universe. Commensurate with the importance of this latest step in this continuing evolution, we might now, in completing this exploration, focus upon some of the crucial findings and theories that have enabled Kohut to articulate the paradigm of his self psychology so comprehensively and to illuminate it from so many clinical and theoretical vantage points. The Bipolar Self and Its Constituents—A New Basis for Characterology and Psychopathology. T h e necessity for a psychology of the self was, from the onset, first and foremost a clinical one. Neither drive-defense psychology nor the struc-

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tural theory could adequately encompass the clinical facts in the treatment of narcissistic disorders. Once the concept of the self attained its clinical-theoretical position in that context, it was only a matter of applying these new conceptualizations to other problem areas of psychoanalysis where the classical approach was unable to offer satisfactory understanding and explanations. Thus, the clinical-empirical basis for the conception of the bipolar self and its constituents has already been established in the working through of the bipolar transferences. Kohut's careful and precise observations regarding the spontaneously emerging sequences in the mobilization of the selfobject transferences yielded considerable additional knowledge in relation to the development of the basic structures and functions of the self. They led to the recognition of the defensive and compensatory structures, which have not only further refined our understanding and therapeutic approach to the narcissistic personality and behavior disorders, but also afforded us a better understanding of the various constituents of the self and their relation to each other in health and disease. Defensive structures develop in order to cover over a primary defect in one sector of the self (e.g., the grandiose self). Compensatory structures may then develop in the other sector (the idealized parent imago) and thereby insure the development of a cohesively functioning self, at least in that sector. Should the development of these compensatory structures also be traumatically interrupted, the self in tot ο is to be considered defective. Kohut's pictorial rendition of the configuration of the self depicts the essential features of the structure as being bipolar. At one pole are the transformations of archaic grandiosity and exhibitionism into the central self-assertive goals, purposes, and ambitions; at the other pole are the transformations of archaic idealizations into the central idealized values and internalized guiding principles; the "tension arc" that

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develops between these two poles encompasses the innate talents and skills, which the self may put to use in order to express its basic (nuclear) design. This expanded and more detailed version of its configuration greatly enhanced the study of its genesis, development, basic constituents, aims, functions, and disturbances. These refinements were still compatible with the conceptualization of the self as essentially a content of the mind. T h e following two steps, however, placed the self firmly at the core of the personality as a supraordinate constellation with its own center of initiative. These steps concern certain changes in the hypothesis about the formation of the cohesive self and a new view of the relation of the drives to the self (1975d, 1977). The direct clinical observations that served as the basis for Kohut's reconstructions of the earliest origins and development of the self are easily repeated: they are the ubiquitously occurring oscillations in the selfobject transferences between cohesion, fragmentation, and reintegration. This is a repetitive sequence where "cohesion" means the experiencing of the unity and coherence of the self in space and its continuity in time; "fragmentation" refers to the loss of this unity and coherence and the experiencing instead, of single, isolated bodily and mental functions; reintegration refers to the regaining of the temporarily lost unity. From these observations, Kohut, at first, hypothesized that "fragments" or "nuclei" of the self, the single, isolated body parts and single, isolated bodily and mental functions coalesce or fuse into the experiencing of a cohesive, unified, total self. T o express this sequence (although not with the present implications) in the language of libido theory, as Freud (1914b) did, the stage of autoerotism is superseded by the stage of narcissism. T h e crucial and perhaps the farthest-reaching implication for Kohut's work is the "small" correction he offered to the hypothesis of the origin of the cohesive self (1975d). He states

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that while it is accurate to assume that the stage of parts (autoerotism) is followed by the stage of the whole (cohesive) self (narcissism), it was no longer tenable to hold that the cohesive self was actually formed through the coalescence of the experience of parts. T h e key sentence that presages the nature of the synthesis that follows and quickly leads to the new paradigm is this: "And finally the child reaches a stage in which the progressively tamed experience of single parts and functions has become related to the total experience of a cohesive self—the parts . . . do not build up the self, they become built into it" (1975d). In further explicating this developmental sequence and process, Kohut postulates separate lines of development for the child's experience of his single, isolated body parts and single physical and mental functions, on the one hand, and for his experience of himself as a cohesive, continuous whole self, on the other. T h e developmental line of "parts" continues throughout life, conceptualized as " . . . m a n . . . in conflict over his pleasure-seeking drives — Guilty Man"; and the developmental line of the total self continues as a supraordinate constellation in the center of the personality, conceptualized as m a n "blocked in his attempt to achieve selfrealization [the expression of his nuclear design] — Tragic Man" (1975d). Just as the "small," most central change in theory that arose from the clinical work on narcissism — the postulate of separate lines of development for narcissism and object love — opened a whole new approach to the clinical and theoretical problems of narcissism (it constitutes phase one of the present developments), so did this amended version of the crucial earliest developmental step permit the solution of a variety of clinical-theoretical problems, leading to the psychology of the self in the broader sense — the viewing of the development of parts and of the self along two separate lines (with archaic and more mature segments and end points in both).

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It is easy to anticipate at this point that the psychology of the self can now give rise to a new and expanded psychoanalytic characterology and psychopathology. These will be based upon the increased refinements in observations and reconstructions of the selfobject transferences, presented in The Restoration of the Self. Especially important in this respect will be the further refinements Kohut offered in defining the constituents of the bipolar self, which, in conjunction with the self s available talents and skills, shapes the particular character or psychopathology. W e already have such examples in the charismatic and messianic characters. Also, Kohut's delineation of primary and secondary selfpathology (1972b) will undoubtedly give rise now, with the expansion of basic knowledge of the bipolar self, to more refined studies of self psychology. Since these character types and forms of psychopathology will surely develop directly from the soil of the clinical situation — the working through of the selfobject transferences—not only will their analysis be more firmly based both empirically and conceptually, but their nosology will also greatly improve. Beyond Narcissism—The Relationship of Drive Psychology to Self Psychology. Kohut spells out clearly and persuasively that the self as a supraordinate configuration (supraordinate to the mental apparatus and its agencies) must be assumed to be present, albeit in a rudimentary form, the moment we speak of a psychology in the h u m a n infant. At some point during the parallel development of parts and of self (the latter may start later than the former), the rudimentary self gains ascendancy, attains its supraordinate position by subsuming the parts under its own governing influence; the parts become built into the self as its constituents. This rudimentary self then, is the earliest, smallest, primal unit of complex psychological experience. It is, of course, highly vulnerable to the vicissitudes of the relation to its selfobjects and prone to fragmentations, which then lead

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to the emergence and temporary dominance of nolated, single parts and isolated, single functions. Under optimal circumstances, as the self attains a stable, reliably enduring cohesiveness, its constituents (including the drives) will be more firmly integrated to subserve its selfassertive and idealistic aims. Should the cohesiveness of the bipolar self be disrupted (fragmented, enfeebled or otherwise diminished), the isolated drives will emerge with considerable intensity as the disintegration products of the self. From this vantage point Kohut is able to affirm that neither narcissistic rage and destructiveness nor infantile sexuality in isolation are primary psychological configurations. "The primary psychological configuration (of which the drive is only a constituent) is the experience of the relation between the self and the empathic selfobject" (1977, p . 122). This is, of course, the selfobject relation that early on maintains the cohesiveness of the developing self and thus optimally contains its "aggression" (healthy self-assertiveness) and "sexuality" as its constituents. Kohut (1972b) had already described narcissistic rage and destructiveness as a breakdown product of the self, but he could now update his conceptualizations and present them more systematically. In this context, applying his self psychology to the discussion of the relation of the drives to the self or, more broadly put, of drive-psychology to self psychology, he illustrates this relation in his discussion of the nature of the aggressive drive and its role in theory and treatment, of infantile sexuality, and of the Oedipus complex and its role in the neuroses and in narcissistic disturbances, demonstrating with clinical examples the increased and often more relevant explanatory power of the new psychology of the self. Kohut was criticized for having disregarded aggression in The Analysis of the Self and for having defined narcissism exclusively as the libidinal investment of the self. Just one year later he presented his theory of aggression and of its

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disintegration product: narcissistic rage (1972b). It was the underlying metapsychology that narcissistic rage, destructiveness, and sadism were isolated breakdown products of the self rather than primary drive configurations that must have been jarring to those who did not approach these propositions with enough readiness for new metapsychologic configurations and for new therapeutic principles. Kohut's theory of aggression and destructiveness should be briefly restated because it also illustrates specifically the new synthesis of drive psychology and self psychology (including the idea of the separate lines of development for parts and for the self) and because it is now also easier to grasp it in the general context of his most recent conceptualizations. Nondestructive aggressiveness is from the beginning a constituent of the child's assertiveness, with a developmental line of its own. Destructive aggressiveness, on the other hand, is a secondary phenomenon and has its own line of development. Isolated destructiveness and narcissistic rage are disintegration products, fragments from the breakup of "broader psychological configurations that make up the nuclear self." Kohut exemplifies the inadequacy of the drive theory of aggression in examining resistances and negative transferences in the course of analysis and shows that the self-psychologic view of aggression offers both a deeper understanding and a more productive therapeutic response. Kohut's clinical and theoretical approach to aggression and rage applies to the libidinal drives as well and therefore need not be summarized here. Instead, a comment should be made about his approach to the "pregenital drives" of classical theory. He discusses these from a theoretical point of view, offers examples of clinical problems related to orality and anality, and compares the classical, drive-oriented explanations with those offered by the psychology of the self. These examples show how much narrower and, often, how much less relevant an otherwise accurate drive-oriented interpre-

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tation might be. It is evident that, in terms of the psychology of the self, the appearance of intense, peremptory isolated "pregenital drives" are disintegration products, which may secondarily be employed to soothe or stimulate a narcissistically injured or damaged self, as in many perversions. Is Psychoanalysis on a New Path? New observations and new explanations, even in so crucial an area of our science as the problem of narcissism, might have represented significant progress, but would not in and of themselves have put psychoanalysis on a new p a t h . T h e overwhelming number of significant contributions in our field have merely kept psychoanalysis on the same path; in the sense of "normal science," there have only been corrections, improvements, expansions, and minor or major changes of the existing paradigm. What is it, then, beyond new observations and new explanations in Kohut's work that moved psychoanalysis onto a new path? What was it that led to the basic change in direction that may rightfully be designated as the acquisition of a new paradigm? Kohut's clinical-theoretical work always centered in the transference experiences of his patients, and it is with method and knowledge gained there that he moved outside of the center of the field, to return again with a new and broader perspective to his clinical work. T h e new observations he was able to make and the new explanations he was able to bring to bear on his clinical data were always elaborated both into experience-near and experience-distant abstractions. It was the constant interplay of these two modes of theorizing as he consistently focused upon his clinical data and set his sights always in terms of the broadest implications of his findings and theories that marked his gradual advance toward the new paradigm. His Epilogue in The Restoration of the Self contains the key to the answers, as he defines the essence of psychoanalysis at the end of a decade, after he has just given psychoanalysis its third paradigm: " . . . psychoanalysis is a

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psychology of complex mental states which, with the aid of the persevering empathic-introspective immersion of the observer into the inner life of man, gathers its data in order to explain them" (1977, p . 302). It is his emphasis upon the primary commitment to introspection and empathy, rather than to the explanatory principles of previous theoretical frameworks that kept him open to new knowledge in his clinical work. He says in this connection, " . . . we have gone as far as I believe we must go [in defining psychoanalysis] in loosening the shackles of an all too narrow definition of analysis that would prevent us —and the succeeding generations of analysts — from adapting our theories and explanations in accordance with the new data which we will continue to collect" (1977, p p . 306-307). It is this outlook as part of the new paradigm that has put us on a new path. Kohut carries this even further in one of the most remarkable statements in his Epilogue: "I am not able to imagine how analysis could at this time do away with the two concepts —transference and resistance [however] . . . I would still insist that some future generation of psychoanalysts might discover psychological areas that require a novel conceptual approach — areas where even in the therapeutic realm these two now universally applicable concepts have become irrelevant" (p. 308).

1 Death in Venice by Thomas Mann: A Story A bout the Disintegration of A rtistic Su b limation

Thomas Mann was born in Lübeck in northern Germany in 1875. His father, a senator and vice-mayor of this old Hanseatic city, died comparatively young of septicemia when Thomas Mann was fifteen. The mother was born in Rio de Janeiro. Her father was a German planter, her mother a Brazilian of Portuguese and Indian stock. After the early death of her mother she was, at the age of seven, taken to Lübeck where she remained. In her youth she was considered to be very beautiful, though for northern Germany a foreign, exotic, southern type. Thomas Mann was the second of the five children of these parents, of whom the eldest, Heinrich, became well known as a novelist. Thomas Mann's early childhood seems to have been influenced mainly by women. As the family was well-to-do, summers were spent on the shores of the Baltic. He remembers that he dreaded going back to the city when the summer was over. He hated school and the discipline it imposed on him during the winter. During his school days he h a d a homosexually tinged "crush" for a classmate, apparently the boy Hippe later described in The Magic Mountain. His first major work, Buddenbrooks, was written in Italy Written in 1948, published after Mann's death in The Quarterly (1957), 26:206-228.

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in 1901. He records that he burned his hand severely when sealing the parcel containing this manuscript to send it to the publisher. Because there was compulsory military training in Germany, he was to have been inducted into the army. After being twice rejected because of cardiac neurosis, he was finally accepted. Three months later he was given a medical discharge because of an inflamed tendon. In 1905, at the age of thirty, he married Katja Pringsheim, the only daughter of an old, respected German-Jewish family. His marriage was apparently a very happy one. Of his six children, the youngest girl, Elisabeth, became her father's favorite. In 1910 his sister Carla committed suicide. T h e effect on him of this tragic event was great, and many years later he described its detailed circumstances with much emotional vividness in the novel Doctor Faustus (1947). When in 1927 —five years after his mother's death —the other sister, Julia, also ended her life by suicide, Mann, as if to reassure himself, commented: "It seems that the nourishing love has given more resistance to life to us, the sons, than to the girls." Despite this assertion, the doubts remained. Earlier, in comparing himself with his sister Carla, he stated that they were made of similar stuff. Both he and his biographers note a certain "mental laziness" and a tendency to withdraw into sleep in times of stress. He states that he always reassured himself when he began a new work by telling himself that the task would be short and easy. When he had finished it, he superstitiously pretended to himself that it had little value. He closed his autobiography (Mann, 1930) by saying: "I assume that I shall die in 1945, when I shall have reached the age of my mother." Even from such slender evidence, it is apparent that his rational ego was in times of stress forced to surrender to archaic magical beliefs. Death in Venice was written in such a period of stress, and it is the aim of this essay to try to trace in part how the author's emerging profound conflicts were sublimated in the

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creation of an artistic masterpiece. With this purpose in mind we shall first examine the content of Death in Venice. The English translation of the short novel is divided into five chapters, following the earlier German editions. Although the author abandoned this division in later German editions, the following abstract adheres to it for the purpose of greater clarity. In the first chapter, all is not well with the hero, Gustav Aschenbach, an artist and writer, as he struggles to maintain his ability to work. In order to carry on, he has to take refuge in frequent interruptions that restore his strength; therefore, he takes naps in the middle of the day and goes on walks to recuperate. The walk on which we find him in the beginning of the story leads him by chance to a cemetery. The reader, however, is given the impression that Aschenbach has reached a destination—that something meaningful and preordained is happening. This impression is accentuated by Aschenbach's sudden encounter with a m a n , the first of a series of men of hidden significance he is to meet in the story. T h e seemingly intuitive conclusion reached by the reader that something of mysterious import is involved, here and later, is prepared by the author through one or more of the following devices. First, the man at the cemetery, for example, arrives on the scene with a silent suddenness that creates the impression of an apparition rather than an approach. Second, the intense emotional response that this and the other encounters evoke in Aschenbach is out of proportion to the factual significance that any of them should have for him as a person or to the events portrayed in the story. This is a clever maneuver which allows the reader to discard mystical conno1

1

The translation "walk" for the German Spazierengehen is inadequate; there is, however, no exact English equivalent. Spazierengehen is an expression of pointed leisure corresponding to the ride in a carriage of the aristocracy. It is perhaps an imitation of this aristocratic habit by the middle class, on foot.

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tations from the framework of the story itself and attaches the mysticism to Aschenbach. In other words, the writer of the story detaches himself from his hero and describes a m a n who is emotionally impelled by forces which are beyond his reason or control. This technique is rather characteristic of Thomas Mann's fiction. In his later novels the detachment is enhanced by the more deliberate intrusion of the writer in the form of expressed irony. T h e third device used in Death in Venice to underline the significance of the various figures Aschenbach encounters is their detailed delineation, which, again, is out of proportion to their ostensible import to the hero or the plot. Returning to the story, the m a n in the cemetery is described as having his chin up, so that his Adam's apple looks very bald in the lean neck. He is red-haired, with a milky, freckled skin. Standing at the top of the stairs leading to the mortuary, he is sharply peering up into space out of colorless, red-lashed eyes. The man has a bold and domineering, even ruthless air, and his lips are curled back, laying bare the long, white, glistening teeth to the gums. Aschenbach has, at first, a vague, unpleasant feeling which suddenly changes to an awareness of such hostility in the stranger's gaze that he hastily walks away. He is then seized by a passionate longing to travel which overcomes him so swiftly that it resembles "a seizure, almost a hallucination." He sees a tropical landscape with a crouching tiger ready to jump on him, and he experiences terror. T h e hallucination subsides, and his self-discipline transforms his yearning into a reasonable desire for new and distant scenes, a "craving for freedom, release, forgetfulness." The emotional events following the encounter with the stranger fall into a sequence: first, panic and the irrational impulse toward flight; then the repression of this ego-alien, dissociated impulse and its replacement by a reasoned, ego-syntonic decision to travel.

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T h e second chapter begins with a description of Gustav Aschenbach's personality and an account of his life. One is soon led to assume that the author is drawing quite consciously from his own biography. Even such a detail as the foreign background of his mother, for example, is only thinly disguised. Aschenbach owes certain foreign traits in his appearance to his mother, the daughter of a Bohemian musician. But there are other traits as well that ring a familiar note to any reader of Thomas Mann's autobiographical essay, especially the description of Aschenbach's struggle against forces within himself that interfere with his artistic creativeness. It sounds like a complaint near to the author's own heart when he says of his hero: "From childhood u p he was pushed to achievement . . . and so his young days never knew the sweet idleness and blithe laisser aller that belong to youth." But Gustav Aschenbach forces himself to work despite great inner resistances, and he resorts to certain ceremonials that permit him to keep on producing: "He began his day with a gush of cold water over chest and back; then setting a pair of tall wax candles in silver holders at the head of his manuscript, he sacrificed to art, in two or three hours of almost religious fervor, the powers he had assembled in sleep." Aschenbach's attitude expresses a masochistic pride in suffering. His "new type of hero" is St. Sebastian who, pierced by arrows, " . . . stands in modest defiance. . . . " His style of writing is one of "aristocratic self-command"; he is ". . . the poet-spokesman of all those who labor at the edge of exhaustion; of the overburdened, of those who are already worn out but still hold themselves upright;. . . who yet contrive by skillful husbanding . . . to produce . . . the effect of greatness." We learn that selections from his works are adopted for official use in the public schools and that a patent of nobility was conferred upon him on his fiftieth birthday. Other aspects of Aschenbach's character are not autobiographical. After a brief period of wedded happiness his wife

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2

had died. Aschenbach's married daughter remained to him, but he never h a d a son. One gets the impression that all these details of Aschenbach's life, including his advanced age, tend to prepare the way for the progressive dissolution of the restraining, reasonable forces in his personality — almost as if the poet tried to excuse his hero by showing that there are no responsibilities or strong emotional bonds that would tie him to his old existence. Others have noted that the description of Aschenbach resembles in physical, facial attributes the Bohemian composer Gustav Mahler, who had died just at the time when the story was written. A further reference to Mahler is the use of the first name Gustav and perhaps also the introduction of a Bohemian conductor as maternal grandfather (Eloesser, 1925). In the third chapter the "reasonable flight" from the m a n in the cemetery is effected. T h e reader is still given the feeling of the preordained, the vague impression that reason is helplessly succumbing to infinitely stronger irrational forces, that the man in the cemetery is a power within Aschenbach from which there is no escape through external flight. Outwardly, however, Aschenbach acts quite rationally. He plans his trip to last only a few weeks, tells himself that he needs relaxation and intends to return refreshed to his work. He plans originally to stay on a small island in the Adriatic; yet, even without considering the title of the story, one gathers that the final destination is elsewhere. And so it 3

1

Mann's wife had to go to a sanatorium because of tuberculosis approximately at the time of the composition of Death in Venice. ' The mechanism here may be compared to dreams of failing an examination which, in reality, one has successfully passed long ago (Stekel, 1909). Aschenbach's progressive disintegration appears to be based on the fact that he has no object-libidinal ties to reality. This may have served as a reassurance to Mann who, despite temporary loneliness, felt that he had sufficient emotional closeness to his family to preserve him from Aschenbach's destiny.

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happens: the weather is bad, the crowd at the hotel is boring, and suddenly it becomes clear to Aschenbach that Venice is his destination. T h e m a n from the cemetery, however, cannot be evaded by flight. On his way to Venice another apparition appears as if to remind the fugitive of the foolishness of his subterfuges. The m a n on the trip to Venice is a dandy, loudly dressed, with rouge on his cheeks, a wig of brown hair on his head, and rings on his fingers. When he laughs, he shows an "unbroken row of yellow teeth," obviously false; yet, underneath make-up and costume, and behind the loud laughter designed to feign youthfulness, he is an old m a n . Aschenbach is "moved to a shudder" as he watches the disgustingly playful way in which the old man behaves toward his young male companions. He tries to avoid him by moving to the other side of the ship, finally escaping by going to sleep. Aschenbach sees him once more, as the old m a n is leaving the boat. He is pitifully drunk, swaying, giggling, fatuous; licking the corners of his mouth, he teases Aschenbach with remarks about Venice that sounded clearly as if they were concerned with the love for a woman and not for a city. "Give her our love, will you," he says, "the p-pretty little dear" —(here his upper plate fell down on the lower one), the " . . . little sweety-sweety sweetheart. . . ." Aschenbach's third encounter takes place after his arrival in Venice; it is with a gondolier who takes him, against his will, directly to the Lido. In contrast to the description of the dandy on the boat, but resembling the m a n in the cemetery, the gondolier is more fearsome than disgusting. T h e gondola is "black as nothing on earth except a coffin"; the man, who is "very muscular" and has "a brutish face," mutters to himself during the crossing, and the effort of rowing "bared his white teeth to the gums." It occurs to Aschenbach that he might have fallen into the clutches of a criminal; but, as before, he withdraws into passivity when his fear is mounting.

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He becomes indolent and dreamy, and lets matters take their course. Nothing happens; yet, after Aschenbach's arrival, it becomes evident that his misgivings had not been entirely unjustified: the gondolier is "a bad man, a m a n without a license" who is sought by the police. After the preceding encounters, the stage is set and the contrast prepared for what constitutes, in the other sense, the goal of the voyage. Aschenbach is scarcely settled in his hotel when the decisive meeting takes place. T h e antithesis could not be more extreme. The object of his journey is Tadzio, a fourteen-year-old Polish boy of perfect beauty. He is "pale," shows "a sweet reserve," is "godlike," of "chaste perfection" and "unique personal charm." In contradistinction, the boy's three older sisters are described in a disdainful, superior, and almost pitying way. Tadzio is overwhelmingly the favorite of his mother and his governess, as revealed by his beautiful attire and by his "pure and godlike serenity." The sisters, on the other hand, are dressed with "almost disfiguring austerity"; "every grace of outline was wilfully, suppressed," and their behavior was "stiff and subservient." Aschenbach concludes that the boy is ". . . simply a pampered darling . . . the object of a self-willed and partial love . . . " from the side of the mother. It is significant, in terms of narcissistic fulfillment, that the major emphasis is on the child. No father is present or implied. The mother's manner is described as "cool and measured." She has the " . . . simplicity prescribed in certain circles whose piety and aristocracy are equally marked." Something "fabulous" about her appearance is attributed to pearls, the size of cherries. Gustav Aschenbach is at first not aware of the impression which Tadzio has made on him. Preconscious signals of anxiety, however, follow directly. He feels tired, has "lively dreams" during the following night, and is, in general, "out of sorts." He blames the weather for his "feverish distaste, the pressure on the temples, the heavy eyelids"; and, considering

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the possibility of not remaining in Venice, he does not unpack his luggage completely. But all the self-deception is in vain; the fascination is growing. He observes Tadzio innumerable times, at first through chance encounters, later, as his defenses give way, by passionately following him whenever he can; yet he never speaks to him; he remains always alone. In the engulfing passion for Tadzio there is also expressed a love for the sea which is paraphrased as a "yearning to seek refuge . . . in the bosom of the simple and vast,. . . for the unorganized, the immeasurable, the eternal—in short, for nothingness." Both appear to Aschenbach as one—the perfection of Tadzio's beauty and "nothingness . . . [which is] . . . a form of perfection." He observes that Tadzio's teeth are imperfect, and, with a pleasure which he does not try to explain to himself, he concludes that the boy is "delicate" and that he will "most likely not live to grow old." Aschenbach does not give u p the fight without a last effort. Pretending to himself that he must get away from climatic conditions that seem to portend disease, he makes a valiant attempt to escape from Venice and from his growing infatuation, but cannot tear himself away. There is the smell of germicides, a hint about the danger of infection, but "the city's evil secret mingled with the one in the depths of his heart." Certain rumors, mentioned in the German papers, were officially denied. But, "Passion is like crime; it does not thrive on the established order. . . ." Everything within him had been waiting for a chance to turn back, and all the author can do for his hero is to provide him with an excuse which allows him to postpone the moment of recognition for a little. T h e moment comes when all pretext is cast aside, and, seemingly with sudden change of mind, he decides to stay, triumphantly and "with a reckless joy." "With a deep incredible mirthfulness," Aschenbach gives in to the regressive disease of his emotions. With the crumbling of his moral and

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rational defenses there is now no more need and no longer the possibility of his deluding himself about his true motivations. He acknowledges that it was because of Tadzio that the leave-taking had been impossible. In the fourth chapter, Aschenbach is no longer trying to deceive himself. He has yielded to his passion for Tadzio, and he accepts and enjoys it. He is able to see the boy many times every day. Some of these meetings occur by chance, but mostly they are deliberately and cunningly arranged. T h e only defenses which Aschenbach keeps to the very end, even in his dreams, are those for which his past as an artist has equipped him best: sublimation and idealization. The sight of the beautiful boy spurs him to philosophical reflections on the nature of beauty. He summons up the memory of an ancient prototype of his love, of Socrates for Phaedrus. He writes an essay on a "question of art and taste," trying, in this work, to translate Tadzio's beauty into his style. But his defensive struggles are only partially successful, and the instinctual forces cannot be entirely desexualized; after finishing his brief work Aschenbach feels strangely exhausted, as if after a debauch. Tadzio soon notices the extent to which he has caught Aschenbach's attention, and a tacit understanding is established between them. The child's behavior is dignified, yet seductive. When he recognizes the small signs of response, hints of a secret understanding with the boy, Aschenbach's enthusiasm is, at first, well concealed and controlled. A sudden encounter with Tadzio, however, and an unexpected lovely smile, almost tear down his last reserve. All Aschenbach can do is to escape into the darkness where he breathlessly " . . . whispered the hackneyed phrase of love and longing . . . impossible in these circumstances, absurd,. . . ridiculous enough, yet . . . not unworthy of honor even here: Ί love you!' " T h e final chapter, while continuing the description of

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Aschenbach's love and the disintegrating effects it has on his personality, deals, in appearance at least, mainly with the influences of an external event, an epidemic of Asiatic cholera which has broken out in Venice. Population and city officials alike try to conceal the news of the spreading disease, knowing well that the foreign travelers will leave if they find out about it. More and more of the visitors, however, discover the alarming truth and depart from Venice. Tadzio and his family, apparently unaware of what is happening, stay on; hence, Aschenbach remains, sensing the sickness of the city to be a fitting frame for the sickness within himself, the passion to which his reasonable self is succumbing. This defeat of reason and control is now nearly complete. One night he presses his head against the door leading to Tadzio's bedroom, "powerless to tear himself away, blind to the danger of being caught in so m a d an attitude." While he is not detected on this occasion, he has become conspicuous at other times, and he notices more than once that mother and governess find reasons to call the child away from his proximity. His pride rebels feebly at such an affront, but it is no longer a match for his desire. T o Aschenbach's encounters with the man in the cemetery, the dandy on the boat, and the gondolier, there is now added a fourth encounter with a symbolic male figure, a street musician. Many features in the sketch that the author gives us of him strike us as familiar. He is red-haired; "the veins on his forehead swelled with the violence of his effort"; his gesticulations, "the loose play of the tongue in the corner of his mouth," and the strikingly large and naked-looking Adam's apple are described as brutal, impudent, and offensive. After cemetery, senile perversion, and the gondola "black as a coffin," Aschenbach now faces the final symbolic representation of regression and disintegration in the form of a strong smell of carbolic acid, the odor of death. Although Aschenbach soon knows the whole truth about

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the epidemic in Venice, he does not warn Tadzio's mother. He reflects that Tadzio will die soon, and this assumption, uncontradicted by his love, even fills him with a strange pleasure. Toward the end of the story, and just before Aschenbach's death, he has a nightmare. Its " . . . theater seemed to be his own soul, and the events burst in from outside, violently overcoming the profound resistance of his spirit;. . . leaving the whole cultural structure of a lifetime trampled on, ravaged, and destroyed." The emotions which the dreamer experiences are, at first, "fear and desire, with a shuddering curiosity." He heard "loud confused noises from far away" and a howl resembling Tadzio's name. . . . He heard a voice naming though darkly that which was to come: "The stranger g o d ! " . . . he recognized a mountain scene like that about his country h o m e . . . . T h e females stumbled over the long, hairy pelts that dangled from their girdles. . . . They shrieked, holding their breasts in both hands; coiling snakes with quivering tongues they clutched about their w a i s t s . . . . Horned and hairy males . . . beat on brazen vessels . . . troops of beardless youths . . . ran after goats and thrust their staves against the creatures' flanks, then clung to the plunging horns and let themselves be borne off with triumphant shouts . . . his will was strong and steadfast to preserve and uphold his own god against this stranger . . . his brain reeled, a blind rage seized him, a whirling lust, he craved with all his soul to join the ring that formed about the obscene symbol of the godhead, which they were unveiling, monstrous and wooden . . . they thrust their pointed staves into each other's flesh and licked the blood as it ran down . . . yet it was he who was flinging himself upon the animals, who bit and tore and swallowed smoking gobbets of flesh — . . . and in his very soul he tasted the bestial degradation of his fall.

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This dream portrays the depth of Aschenbach's spiritual degradation. T h e downfall of the standards of his waking life, while less drastic, is not less humiliating. What just recently aroused his contempt when he saw it in another, he now has yielded to, himself. Soon thereafter, the inevitable happens. On one of his walks, trying to follow Tadzio, Aschenbach loses his way. Exhausted from the heat and wishing to refresh himself, he buys and eats some strawberries, "overripe and soft," obviously the carriers of the deadly germ. Two days later, fatally ill, he learns that Tadzio is about to leave Venice. He sees him once more, on the beach, just before his death. T h e last impression of the dying writer, symbolizing and idealizing his death, is of Tadzio, who, moving out into the open sea, waves with his h a n d as if to invite him outward "into an immensity of richest expectation." Death in Venice first appeared in 1912 in the German literary periodical Die neue Rundschau. It had been written a year earlier when Mann was thirty-six years old. He had been married for about six years. His father h a d been dead twentyone years. His mother was living, and his sister Carla had recently committed suicide. Venice, the stage on which the action of the story takes place, had shortly before been visited by the author. The epidemic of cholera and the attitude of the city officials with regard to it were actualities of the then recent past. A more personal connection with infectious disease was the fact that the author's wife had developed tuberculosis in 1911. She was forced to stay at a sanatorium, and Thomas Mann finished Death in Venice while living alone with his children in Tölz. As has already been mentioned, the figure of the composer Gustav Mahler has been woven into the story (Eloesser, 1925). It is tempting to speculate on the reasons that induced Thomas Mann to introduce some of Mahler's features in the

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creation of his hero. T h e only manifest connection is the fact that Mahler's death occurred the year in which Death in Venice was composed. One is, however, led to assume either that there was a personal relation between Mann and Mahler, or that an intimate, perhaps intuitive knowledge of Mahler's personality led the author to avail himself of external characteristics where a more profound similarity between Mahler and Aschenbach was to be implied. To establish the reasons for the special significance of Mahler's death would be an intriguing endeavor. We have at our disposal, however, important information about another theme that occupied Thomas Mann's attention during the period before the artistic ideas expressed in Death in Venice were fully developed. We know (Eloesser, 1925) that his original plan was to write about a singular episode in Goethe's life, namely, how the seventy-four-year-old renowned poet had fallen in love with a young girl —almost a child by comparison — Ulrike von Levetzow, who was then only seventeen. It is well known that Goethe finally was able to submit to the necessity of tearing himself away from his passion. T h e celebrated trilogy of poems, Die Marienbader Elegie, is an enduring monument to this event in Goethe's life. As has been pointed out (Kasdorff, 1932), death is a theme that occurs repeatedly in Mann's works. One of the first stories he wrote (at the age of sixteen or seventeen, about a year after his father died) bears the title Death. It is no 4

4

A letter written by Freud to Theodor Reik (Reik, 1953) establishes the fact that Mahler had consulted Freud and was "analyzed for one afternoon . . . in Leyden" less than a year before Mahler's death. Freud alludes to Mahler's withdrawing of libido from his wife and to Mahler's "obsessional neurosis." The latter is especially interesting in view of the obsessional features of Thomas Mann, discussed in the present essay. Dr. Bruno Walter, the distinguished conductor, who knew both Mann and Mahler intimately, expresses his firm conviction that they did not know each other personally at any time (Personal communication, 1956).

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exaggeration to maintain that in almost all of his subsequent writings death remains one of the principal themes either as an important part of the action or, in a more disguised form, as recurring metaphysical speculation. It is not only the frequency with which Thomas Mann returns to the theme of death in his work that reveals its importance to the writer. A more specific connecting link with the author are his protagonists, who are often manifestly autobiographically conceived, particularly when Mann writes about the life and the problems of artists. It is the attitudes of these fictitious personalities toward life and death that constitute an important source of information about the author who created them. In the story Tonio Kröger, as well as in his other early works, death, or the sympathy for death, seems to gain its significance not so much from any expressed value of its own but rather from an aristocratic negation of life (Kasdorff, 1932). Tonio Kröger feels it necessary to divorce himself from life; he can remain artistically active and creative only insofar as he ceases to be a h u m a n being (Kasdorff, 1932). If an adolescent assumes such an attitude as a defense in his struggle against overwhelming instinctual demands, we are inclined to regard it as temporary. As Anna Freud has pointed out (1936), the asceticism of youth has to be considered a normal phenomenon. The author of Death in Venice, however, was a mature m a n of thirty-six with a wife and children. The artists in Thomas Mann's stories are influenced by the progress-negating philosophy of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, and subscribe to the creed of the German romanticists that there is a close affinity between beauty and death (Mann, 1918). The romantic artist must be dead, symbolically, in order to be able to create a work of beauty. This tendency is particularly evident in the hero of Death in Venice. T h e very name, Aschenbach ("brook of ashes"), clearly evokes, at least in the original German, the association

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with the river of the dead in classical mythology (Havenstein, 1927). T o enable himself to work, Aschenbach resorts to the ceremonial of placing lighted candles at the head of his manuscript, which creates a distinctly funereal impression; in addition he feels compelled to mortify the flesh by selfabnegation and by a strong need to isolate himself (Kasdorff, 1932). At the time this novel was written, only two important members of the author's family were dead: the father, who had died many years ago, and the beautiful sister Carla. One is immediately inclined to assume that the identification is with the dead father and not with Carla, for the simple reason that the heroes of Thomas Mann's earlier stories are struggling with problems similar to Aschenbach's, and that these stories were written before Carla's suicide. Apart from such negative reasoning, which tends to exclude the sister from consideration rather than to establish the father for the role, there is, it seems, more positive proof to be obtained within the story itself. The literary commentators (Baer, 1932; Eloesser, 1925; Havenstein, 1927) are in accord about the fact that the four men whom Aschenbach encounters are messengers of his impending death; and it is plausible to assume that Thomas Mann consciously intended this symbolism as he wrote the story. By contrast, the interpretation offered in the present essay is that the four apparitions are manifestations of endopsychic forces, projected by Aschenbach as the repression barrier is beginning to crumble. T h e four men are thus the ego's projected recognition of the breakthrough of ancient guilt and fear, magically perceived as the threatening father figure returning from the grave. Three of these four figures, the m a n in the cemetery, the aged freak on the boat, and the gondolier, are described as baring their teeth in a strange way, which has been pointed out (Havenstein, 1927) as calling to mind the idea of the skull of a skeleton: death or a

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dead m a n . The gondolier in a gondola, black like a coffin, seems to be an allusion to the figure of ancient mythology, Charon, who ferries the dead across the River Styx to Hades (Eloesser, 1925). T h e first man arises from the cemetery with the suddenness of an apparition—the most unambiguous portrayal of someone deceased who threateningly returns. The last one, a street singer, carries about him the odor of death. All except the dandy on the boat are described as powerful and dangerous, and a more or less clear inference of free, unhampered aggression and sexuality can easily be drawn. When we read in the description of the street singer that the veins of his forehead were swollen, we may interpret this detail as an allusion to either or both of the aforementioned standard attributes of a feared father: sexual excitement or rage. T h e old m a n dressed up to give the deceptive impression of youth suggests a parallel with a dead m a n who comes back to life. T h e varying combinations of fear and contempt experienced by Aschenbach in these encounters express the original hostile and loathing attitude toward a father figure with the secondary fear of retaliation from the stronger man; also included is probably the ego's reaction against the emerging superstitious fear of the returning dead, an attempt at self-reassurance by ridicule. In this context it is illuminating to remember Thomas Mann's confession that he could not free himself entirely from very superstitious attitudes and beliefs. For example, he attached special significance to the date and hour of his birth; certain numbers had a particular magical meaning for him; and the fact that his children were born, as he said, "in pairs" (girl and boy, boy and girl, girl and boy), constituted for him a lucky omen (Mann, 1930). T h e coexistence of such superstitious beliefs with extreme rationality is characteristic of compulsive personalities. That the archaic ego of the compulsive is particularly prone to believe in the magical powers of the dead is also a well-established fact.

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Another peculiarity of the compulsive personality is the predominance of strongly ambivalent attitudes, particularly toward the father and father surrogates. In this connection, light is shed on Mann's preoccupation with the aged Goethe, who certainly represents the father figure of father figures for any German writer. The ascertained fact that the topic of Goethe's infatuation with a young girl was in the writer's mind just before the Aschenbach story was taking shape adds, though indirectly, to the evidence for the assumption that the central theme underlying Death in Venice is the father conflict. Reverence for Goethe usually prevents biographers from dwelling on the ridiculous aspects of his final love affair; at most, the tragic impossibility of the liaison is stressed. Both of these opinions are stated in Death in Venice: the latter in the author's attitude toward Aschenbach's passion for Tadzio (". . . impossible in these circumstances, absurd — ridiculous enough, yet . . . not unworthy of honor even here. . . " ) ; the former, expressing straightforward ridicule and disgust, in the portrayal of the old dandy on the boat. In general, one can say that the father theme is dealt with in Death in Venice by splitting the ambivalently revered and despised figure and by isolating the opposing feelings that were originally directed to the same object —a typical compulsive mechanism. T h e bad, threatening, sexually active father is embodied in the four men Aschenbach encounters. With the good one, who foregoes threats and punishment and heterosexual love—with the father, that is, who loves only the son —Aschenbach identifies himself, portraying in his love for Tadzio what he wished he had received from his father. This device, however, is not entirely successful: Aschenbach's ambivalence is intensified by the narcissistic, envious recognition that another is getting what he really wished for himself, and hostile, destructive elements enter into his feelings toward Tadzio. He not only experiences a strange pleasure at the thought that Tadzio will die early, but, indirectly, he also

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exposes the beloved boy to great danger by not warning his family about the epidemic. On the whole, however, it remains true that the destructive impulses toward Tadzio are secondary, arising only insofar as the narcissistic identification with the boy and the enjoyment of love by proxy are not entirely successful. T h e basic hostility is not directed against the boy (as jealousy against a brother) but against the hated father image. The ferociousness of this hatred is revealed in Aschenbach's last dream in which his unsuccessful struggle with the bad father, the foreign god of the barbarians, the obscene symbol of sexuality, the totem animal, is killed and devoured. By the law of talion, which is the immutable authority for the archaic ego of the compulsive, death must be punished by death, and Aschenbach has to die. T h e decisive threat to Aschenbach's defensive system is, however, caused neither by the traces of envious hostility against Tadzio nor by the hatred against the father but by the breakdown of sublimated homosexual tenderness and the nearly unchecked onrush of unsublimated homosexual desire in the aging writer. Aschenbach's last dream is an expression of the breakdown of sublimation; it describes the destruction of "the whole cultural structure of a lifetime." T h e material that builds up the dream comes from three sources. First, we can discern remnants of sublimatory ego activity; they account for the formal aspects of the dream, which retains something artistic and impersonal — as if it were a beautiful fable from classical mythology. Second, we recognize the portrayal of the disintegration of Aschenbach's personality; it finds expression specifically in relation to his now unconcealed sexual desire for Tadzio. T h e former sweetness of Tadzio's n a m e has been transformed into "a kind of howl 5

8

[Compare this interpretation with that offered in terms of self psychology ( p p . 821-822).]

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with a long-drawn u-sound at the end." Third, the undisguised emergence of a primal-scene experience allows us to draw conclusions about the traumatic impact on the child of observing adult sexual activities. The sequence of curiosity, mounting sexual tension, the wish to participate in the sexual activity, and the fear of being annihilated by participation in the sadistically misinterpreted sexual activity of the adults are clearly described. There is little doubt, too, that the homosexual desires and fears must have originated during such experiences — that the child must have been partially identified with the mother and must have wished for the sexual love of the father. T h e dread of castration (death) aroused by the wish to participate in the violent activity of the adults and, especially, by the passive attitude toward the father must have led to an attempt to abandon the libidinal striving for participation and may have initiated the building u p of "the whole cultural structure of a lifetime." We may well find the origins of Aschenbach's artistic attitude in the dangers of the primal-scene experience. At the beginning of the primal scene the child is an observer, not yet threatened by traumatic overstimulation, passivity, and fear of mutilation. Could it not be that the child, as the dread becomes overwhelming, returns by an internal tour deforce to the original role of the emotionally uninvolved observer, and that further elaborations of such defenses against traumatic overstimulation make important contributions to the development of creative sublimation? To prevent misunderstanding, these considerations are not intended to furnish a complete explanation of artistic creativity, not even to those limits that apply in general to genetic constructions. The hypothesis that artistic creativity may be related to the feminine principle, and that artistic creativity may in certain instances derive its energy from the sublimation of infantile wishes does not need support from

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the material that has been presented. Suffice it to say that Aschenbach's homosexual organization and feminine identification are fully compatible with this old and well-substantiated psychoanalytic thesis, and that the waxing and waning of artistic productivity in Aschenbach seems to run parallel with the predominance of either sublimated or unsublimated homosexual strivings. The specific hypothesis advanced here refers to certain features of the artistic attitude in an individual instance. Primal-scene experiences creating overstimulation, dangerous defensive passive wishes, and castration anxiety, may lead to the attempt to return to the emotional equilibrium at the beginning of the experience and prepare the emotional soil for the development of the artistic attitudes as an observer and describer. This hypothesis seems particularly compatible with certain qualities of Mann's art, his detachment and irony. It is possible that similar considerations apply, beyond Aschenbach, to other artistic personalities and, more generally, that it is perhaps a genetic factor in the development of an ironical attitude toward life. Beyond the portrayal of problems posed by the identification with mother and by the ambivalently passive attitude toward the father, the trend toward union with the mother can also be discerned in Mann's writings. This wish, however, is more strongly repressed and seems to evoke even deeper guilt than the ambivalent attitude toward the father. Rarely does it therefore reveal itself in a sublimated, ego-syntonic form of object love and, if instances of this type occur, they are by no means unambiguous. One might speculate that perhaps the Slavic features of Tadzio (or of Hippe and Claudia Chauchat in The Magic Mountain) contain a hint of effectively sublimated love for the mother who, in real life, was an "exotic type." Yet, almost always when we encounter the wish for the mother we find it presented either in vague, deeply symbolic terms or in the regressive form of "identifi-

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cation" rather than as object love. In addition, some kind of punishment, mostly in the form of death or disease, is expressed or implied. This holds true not only for Thomas Mann's literary productions but also for his actual beliefs, as can be inferred from his superstitious prediction that his life would come to an end in 1945, when he should have reached the age at which his mother had died. The wish for the mother expresses itself more frequently than in the forms discussed above in even more regressive, diffuse, highly symbolic yearnings. It seems that this is the only way in which this deep, guilt-provoking wish is permitted to occur repeatedly in the consciousness of the writer and of his literary figures and is allowed to be accepted by the ego with a certain degree of pleasure. T h e pleasure, however, is a rather melancholy one, for in many of Mann's works the wish for the mother emerges disguised as a longing for death. In The Magic Mountain it is the immensity of an alluring snow landscape that attracts Hans Castorp and almost leads to his death by freezing. In Death in Venice the mother symbol seems to be represented first of all by the sick city itself from which Aschenbach cannot extricate himself; it is not only a city, but also the sea, and death —the whole atmosphere of Venice, death, and the sea together — toward which Aschenbach's deepest wishes are directed. As death is overtaking him, Aschenbach sees Tadzio beckoning him outward into the open sea, "into an immensity of richest expectation." This picture, then, establishes clearly, not only the symbolic identity of death and the sea, but also the connection between the boy, Tadzio, and the sea-death-mother motif. We are faced with the final task of examining the specific circumstances in the author's life that might have activated his conflicts and thus provided the impulse for writing Death in Venice. T h e recent suicide of the sister Carla, an old competitor for parental love, might have precipitated feelings of guilt. Perhaps, too, Carla constituted an object of strivings

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displaced from the mother, a speculation that finds support from the fact that Mann treated the incest motif between brother and sister in the short story, Wähungenblut, written in 1905 (Mann, 1921). Of greater importance was probably the concurrent illness of Mann's wife, which may have forced the author into closer affectionate ties with his young children. The possibility may also be entertained that his wife's illness necessitated a period of sexual abstinence, which, in turn, led to increased conflicts concerning homosexual regression. As we follow the sequence of Mann's publications we can, it seems, discern that, with his increasing success as a writer and with the reassuring stability of his position as husband and father, his original "sympathy with the aristocracy of death" began to be counterbalanced more and more by an actively participating acceptance of life. This more affirmative attitude toward life finds expression in most of Mann's writings after the first World W a r (Kasdorff, 1932). Settembrini, in The Magic Mountain, is certainly an advocate of active participation in life and an outspoken enemy of any sympathy with death or disease; and there can hardly be any doubt that the author's conscious affection was for Settembrini and not for Naphtha, his adversary; yet the old conflict between progressive and regressive forces was never fully resolved. Mann's preoccupation with death and disease continued to be expressed in his final writings, despite his admirably courageous attitude in the political events preceding and during World War II. In his preface to a volume of stories by Dostoyevsky, Mann (1945) recognized that he, like the great Russian, received much of the impetus for his productivity from a deep sense of guilt and that, in a way, his literary productions served as expiations. Glover mentions (1955) that some obsessional neurotics fear that analysis will destroy their sublimatory capacities and that, in fact, they equate the sublimated

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activities of the ego with sexual potency. One of Mann's lifelong preoccupations was the struggle to maintain his artistic creativity, which seemed forever threatened and precarious and which he tried to protect with superstitious magic. Paradoxically, the successful sublimation of passive feminine attitudes into artistic creativity must have called forth the guilt of masculine achievement. And like the artisthero in one of his last novels, Doctor Faustus (1947), who sells his soul to the devil and accepts disease and early death in return for a measure of active living in artistic productivity, Thomas Mann, too, seems to have to assure the threatening father that he has not really succeeded, and that his sublimations are breaking down. Aschenbach in Death in Venice and Leverkühn in Doctor Faustus allowed Mann to spare himself, to live and to work, because they suffer in his stead. 6

• We remember in this context that he burned his hand severely when sealing the package containing the manuscript of the novel (Buddenbrooks) that was to bring him fame, and we recall the ceremonials of magical expiation that characterize Aschenbach's working habits.

2 August Aichhorn— Remarks After His Death

I am grateful to be allowed to say a few words about Aichhorn. Others are better able to evaluate his place in the history of psychoanalysis. I can speak as one of those who have known him personally as therapist and teacher, but above all as a warm, vigorously living human being. My acquaintance with him was during a special period, 1938-1939 when all his old friends and pupils were leaving, one by one, while he remained as the only analyst in Vienna, the birthplace of psychoanalysis. One is tempted, on occasions such as this, to yield to the wish for an idealized perfect father-image and to deny deficiencies. Yet, I believe his remaining in Vienna was partly an expression of what one might call the "unanalyzed" or, with Freud, the "unmodified infantile" in him. It is true that there were valid reasons for his staying. His older son had been in Dachau, and moves to emigrate would have endangered him; then, above all, there was the task of keeping analysis alive, undercover as it were—he called it "therapeutic education" during that period. But I know that, at times at least, he recognized that these were not his true reasons, and I heard him confess that he envied his Jewish friends who were forced to leave Vienna—envied them, I believe, because they were spared his conflict. Presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, November 22, 1949.

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The unbreakable tie to Vienna may have been the weakness of his later years; it doubtless was a lifelong source of his strength and vitality. He knew every shade of dialect, every nuance of local habits, depending on regional and class differences. He knew it all without effort because it was his medium of life. So much about him seemed natural and effortless! T h e analytic silence with the adult neurotic was for him as natural, unforced, and nondefensive as the actings and impersonations with the delinquent, because in both he was completely himself: the psychologist who understood the situation and his own role in it. His ability to improvise and his ingenuity in using flashes of intuition to solve a therapeutic impasse are legendary. Yet, whatever surprising means he employed in an attack on otherwise rigid defenses, they were always means to the end of emotionally valid insight and self-understanding. If a patient's hostility was hidden behind a rigid mask of good manners, Aichhorn might solemnly shake hands at the beginning of the hour. But then —to the surprised annoyance of the recipient of the "handshake" — Aichhorn kept his hand limp (the well-known practical joke of children) without otherwise indicating by the slightest change in his facial expression that he was joking. If another patient's guilt feelings toward him had to be diminished in order to become available for analysis, he would ask small symbolic favors, for instance, he would ask the patient to buy a newspaper for him or a package of cigarettes. If, on the other hand, he felt that the patient was keeping guilt feelings or other related conflicts out of the transference, he would mobilize them effectively by simply asking the patient to make out his own bill at the end of the next month. Aichhorn's wealth in variations of technical devices seemed inexhaustible because it was the expression of his psychological genius; for him, every psychological situation was new, living, and fascinating.

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Of the many stories he loved to tell, one seems to be particularly illustrative of the simplicity and directness of his method, seemingly designed to abolish a disturbing symptom, yet really opening the road to insight. One of his patients had told him of a friend, a student who, despite great intelligence, had failed repeatedly at an important examination because of his paralyzing examination-fear. Aichhorn, who had never seen the person before, arranged an interview with him one hour before the time of his next attempt to take the examination. As the trembling student appeared, Aichhorn was at first friendly but then proceeded to needle and offend him so skillfully and systematically that the student finally jumped up in a fury, slammed the door behind him without saying a word, and walked in a rage to his examination, which he passed with flying colors. The next day he called up Aichhorn to thank him, not only for the passed examination but also for what he had learned about himself.

3 On the Enjoyment of Listening to Music HEINZ KOHUT

and SIEGMUND

LEVARIE

Not everybody is musical, but probably nobody lacks entirely the ability to experience some pleasure through music. There is no nation, culture, or period in which some form of music has not existed. Such a universal phenomenon must fulfill a deeply rooted h u m a n need; it must be the response to important psychological constellations. Whether the psychological basis for music be a single factor supplying a prime motivation; or a multiplicity of variable factors of which none may be indispensable, but which together bring about the necessary motivation; or a combination of one essential psychological need with various auxiliary motivations — these are questions which theorists and philosophers have asked and attempted to answer in various ways. Aristotle saw the basis for all art forms in the principle of imitation. He claims (Politico,, Bk. 8) that music has a special position among the arts because it imitates not the external aspects of objects, but character —in his language, the passions and virtues. Quite similarly, although in different terms, Schopenhauer (1877) too gives music a position of special distinction. Other art forms, he says, are only indirect obFirst published in The Psychoanalytic

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jectifications of the will, while "music is the copy of the will itself." While it is difficult to translate such philosophical concepts as Aristotle's "character" or Schopenhauer's "will" into the vocabulary of modern psychology, one feels inclined to believe that they are related to the asocial, nonreasonable, emotional, or instinctual motivating forces —in short, to the part of the anatomy of the mental apparatus that Freud calls the id. Similar considerations probably led Kant (1790) to rank music lowest among the arts. He, too, finds its point of gravity on the side of the emotions and thinks that it makes the least contribution to the dominance of reasoning power and intellectual progress. T h e intermediate position is taken by Plato (De republica, Bk. 3) who, recognizing the intrinsically emotional nature of the musical experience, is aware of the fact that the motivating power of the emotions may be made to subserve reasonable and moral goals. He therefore evaluates music according to the nonmusical and nonemotional parts of the total experience, depending on whether the final result is in the service of moral or immoral tendencies. In contrast to these views are those of such writers as Karl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Rousseau, Darwin, Spencer, Hanslick, and Whitehead. The common denominator which sets apart their point of view from that of the philosophers first mentioned is their attempt to evaluate music, not by itself, but as a biological or social phenomenon. Darwin (1872), for example, finds in music the residue of a formerly more important means of interpersonal communication in the service of the survival of the race: a device with which the male of the species attracts the female. Spencer (1902) also believes that music has its origin in interpersonal communication, as appears from his statement that language plus emotion is responsible for its production. Whitehead (1927) considers music to be a semantic symbol, useful for communicating something about emotions. Similarly, both K.P.E. Bach

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(1856) and Rousseau (1781), and, later Kierkegaard (1843), Riemann (1900), and Croce (1902), stress the point that music serves as a special means of communicating the emotions of the composer through the performer to the listener. Hanslick (1896) seems also to belong to this school of thought because of his emphasis upon the logic of the formal arrangement of sounds which characterizes music. In summary, this second group of theorists stresses the intelligible, purposeful, and reasonable aspects of musical phenomena, or, in Freudian terminology, the participation of the ego. In this investigation of the psychology of musical enjoyment we are less interested in the work of such psychologists as Helmholtz (1865), Wundt (1911), and Stumpf (1883-1890), valuable and important as their work may be; they take the enjoyable quality of music for granted and restrict themselves to the description of likes and dislikes in reaction to sounds. But, on the other hand, the conclusions of the philosophers fail equally to elucidate the problem. It makes little difference whether the emphasis is placed on the emotions or the intellect; whether id participation or ego participation is demonstrated. As a complex psychological phenomenon, the enjoyment of music should warrant the participation of the total personality. What remains obscure is something more specific: an explanation of the mechanism of the production of pleasure in the listener which will take into account the essential universality of this experience, as well as the circumstances which can prevent the experience from being pleasurable. Psychoanalysis has taught us that phenomena in adult life which are seemingly unintelligible and indefinable take on new meaning when understood in terms of chronologically early experiences. Hence it seems that the investigation of a phenomenon so widespread and at the same time so hard to describe in the language of the adult as is musical enjoyment should lead us back to the primitive and archaic—in short, to

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infantile organization. The expectation, however, that psychoanalytic literature will contain many contributions to the topic leads to disappointment. Sterba (1946) summarized the situation: "In psychoanalytic literature one can find very little that has been written about music, and what has been said on the subject is not very enlightening. It is considered proven that music is based on anal and narcissistic instinctual foundations, but analytical investigation has not gone further than this." All psychoanalytic writers on the subject consider music almost exclusively from the point of view of the creative artist and explain the pleasure which the listener experiences through his identification with the composer (Chijs, 1923). Eggar (1920) states: "There is . . . a primary physical impulse in the musician; that is, to make a noise. . . . " Mosonyi (1935) derives the origins of music from the tension-relieving cry of the infant. Sterba's very significant contribution (1946) is also derived from the standpoint of the performing artist and appears to assume identification of the listener with the artist. Since our interest is confined to the pleasure produced by listening to music, and not to the pleasure of creating music either by composing or performing, we omit examining the origins of music as a social or biological phenomenon, or the psychological mechanisms in the creative artist. No doubt the primitive precursor of the impulse to create music was present in the history of the race long before the nonproducing listener became important. As music develops and becomes an integral part of a culture, the noncreative listener increases in importance. This development in turn influences musical composition, for the creative artist, while still following inner needs of expression, is aware that he is composing for an audience, however much he may deny it. What is the precursor of music to the infant? We are told that (Holt and Howland, 1940) " . . . auditory stimuli [are] rarely effective during the first twenty-four hours, for the

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newborn infant seems to be deaf, the middle ear being filled with embryonic mesenchyme tissue and becoming gradually pneumatized on the first day or two of life." Soon "the Moro reflex is displayed in response to a loud noise, a sudden jarring of the crib . . .: the infant lying on his back extends his arms forward, stiffens the lower extremities and contorts his face into a grimace; after a second or two he brings the arms slowly together into a sort of embrace, emits a cry and then gradually relaxes. T h e reflex normally persists for about a month or six weeks, being gradually replaced by the startle response shown by adults following a loud noise like a pistol shot" (p. 32). T h a t children and adults react to sudden noise directly, by reflex action—without immediate interference of logical thought between stimulus and reaction, as though it were an undoubted signal of approaching danger—lies within the everyday experience of all of us. A shrill and loud sound may be experienced as an unpleasant attack, almost like a sudden blow. Under certain circumstances of great emotional vulnerability, even a very soft noise, particularly when suddenly interrupting silence, is reacted to by a startle response as connoting danger even though a moment later one might be embarrassed and smile about the apparently foolish overresponse. T h e latter reaction occurs particularly when the noise interrupts an atmosphere of self-concentration and selfpreoccupation. Here belong the frequent observations of the hypersensitivity to noise in periods of stress during psychoanalytic sessions, or in traumatic neurosis, when the mental energies are taken up with the task of mastering a recent threat to the individual's physiological and psychological integrity (Freud, 1920). Both states resemble the psychology of the infant in one significant aspect: the major cathexis is intrapsychic, while a weakened remainder of the ego faces a threatening reality. T h e infant's reaction to sound differs significantly from its

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reaction to other stimuli. After having been expelled from the Eden of intrauterine existence with its protective perfect equilibrium and its minimum of disturbing stimuli, the infant has to make the first great adjustments to external reality in order to survive: it has to breathe and it has to take nourishment. For the rest, a loving h u m a n environment (the mother) attempts to create a state as similar as possible to the former intrauterine existence. The infant must be protected from unusual temperatures and from severe mechanical stimulation or it will not survive. Against lesser mechanical irritation it can protect itself (Holt and Howland, 1940): "Coordinated withdrawal of an extremity from a painful stimulus [occurs] at the latter part of the first week of life," and the intruding disturbances from visual stimulations are kept away with the aid of the covering "eyelids. It remains exposed to auditory stimuli, however, to a much greater degree. This exposure must create an early close (or "symbolic") association between sound and the threatening external world, as opposed to quiet and security. Hence, in the regressive psychological states mentioned above in which hypersensitivity to noise is revived, the danger reacted to is, on the deepest level, the greatest and earliest of all: the danger of total psychobiological destruction. Such a concept is, of course, to be taken, not as a final, exclusive explanation for every fear reaction in response to sounds, but rather as the primitive precursor and central nucleus around which later reactions crystallize. As the child grows up, physically, emotionally, and intellectually, it is threatened by dangers which are specific for the various periods of psychosexual development (weaning, toilet training, castration). Specific noises may come to evoke specific fears, and sensitivity to them may give clues regarding the point of regressive fixation. Some people are particularly sensitive to the noisy chewing of others; some overreact to sounds reminding them of intestinal flatus; still others hear in the specific inflections of a male

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voice the voice of an angry father and react to it with anxiety or aggressive defense. Not only sudden noises produce fear. Repetitive, monotonous sounds produce mounting tension and may, under special circumstances, lead to a feeling of panic. This effect is used artistically by Eugene O'Neill in Emperor Jones, in which the thumping of a drum, coming closer and closer, is the symbol both of the internal guilt and of the threatening external punishment, and the monotonous sound of increasing intensity leads to panic and death. T h a t primitive warriors used noise to create terror in the enemy is well known. In the last war the Germans deliberately attempted to produce panic in the Allied troops by attaching sirens to their dive bombers. All these examples support the opinion that the archaic mental apparatus, whether in the infant, in primitive m a n , or under special circumstances in the adult, has the tendency to perceive sound as a direct threat and to react reflexly to it with anxiety. Pleasure is experienced when psychological tension is relieved or when such relief is anticipated shortly. Energies bound to a certain task become freed and can now be employed in pleasurable discharge. When, after carrying a heavy load on one's back one is suddenly relieved of it, the act of walking, which is usually a neutral experience on the pleasure-pain scale, becomes for a while definitely pleasurable. T h e amount of surplus energy freed by the removal of the load is discharged in exuberant motions, in extra elasticity of gait, and the accompanying emotion is one of pleasure. Could it be that the enjoyment of music is based on similar mechanisms; that the original fear evoked by sound plays the role of the burden that is removed, creating pleasure through the release of energy? Before examining the artistic use of sounds we shall have to trace the development of the infant in his relations to the external world, of which sound is one of the most threatening

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aspects. We must not forget that at first the whole external world represents an influx of disturbing stimuli to the infant, and that what is done by the environment to diminish this threat is an attempt to keep these stimuli — internal (hunger, thirst) and external (temperature deviations, mechanical stimuli) —at a minimum. Silence at this stage would, therefore, seem to be the ideal medium; and it is true that in regressive states of later life (states of ego constriction) like severe physical disease, traumatic neurosis, and sleep, an absence of sudden or loud noises is experienced as beneficial and pleasant by the individual and is provided for by an understanding environment. But the external world must be dealt with, and the developing ego begins to recognize it, not only as the unknown danger from which it tries to withdraw, but also as the source of satisfactions for which it reaches out. T h e chaotic, disturbing sounds are gradually replaced by meaningful ones. If the environment is a satisfactory one, most of the sounds take on the early "symbolic" association with pleasurable events. Such associations are manifold and vary not only with the stage of libido development (or regressive libido fixation) but also with the specific present-day situation of the adult. The mother's voice becomes associated with oral gratification for the infant; the mother's lullaby, with the drowsy satisfaction after feeding. Early kinesthetic eroticism (rocking the cradle [Coriat, 1945], for example) anticipates the enjoyment of dancing and may become associated with definite rhythmic patterns. T h e tiny anal exhibitionist may later by identification enjoy the sound of instruments which connotes his former pleasure in excretion (Ferenczi, 1911), a pleasure otherwise not consciously admissible. Identification with the soloist, but often also with the solitary or predominant sound of a musical production, may have phallic-exhibitionistic, pleasurable implications. Silence, at later stages of development, may in turn be experienced as threatening because,

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after once the need for a good h u m a n environment has been discovered by the ego, silence implies being alone. Music as a group experience connotes the relief of this later fear, and one of the factors of musical enjoyment is certainly that it is a group experience. While this factor does not seem to be a specifically musical one (most other art forms relieve loneliness in much the same way), the purpose of certain forms of music appears to be to relieve just such specific anxieties. Here belong the group singing of clubs and fraternities, the courage-inspiring singing of the national anthem, and probably to some extent the war chants of primitive tribes. "Whistling in the dark" is an attempt to dispel the anxiety of loneliness by creating the illusion of a supporting group. Music gives various things to different individuals. One may sit with closed eyes and open mouth and drink in music, in regressive enjoyment, as he once sucked his mother's breast. Another enjoys mainly the rhythm: he cannot sit still; he has to move his fingers and hands, his feet, his head in enjoyable kinesthetic discharge of the tension created by the rhythmical sounds. For a third, music is mainly enjoyable as a group experience: he derives from it a feeling of strength, the support of many, the relief of loneliness. A fourth may find the sublimated gratification of a long-forgotten curiosity aroused by rhythmical sounds of the primal scene. A fifth identifies himself with the composer or performer and finds a vicarious fulfillment of ambitious and exhibitionistic wishes. These factors and perhaps others, or combinations of them, undoubtedly play a great role wherever music is enjoyed, but they do not explain what is the specifically musical element about pleasure in listening to music. For this problem, let us return to the earliest fear of sounds, to a stage of the unformed ego to which sound is a chaotic, threatening experience that cannot be mastered. The relief of this primitive fear of destruction is brought about by the formal aspects of music, which enable the

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developed, musical ego to master this preverbal sound experience. Through music, a psychological situation is created in which the individual is confronted with a complex, nonverbal influx of auditory stimuli which, essentially, cannot be understood in other terms. Such a situation resembles the one in which the unorganized ego faces the world. If flight is not possible, or if the impulse to withdraw is resisted, a large amount of energy is mobilized to neutralize an anxiety which is anticipated as the listener prepares himself to confront the sounds. But music is intelligible, it has forms and laws which the ego can learn and which it can make a part of its organization. With the aid of this organization the sound stimuli are mastered, and the energy which was mobilized, in anticipation, to deal with the influx of unorganized sound is liberated. An important objection will have to be met at this point. If the source of the pleasure in music stems from the liberated energy, if this liberation of energy is made possible because the anxiety proves to be unnecessary, and if, finally, the anxiety becomes unnecessary because of the intelligibility of the formal aspects of music—why, it may be asked, do these considerations not apply equally to every intelligible sound, and why, therefore, is not every intelligible auditory impression as enjoyable as music? The answer is that there are quantitative as well as qualitative differences between the psychological effects of music and the psychological significance of other intelligible sounds. It may be assumed that the understanding of spoken language, the recognition of the sounds produced by the waters of a brook, and the like, have some pleasurable quality; but this pleasure is, under ordinary circumstances, not great enough to be noticeable. It simply creates a vague feeling of general well-being. T h e pleasurable feeling is increased whenever the experience of recognition is not entirely taken for granted—for example, when one hears the

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familiar sound of one's mother tongue in a foreign setting. A similar pleasurable effect, though essentially a nonmusical one, is created in program music through imitation, as of the song of birds (Respighi's "The Pines of Rome"), or of a thunderstorm (Richard Strauss's "Eine Alpensinfonie"), or the simulation of h u m a n conversation (Ravel's orchestration of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition"). There is, however, a more significant difference between such sounds and music. The meaning of all the intelligible sounds other than musical can be verbalized. When hearing the m u r m u r i n g of a brook, one can say, "I hear a brook"; or "the wind," or "a person talking." The mere fact that the content of an experience can be put into words exempts it, psychologically, from being threatening on the deepest levels on which the musical effect originates. Pure music cannot be translated into words. T h e world of pure sounds cannot be mastered with the main instrument of logical thinking —the neutralizing, energy-binding functions of the mind—which Freud calls the secondary process of the psyche (1900a). This fact accounts, perhaps, for the special position of music among the forms of art. It surely is the explanation for the specific quality of pleasure in music. Stimuli which cannot be mastered through translation into words (or comparable symbols used in logical thought) mobilize much greater forces, and perhaps also forces of a different distribution corresponding to a very early ego organization. This energy is required to withstand the influx of a chaotic stimulation; it becomes liberated when the form of music transforms the chaos into an orderly stimulation that can be dealt with comparatively easily. Logical study of a work of music and abstract, theoretical knowledge of a musical composition are aids to understanding which lie outside the intrinsically musical. They are not an essential part of the capacity for musical enjoyment; but, as they belong to the secondary process, they add the minor aesthetic pleasure of recognition to the major,

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primary pleasure, which one might call the "ecstatic" pleasure. They do, however, sometimes enable a listener to create for himself an atmosphere of security in knowing, in which the deeper transformations of energy can take place, and in which the ecstatic pleasure can be experienced. One could, perhaps, on the basis of the foregoing considerations, attempt to differentiate theoretically, first, the nonmusical listener; second, the primitively musical listener or the musical ecstatic; and, third, the person who enjoys the aesthetic pleasure of consciously recognizing and following the formal structure of musical creations. Often, however, the second and third types coexist. The faculty for musical enjoyment can be better delimited. It is the capacity to confront the world of sounds without the aid of processes of verbalization and without a logic in terms of visual imagery. It is the capacity to solve the musical task through musical mastery. It was stated, for example, by many musical people that they felt frustrated by Walt Disney's Fantasia because the visual impressions distracted them from the music. Other listeners were pleased with the aid given by the simultaneous visual "commentary" which the film provided and which made them tolerate complex musical stimulation that could otherwise not have been mastered by them and would perhaps have created an unpleasant tension. Music for films, according to this point of view, poses a special problem. As long as the emphasis is placed on the action of the moving picture, the music cannot be mastered and enjoyed by the listener. It will either prove to be an unpleasant distraction for the nonmusical part of the audience, or it will create enough tension in the musical listener to induce him to close his eyes. This fact has been recognized by those who write and perform film music. T h e devices used to prevent unwarranted tension effects in the audience are: first, great simplicity of the musical task for the listener (most of the fdm music is merely descriptive underlining of the action

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of the moment); second, low intensity of the sounds to enable the listener to withdraw his attention from them. The relationship between music, on the one hand, and words and action, on the other, has to be carefully treated in other art forms such as opera. Composers who place the emphasis upon the music must keep the libretto simple: the feelings portrayed have to be strong and directly understandable (love, hate, jealousy, triumph, submission) or the musical listener will be distracted. Verdi successfully represents this approach. Another device is the alternation of action parts (recitatives) with musical parts (arias and ensembles), as in the operas of Mozart. All these examples demonstrate that a certain concentration of the listener on his task is necessary. Distractions hinder the musical work of mastering the influx of sounds and lead to anxious tension. T h e tension-producing effect of music is also noticeable when music accompanies an entirely different task—for example, reading with "the radio in the next room" can drive the reader to distraction. A similar frustration is brought about when extraneous noises compete with the musical sounds. It is particularly instructive to analyze one's emotional reactions under such circumstances as when during an open-air concert the noise of a passing train intrudes on the listener, or when during a concert-hall performance the whispering of impolite neighbors, the rustling of the pages of the program, or the step of a latecomer creates a similar disturbance. Tension, anxiety, and reactive anger betray the listener's psychological dilemma: if he turns his attention to the nonmusical sounds he cannot master the musical stimulation; if he tries to continue his concentration on the musical task, the extraneous noise is not logically understood and takes on primitive threatening qualities. Minor extraneous noises of low sound intensity which ordinarily would not interfere with the process of listening to music are sometimes rationalized as the source of disturbance

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by a listener who, in reality, feels himself unable to master a particular musical composition. Music intended to supply the background to other activities is usually of such light nature as to present no special problems. Dinner music falls in this category. Even an ardent music lover would object to having a Brahms symphony accompany his chewing, while he might not mind, on that occasion, simple compositions which would otherwise bore him. Experiments have been m a d e testing the effect of music accompanying work, with results pointing toward the conclusion that the efficiency of the workers increased in the beginning but that excessive fatigue canceled this gain in the end (Antrim, 1943; Kerr, 1945). This fact corroborates our hypothesis. Energy freed through the listening process produced first a joyful mood and with it greater capacity for work. It is not the basic store of energy of the worker, however, that is increased, but only the rate of its discharge or availability. As the basic energy becomes exhausted, not only does the work become tiresome, but the task of mastering the music constitutes an additional burden. Music, in these circumstances, has an effect similar to such pharmacological stimulants as benzedrine: it is useful when a special effort is needed for a short period, but the depletion of energy takes place at a more rapid pace. In special circumstances even the attentive listener will be frustrated in his attempt to achieve pleasure. Such is the case when he is confronted with music, the form of which is entirely unfamiliar. Unable to cope with the unfamiliar sounds of atonal music, for example, large numbers of listeners trapped in the concert hall experience a gradual rise of anxious tension at the strange sounds which they cannot master. Mass flight rationalized as moral protest, and compulsive laughter in an attempt to relieve the tension were frequent results in the early days of Schönberg and his pupils. Another defense on such occasions was the production of

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counternoises (hissing, booing), over which the listeners at least had control, to drown out the uncontrollable and unintelligible music. If flight is not possible, and if no supporting group of equally helpless listeners makes it practicable to turn the threatening passivity into active attack, then the only recourse is to close one's ears, as it were, by actively turning one's attention away from the sounds. This withdrawal can be partially achieved by daydreaming, which becomes almost automatic when exposure to music has been too prolonged and fatigue prevents the psychic apparatus from dealing with the stimuli in an adequate fashion. Up to this point we have discussed in some detail the auxiliary factors which contribute to musical enjoyment, and have stated in the most general terms that the basic pleasure stems from the energy liberated through mastery of the musical task. This latter process requires more detailed attention. Questions which have to be answered are: (1) W h a t are the formal aspects of music that allow the listener to master the auditory stimuli? (2) In what way does the basic psychological process (threat —relief—pleasure) become reinforced and reduplicated in the musical composition? (3) How does the freed energy find discharge through essentially musical means? These three questions cannot be entirely separated because the same musical device often serves more than one psychological purpose. T o answer the first question, we recognize that nearly the whole of musical theory could in some way or other be credited as contributing to the solution of the task of the listener. We will mention only the most important means and those in which the psychological aid received by the listener is most clearly intelligible. Immediately we can say that for the listener the psychological task is a limited one and that the scope of any musical work can be surveyed by the listener at least in approximation. Each composition has a clear-cut beginning and a

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definite end, and the listener knows this to be a fact. T h e attitude of the musical listener and artist at the beginning of the performance is noteworthy: both insist that a state of complete silence precede the first musical sounds. This silence has two functions. It brings into sharper focus the basically threatening situation in which sound interrupts silence and, therefore, by increasing the threat, increases the possibilities of enjoyment through mastery. It also allows the listener to prepare himself psychologically for the task of mastering the musical sounds by withdrawing his attention from sounds that can be understood with the aid of processes of verbalization and directing it to the specifically musical task: mastery through recognition of musical organization. T h e main aid given to the listener in mastering the musical sound experience lies in the use of tones rather than noises. Tones supply the basic elements for building a composition. A tone is an already organized acoustical phenomenon. Unlike other sounds, it is characterized by regular sine vibrations which are responsible for giving it definite pitch, loudness, and timbre. These qualities permit us to master it, while noise, lacking them, remains chaotic. Very few compositions rely on noises rather than tones unless an effect of shock is desired. It is significant that noisy instruments, such as cymbals, are used primarily at the point of climax, as in the prelude to "Die Meistersinger." Noise at the very beginning of a composition, as the roll of the snaredrum in Rossini's overture to "La Gazza ladra," creates an intentional state of alarm, which, in this case, is quickly resolved into exaggerated hilarity. T h e artistic necessity for the mastery of auditory stimuli also sheds new light on the concept of tonality. Tonality is a definite organization of tones as opposed to the chaotic influx of random tones. Its validity is derived from the natural organization of the overtone series. The physical interval of the octave, which is expressible by the simple frequency

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relationship of two to one, sets the consonant frame within which all the other tones are organized. As the histories of various civilizations show, the number of tones within the octave appears to be acquired arbitrarily according to principles which are not necessarily musical. Curt Sachs (1929) has pointed out the correlation between the number of tones used within an octave and certain holy and symbolic numbers: thus, the Chinese divide the octave into five tones; classical Western culture has seven; modern music twelve. It can be easily proved that we can condition ourselves to any kind of tonality. Chinese music, for instance, will sound weird to a Western ear at first hearing, but repeated hearing of Chinese composition will soon make us receptive to its tonal organization. Tonality can thus be understood as a group of tones bound by an acoustical law and repeatedly experienced, and hence as an important means permitting the mastery of otherwise chaotic acoustical stimuli. Within each tonality one special tone is chosen as a signal, a frame of reference within which all other tones can be understood. It is commonly called the tonic. It is a fixed point from which one measures all other tones and which determines the consonant or dissonant character of all other tones. It is an accepted rule of composition that a musical work should begin on the tonic. Gregorian melodies, sung and codified fifteen hundred years ago, follow it, as do recent works of such contemporaries as Hindemith and Stravinsky. The musical reasons for such universal observance are strong. T h e content of music being fundamentally the movement from consonance to dissonance to consonance, a norm must be set at the beginning of the composition against which all later tones and harmonies may be interpreted as either consonant or dissonant. This norm is quite understandable in terms of the psychological need of the listener for a mastery of the musical material. Further organization of the material is supplied by the

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regular rhythm which has characterized Western music of the last few centuries. Bar lines usually follow one another at equal distances. Wherever we encounter irregularly shifting rhythms, either the music is organized by the rhythm of an underlying familiar text (as in vocal music), or it becomes upsetting to the audience, even to the point of riotous demonstrations, as with Stravinsky's early rhythmical shocks in his "barbaric" "The Rites of Spring." T h e most regular rhythms are used in compositions in which the avoidance of psychological shocks is desired, as in lullabies and hymns. Another device which has long been recognized as musically essential is repetition. We can hardly conceive of a composition in which certain motives, phrases, melodies, or whole sections do not recur more or less frequently. Instrumental music without any repetition whatever, and some Gregorian melodies (without reference to text), put a strain on any audience. T h e element of repetition permeates the music of most of the cultures we know, and can be easily traced in the development of Western music. Many historians of music have used it as a standard by which to measure the progress of musical communications. Sequences in Gregorian chant employ it. Songs of troubadours acquire their form by it. Renaissance composers construct entire masses on the repeated use of a cantus firmus or its fragments. The construction of baroque and classic melody invariably contains repeated motives. Even modern music has never dispensed with the element of repetition. Music critics have accepted the need for repetition almost as an aesthetic dogma. T h e economics of dynamic psychology may supply an explanation: when hearing a phrase or a melody for the second time, the listener saves a part of the energy required for a first hearing. He recognizes it —that is, requires less effort to master it — than when it was new. The surplus energy is one of the sources which enable the listener to experience joy. This procedure is closely related to another that provides

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pleasure in anticipation by recourse to previous experiences of the listener. Having thus far touched the factors of melody, tonality, and rhythm, our speculation must now turn to the musical concept of form. Musical form can be explained only by reference to the repetition and recurrence of certain musical elements, be they melodic, harmonic, rhythmic, or other. A new question arises with regard to the history of musical form: established musical forms are discarded after extensive periods of dominance. Thus, for example, the fugue dominates the baroque period, and the sonata form the nineteenth century. Adherence to one definite formal scheme through several generations would appear rigid if it had not supplied audiences of many generations with the special joy of utilizing previous experiences. The acoustical threat is reduced if the listener knows what is in store for him. He spends some energy, to be sure, distinguishing between one specific fugue or sonata and another which he has heard before; but he saves more energy in the anticipation of a familiar pattern. T h e pleasure of the audience is particularly great when such anticipation seems foiled for a moment to be followed instantly by the appearance of the familiar pattern. Such an experience is illustrated in an excerpt from a letter from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1938, p . 826) to his father: "The Andante also found favor, but particularly the last Allegro, because having observed that all last as well as first Allegros begin here with all the instruments playing together and generally unisono, I began mine with two violins only, piano for the first eight bars — followed instantly by a forte; the audience, as I expected, said 'hush' at the soft beginning, and when they heard the forte, began at once to clap their hands. I was so happy that as soon as the symphony was over, I went off to the Palais Royal, where I had a large ice (Paris, July 3, 1778). Mastery is also facilitated by the traditional use of familiar instruments. The composition of a symphony orchestra and

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smaller musical ensembles is fairly well standardized. Unfamiliar instruments emphasize the inherent threat and arouse anxiety. This anxious tension was exemplified by the excessive giggling among student listeners at a presentation of strange Chinese musical instruments. T h e pleasure of energy release in listening to music is usually not immediately discharged as it is through laughter. The musical composition reduplicates the original task and its solution by creating a secondary tension in the listener. In music this is accomplished by leading the composition from consonance through dissonance back to consonance. This mechanism corresponds to the one which Freud described in the play of children. A child plays "being gone" to master the painful experience of its mother's absence (1920, p p . 16-17): . . . one gets an impression that the child turned his experience into a game from another motive. At the outset he was in a passive situation—he was overpowered by the experience; but, by repeating it, unpleasurable as it was, as a game, he took on an active part. It is clear that in their play children repeat everything that has m a d e a great impression on them in real life, and that in doing so they abreact the strength of the impression and, as one might put it, make themselves master of the s i t u a t i o n . . . . the unpleasurable nature of an experience does not always unsuit it for play. If the doctor looks down a child's throat or carries out some small operation on him, we may be quite sure that these frightening experiences will be the subject of the next g a m e . . . . Similar mastery is achieved by the musical movement into dissonance and back to consonance. T h e composer first establishes the tonic against which subsequent tones are anticipated as consonant or dissonant. T h e need for resolution of the dissonances drives the composition foward to the desired resolution. This resolution, already known to the listeners, is

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simply a return to the tonal consonance of the beginning. Only the manner in which the solution is brought about —the artistic detour—varies from composition to composition. T h e listener must be permitted to expect that he will be able to solve the task. If the originality of the composer presents the listener with an unusual task, the composition will at first meet with violent resistance. Beethoven's First Symphony, for example, adds a puzzling minor seventh to the opening tonic chord of C major, and Wagner avoids the clear establishment of a basic tonality at the beginning of "Tristan and Isolde" by a series of unexpected modulations. As we know, both composers were harshly censured by their contemporaries. T h e shock effect of such dissonant and unfamiliar beginnings was criticized as "chaotic," "revolutionary," "undisciplined," and "indecent." T h e audiences felt defenseless. In both instances, however, the composer had merely set for himself a new artistic problem, which he solved in his own manner. T o Beethoven, the first chord justified the long, slow introduction preceding the statement of the first subject of the sonata movement; to Wagner, the indefinite opening served as a means of expressing, in Wagnerian terminology, the "unfulfilled yearning" and the "love woes" of the emotionally high-pitched lovers, and of justifying the sheer length of the dramatic musical development to its climax. T h e various manners in which composers can playfully reproduce the development from initial threat to final resolution are called style. In both classic and romantic styles, for instance, the return to the established tonality is a foregone conclusion. A classical composer will lead the listener all the way to the solution. Little in music is more affirmative than the end of a Beethoven symphony. A romantic composer, on the other hand, will lead the listener close enough to the solution to permit him to guess it, but he will not necessarily

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present the solution with the same emphasis as the dissonance. Either overcomplexity or oversimplification of the task becomes responsible for changes of style. In the first case, such changes usually take the form of a deliberate musical revolution against a threat which has grown too great to be mastered. T h e esoteric constructions of the ars antiqua were as self-consciously thrown overboard by the ars nova of the fourteenth century as were later the sophisticated accomplishments of the musica reservata of the sixteenth century by the Florentine reform. In both instances the musical revolution brought about a return to simpler musical constructions. In the case of oversimplification, a change of style becomes necessary because the tensions created in the listener are too minute to allow him to experience noticeable pleasure with the solution of the task. Modern popular music affords a good example of such a change within a narrower frame. A new song does not become a hit until it has become familiar enough so that people can prove their mastery of it by whistling it. After repeated playing has m a d e it so familiar that no energy need be mustered to meet it, the listeners lose interest, and it has to be replaced by another tune. A closer scrutiny of the psychoeconomics reveals that if the curve of the tension is too steep and the release too sudden, the type of enjoyment changes. The suddenly liberated energy has to be discharged immediately by laughing (as in the example of the overture to "La Gazza ladra"), or other motor activity, such as the clapping of hands (see Mozart's letter). T h e stormy enthusiasm at the end of a concert performance may serve at least in part as a means of release of tension which the listener was not able to discharge more gradually. But while the opportunity for such socially acceptable relief of tension is welcomed by most listeners, it does not seem to be a necessary component of the mechanics of pleasure in music.

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T h a t the discharge of energy takes place in true enjoyment through essentially musical means can be demonstrated by the symphonies of Beethoven. It is well known that with the approaching end of the symphony the music rises in sheer intensity of sound and that the listener experiences it as triumphant and victorious. The triumphant intensity of the ending is the solution of the musical task, coinciding with the return of the composition to, and the final establishment of, consonance. This is the moment in which the greatest quantity of energy is liberated and the peak of enjoyment is reached. T h a t the musical composition reaches its triumphant peak at this particular moment can mean only that now the listener and the music have become one emotionally—that the music is now expressing and discharging the liberated energies of the listener. In identification with the music, the listener has reached the final mastery of an external task. He has reached it by regression to a primitive ego state which permits the ecstatic enjoyment of music. T o this ego state belongs the most primitive form of mastery by incorporation and identification. At this moment the ecstatic listener does not clearly differentiate between himself and the outside world; he experiences the sounds as being produced by himself, or even as being himself, because emotionally they are what he feels. With the breakdown of the ego boundaries, the "oceanic feeling" (Freud, 1930) of being one with the world ("Seid umschlungen, Millionen!") is reached, and, with it, a socially acceptable form of magical omnipotence and a repetition of early, primitive kinesthetic pleasures as the listener flies through space with the sounds (Sterba, 1946). Introspection and observation indicate that the ecstatic enjoyment of music of all styles, not only the nineteenthcentury symphony, rests on the same principle. T h e example given demonstrates the case of the solved task and the resulting triumphant feeling that the listener finds both in himself

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and in the music he hears. Similarly, various tensions can be created on the way to the solution, creating different moods in the listener and, at the same time, reproducing the mood in the composition; the opening of Beethoven's First Symphony and the beginning of Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde" illustrated this point. When, during the playful repetition of the task of mastery, he has recognized that the emotions expressed in the music are his own, the listener reaches the union with the musical sounds that enlarges his identity to embrace a whole primitive, nonverbal universe of sounds after the original threat is overcome. The ability to regress to this early ego state, while at the same time preserving the complicated ego functions required to recognize and master the influx of organized sound, is the prerequisite for the enjoyment of music. There is, perhaps, no better way of summarizing the considerations contained in the preceding investigation than to quote the words of a poet: . . . Denn das Schöne ist nichts Ab des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen, Und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, Uns zu zerstören. . . . [Duineser Elegien, Rainer Maria Rilke.] . . . For Beauty's nothing But beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear, And why we adore it so is because it serenely Disdains to destroy u s . . . . [Trans, by J. B. Leishman & S. Spender.]

4 "The Function of the Analyst in the Therapeutic Process" by Samuel D. Lipton DISCUSSION

Dr. Lipton's main formulations appear to be essentially correct, and they are clearly and simply stated; in only one important area does there seem to be a difference in our viewpoints, namely, with reference to the transference and nontransference phenomena, especially in the "borderline patients." After a few brief comments on other topics, this area will therefore be discussed at greater length. First, a few comments on Dr. Lipton's remark that "an optimal conclusion to the analysis includes the understanding that, if it is required, the analysis can be resumed." While theoretically well founded, this position may often constitute an emotional hardship for the patient. The successfully analyzed patient has the realistic task of giving up an object and finding new attachments. T h e promise that he can come back makes such a task more difficult. On the other hand, what remains unresolved in the patient's neurosis is often related to the analyst's personality defects. T h e end of analysis should therefore make the analyst particularly careful to Presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, October, 1951.

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give his patients the emotional freedom to choose another therapist, if necessary in the future. There is a similarity between Dr. Lipton's formulation and the statement often heard that the analyst, like the physician, is partly scientist and partly artist, or that he uses partly a technique and partly intuition. Dr. Lipton's "analytic procedure" refers to something the analyst knows, the "therapeutic tendency" to something the analyst is. One relationship between these two factors may be elucidated by examining the mother's attitude toward her child. There is, on the one extreme, the mother for whom everything becomes technique and procedure, for example, the exact way in which the baby should be held and fed. This mother's behavior is evidently motivated by unconscious hostility, guilt, and compulsive reaction-formation. On the other extreme is the ideally unambivalent mother. If her child falls ill and techniques and procedures that are not part of the armamentarium of naive motherliness must be used, the unambivalent mother will quickly incorporate these techniques and make them part of her total feeling attitude toward the child. An analogous relationship does also exist in the analyst's attitude toward his patient. Dr. Lipton must have had it in mind when he stated: "The analyst does not act like an analyst; he is an analyst," which is an excellent description of unambivalent dedication. T h e analyst's unconscious ambivalence may not be directed against the patient, however, but against psychoanalysis. T h e latter ambivalence, if present, is an outgrowth of the analyst's first emotionally important encounter with analysis, i.e., the result of his own training analysis and the unresolved conflicts of his transference. On the whole, Dr. Lipton's thesis agrees with Freud's early emphasis on transference love as the motive power for the patient's cure through analysis. This concept is as valid now as it was then. Yet the ego's independent wish to get well should surely find a place in any attempt to describe theoreti-

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cally the process of psychoanalytic cure. Weak as the ego may seem in the struggle between primary and secondary gain on the negative, and transference love on the positive side, it may well be decisive in the long run. In the hypnotic trance, too, the ego seems to be at the mercy of the hypnotist in payment for the gratifications of infantile wishes. Should the hypnotist's demands, however, seriously threaten the life or health of the hypnotized, then, unexpectedly, the subject awakens from his trance. Dr. Lipton's formulation is also related to the thesis that the analyst has to divide his attention between the patient's intrapsychic conflicts and the disturbances of his capacity for interpersonal relations. This assumption is derived from Freud's classification of psychopathological processes in his papers on "Neurosis and Psychosis" (1924b) and "The Loss of Reality in Neurosis and Psychosis" (1924a). The basic tenets of this bipolar orientation toward psychopathology are well known: there is one group of psychopathological phenomena, the psychoneuroses, where the main conflict is intrapsychic and the ego in its relations with reality, including the interpersonal relationships, is disturbed only secondarily and in the limited field of the specific conflict. In the other group, which Freud in 1924 and 1925 called psychoses (later, he included a much wider field than the clinical psychoses and spoke of "ego-modifications"), the interpersonal defects, the loss of reality, the ego alterations are paramount, while the intrapsychic conflict is of secondary importance. There are, logically enough, apart from the traditional Freudian bipolar orientation toward psychopathology, two other trends in present-day psychoanalysis that one could call psychosisoriented and neurosis-oriented. The one pays attention throughout to the disturbances of the patient's interpersonal relations and seems to arrive at an internally consistent but clinically confusing conception of the most diverse psychopathological syndromes as schizophrenic. The other pays

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attention mainly to the intrapsychic conflicts and seems to look upon the ego predominantly as a rational force mediating between opposing internal strivings. It is less concerned with the archaic and irrational elements of ego organization and the resulting, defects in interpersonal relations when they occur in the clinically nonpsychotic. Into which of these schools of thought does Dr. Lipton's orientation in his present essay belong? Predominantly into the first one, i.e., his views seem to be compatible with Freud's bipolar postulate. His "Analytic Procedure" not only comprises the transference in the narrower sense, including the transference resistance, as the subject matter for the science or technique of psychoanalysis, but implies that the analyst's attention is directed toward the intrapsychic conflict and the intrapsychic reality as it is projected by the patient and portrayed in the field between patient and analyst. His "Therapeutic Tendency" not only includes the external reality of the rapport between patient and analyst, but also indicates a focusing of attention onto their interpersonal conflicts. A difficulty becomes manifest, however, when the preceding correlation is applied to his clinical discussion. He speaks of two types of patients: the "good" analytic patients whose transference is allowed to emerge spontaneously, and the "borderline" patients who are immediately overwhelmed by the transference. T h e problem exists regarding his interpretation of the second group. Is the immediate overwhelming reaction these patients experience really transference? Clinically, these "borderline" patients are characterized by the consistent combination of greater ego defect and intense protective secondary narcissism. Their immediate interpersonal conflict with the analyst, too, is distinguished by its narcissistic character. It is not to be denied that the conflict is an old one, that it is a repetition, a revival of an emotional attitude that had its original objects and now is re-enacted on a new one. But, while every transference is a repetition, not every repetition is transference. We tend to

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forget that the term transference has a broad metapsychological meaning and that the clinical or therapeutic transference, while of the utmost practical importance, is only one manifestation of the larger psychological principle. Primarily, as it did originally, the term transference describes the tendency of the repressed infantile drive, which is attached to old objects, to seek new objects in its search for satisfaction. This leads to the compromise formations between the repressed and the day-residue, with which we are familiar in dreams and neurotic symptoms. What the narcissistic "borderline" patient presents has some elements in common with transference, namely, the element of repetition and the confusion between old and new object. There is, however, a decisive difference. In transference the id, a repressed driveelement, is seeking satisfaction; in the "borderline" patient, an injured, narcissistic ego is seeking reassurance. Interpretations are not acceptable as such by the "borderline" patient; they are understood either as criticism or as proof of the analyst's interest. The patient does not love the analyst in any sense, but needs to be liked by him. He reacts to the analyst as he reacts to every important person in his present life because the emphasis of all the psychological maneuvers is on restoring or keeping up a precarious balance of selfesteem; the attention is narcissistically fastened on himself, his injured ego, and not on the object. T h e reason why these narcissistic maneuvers are so frequently considered transference lies in the usually so prominent presence of, mostly pregenital, drive elements, especially the oral demands. But, as ego functions can become libidinized in the transference neuroses (for example, in hysterical writer's cramp), so also can drives be used for predominantly narcissistic purposes. If we recognize that some forms of frantic genital activity are by no means necessarily indicative of a strong genital drive, are not primarily performed for pleasure but rather for reassurance, there is also no need to assume that the oral demands

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of the "borderline" patients are necessarily an indication of strong oral drives striving for pleasure, but rather that they too serve the narcissistic purpose of gaining the reassurance of being given something. T h e therapeutic procedure derived from this different interpretation is, however, quite similar to what Dr. Lipton describes. T h e therapy has to proceed in several stages, which are, theoretically and schematically, as follows: (1) the overcoming of what in older psychoanalytic language used to be called the "narcissistic barrier,"i consisting, from the side of the patient, in a continuous, repetitive testing of the personality of the analyst; from the analyst's point of view in a scrutiny of the ego alterations of the patient, especially insofar as they lead to misinterpretation of reality, and, concomitantly, participation of the analyst in a relationship that enables the patient to give u p the faulty expectations regarding the analyst's intentions and powers. (2) A gradual shift of attention from the narcissistic interpersonal maneuvers to the underlying intrapsychic conflict that had impoverished the ego and had led, secondarily in the genetic sense, to its narcissism. (3) T h e re-enactment of the intrapsychic conflict in the transference and its analysis. At this point, a brief schematic summary of the preceding discussion with special emphasis on the differences with Dr. Lipton's conclusions seems to be in order. It consists of the following points: (1) Transference in the narrower sense, including the transference resistance, is not an interpersonal phenomenon but is basically the expression of an intrapsychic conflict. Genetically, it is the intrapsychic result of traumatic interpersonal experiences in infancy and early childhood. Topographically, however, there is a conflict between ego and id, which leads to a compromise formation between the repressed and an object representation of present reality, the analyst. In other words, the dissociated drive borrows a part of reality

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to represent the old object to which it remains attached. Transference in this narrower sense does not constitute a true relation of the ego with the outer world. This is the part of the transference that is the subject matter of the "therapeutic procedure." (2) The other part of the transference, the unobjectionable part, the rapport with the analyst, etc., differs essentially from the first one by being assimilated into the ego. It is a particular type of object choice by the ego, in Freud's words (1912a) "acquired during childhood," "a cliche which is regularly repeated in the course of life" (author's translation) yet, topographically, a relationship of the ego with objects in the present. Genetically it seems to be the outgrowth of early nontraumatic, successful interpersonal relations that became assimilated into the ego and determined adult object choice. It is this part of the transference that coincides with what is often called realistic rapport and with Dr. Lipton's term "therapeutic tendency." (3) The narcissistic barrier of the "borderline patients" is not transference, for the reasons stated before. It is not an intrapsychic but a pathological interpersonal phenomenon, i.e., an injured ego's attempt to gain reassurance from an external source. T h e analysis of the ego leads to a gradual correction of the faulty interpersonal expectations and to a gradual change toward a reality-adapted rapport with the analyst. T h e limits of this change are determined by the capacity of the patient for rapport (or unobjectionable part of the transference), which seems to depend on the extent of nontraumatic or successful interpersonal experiences in infancy and early childhood. With the replacing of the narcissistic barrier by rapport, the patient is enabled to allow the emergence of the transference and can tolerate its analysis. Dr. Lipton applies his formulations not only to the patient but to the analyst as well. In the light of the preceding dis-

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cussion, one could say that, as in the patient, so there are also in the analyst two main areas that necessitate scrutiny. T h e counter transference proper, involving drives seeking satisfaction, and ego-alterations seeking reassurance against underlying anxiety. On the whole, it appears that the first, while often glaringly obvious, is less dangerous because of the libido-economically important capacity to gain sublimated satisfaction and pleasure (e.g., the analyst's exhibitionism). T h e second cannot be satisfied, is more silent and harder to deal with for the patient, for it involves more serious distortions of the analyst's grasp of reality, especially in his judgment of himself. Here belong the analyst's narcissistic overestimations and misjudgments of his own power which are followed by anxiety when the patient does not change or get cured according to expectations.

5 Psychanalyse de la Musique {1951) by Andre Michel BOOK REVIEW

Much of the psychoanalytic literature on music, sparse as it is, has escaped the author's attention (e.g., Ferenczi's [1921] classical description of the use of music in the course of psychoanalytic therapy). In other respects, too, the book is often sketchy, and can hardly be called a monograph in the usual sense. T h e author, who seems to be pedagogue, psychoanalyst, poet, and musician, composed the volume from several articles written during a period of five years, which may account for some of its unevenness. T h e two greatest weaknesses of Michel's approach are insufficient documentation and—even more detrimental — an almost exclusive preoccupation with genetic id psychology, which leads to an overly schematic classification of composers according to the classical stages of the development of the libido. He is most convincing where he does not try to establish genetic links from scanty biographical data, but restricts himself to the connections between the composer's character and his work: Stravinsky, e.g., is orderly, tyrannical, and opinionated; he has an exaggerated disgust for bad odors; the anal components of his compositions are aggressive rhythms, cruel harmonies, and a predilection for percussion instruFirst published in The Psychoanalytic

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ments; his use of brass instruments to play his sweetest melodies is rightly recognized as a form of magical undoing of destructive tendencies through music. Excellent, too, is the chapter on Johann Sebastian Bach and the historical conservatism of the superego. An unconscious yet active Catholic medieval superego enforced a political as well as an artistic compromise after the Reformation had externally succeeded. Politically, submission to the Pope was replaced by submission to the prince; in the artistic sphere, the dominance of plastic art with its symbol of medieval anonymous collectivism, the cathedral, was replaced by a cathedral of sounds, the music of Bach. Michel corroborates his theory by pointing out that during the Reformation the musical style in the Protestant countries changed, with Schutz, from the former Flemish influence to the Italian (Catholic) tradition. In the second part of his book Michel proposes to psychoanalyze music itself. His analysis of the music of Debussy's opera Pelleas et Melisande not only reveals subtleties about the operatic characters, which a study of the libretto alone could not supply, but also permits him to draw tentative conclusions about the composer's unconscious conflicts. T h e author's theoretical statements, however, are hampered by the shortcomings of his metapsychology. He argues correctly that musical mental processes can be among the most developed mental acts, as during the execution of a fugue. Yet, in a polemic against traditional psychoanalysis, which he suspects of recognizing only conceptual thinking as mature, he is carried to the other extreme and proclaims the musical mind superior to the conceptual because: only the musical mind can perform several different tasks simultaneously and consciously (polyphony); and because conceptual thinking is limited to existing reality whereas musical thought gives us a taste of the "superior unknown." Concerning the first claim, one wonders whether, for example, being aware of the landscape while driving a car is, with respect to simultaneous con-

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sciousness, essentially different from the execution of a fugue on the piano. Unless proven otherwise, one would expect the pianist, too, to have only the single awareness of the total Gestalt of his performance at each moment, supporting it by brief shifts of attention to various details. Michel's basically mystical assertion that music reveals the "superior unknown" drives one to suspect that he describes an intense infantile emotion that is being experienced in a disguised form. A good deal of difficulty could have been avoided by stressing less the antithesis of conscious versus unconscious (a value judgment in Michel's terms), and more the psychoeconomic differences between primary and secondary mental processes. The classification of highly developed musical thought ("sensibilite seconde") among the secondary processes is quite compatible with the existing metapsychological framework of psychoanalysis. T h e energy-binding function which musical secondary processes may provide for the musician—as conceptual thinking does for others —is exemplified in the author's account of Schumann who, by studying Bach, succeeded for a while in warding off an imminent psychosis. Yet, while granting musical thought its elevated place, there is no more need to deny the genetic and economic connections between art and its precursor, the play of children, than between a scientific zeal and infantile sexual curiosity. One does not, thereby, debase music, but rather gains understanding of its psychoeconomic value for the adult. An example of the author's comparative neglect of psychoeconomics is his estimation of simple harmonic accompaniments mainly as a musical commentary that leads the listener to a better understanding, and with it to a greater aesthetic enjoyment, of the more complex melody. He does not seem to recognize that the simple, essentially repetitive accompaniment itself provides a primitive pleasure (primary process), similar to the construction described by Freud (1905a). T o end this review on a note of criticism would leave a

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wrong impression of the reviewer's over-all evaluation. This work contains many splendid thoughts on various aspects of music. One may, finally, also concede to the author that a certain snobbishness toward the artistic-aesthetic side of the human mind is present in some psychoanalysts (not, however, as Michel assumes, in Freud, who simply confessed that he was not musical), and that the author's polemic, though exaggerated, may have a limited justification.

6 "Natural Science and Humanism as Fundamental Elements in the Education of Physicians and Especially Psychiatrists" by Henry von Witzleben DISCUSSION

Among the many valuable thoughts Dr. von Witzleben laid before us those concerning the relativity of truth were among the most important. Under most circumstances, we are all willing to admit that different kinds of true statements can be m a d e with regard to the same subject matter. But when the affirmation of a particular truth about a particular issue hurts our pride, because we had been committed to another truth about the same matter, then it is harder for us to remain objective. No one would insist, for example, that apples must be classified in accordance with the visual impression they produce and that it is not permitted to classify them according to how they affect the sense of taste; and no one would justify such a prejudice by arguing that our sense of sight is more precise and more objective than our merely subjective sense of taste. But with regard to the area of Presented at a meeting of the German Medical Society in Chicago, March, 1953.

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human psychology, and especially with regard to the area of human psychopathology, it is often difficult for the physician to achieve this kind of objectivity. I remember well certain repetitive experiences from the years I spent in neurology—treating patients with diseases of the nervous system, teaching, doing research —and I am sure that my account of them will strike a familiar chord in Dr. von Witzleben. The question "organic or neurotic complaint?" had to us then approximately this meaning: "is something wrong with the patient, or is nothing wrong with him?" Examples of serious diagnostic errors were often demonstrated to the medical students: a patient who appeared to be depressed proved to suffer from myasthenia; a female patient believed to be hysteric was afflicted with multiple sclerosis; etc. While I cannot recall that admonitions were ever given to the students to warn them against the opposite mistake, I do remember many relevant incidents —when, for example, the beginnings of a depression or the presence of an exhausting hysterical conflict were not recognized, and when, therefore, instead of referral to a psychiatrist, some medical treatment was instituted. A few insignificant organic disturbances could always be discovered to justify some form of medication, with the result that the development of chronic character disturbances was encouraged, for instance, in the form of a masked drug addiction or of a progressively worsening psychological invalidism. I wanted to illustrate with these concrete examples from clinical practice issues to which von Witzleben referred in more abstract terms when he spoke about the relativity of a truth. But at this point I also want to emphasize something else. If we recognize that psychology and biology use different conceptual frameworks and different methods, then we will also accept the fact that they can arrive at divergent judgments concerning the same issue —and yet both of them may be right. A patient can be diagnosed as healthy when

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examined with the methods of modern biology—yet he can simultaneously be diagnosed as ill when examined by the methods of modern psychology. But having recognized the fact that we can arrive at two seemingly contradictory truths depending on our approach to a problem, it is necessary to make one further point. It is generally not advisable to mix the two approaches of which I spoke —the biological and psychological—either in the form of biologizing psychology or in the form of psychologizing biology. Even Freud's clear mind may have been led astray here—most notably perhaps when he posited the existence of a death instinct. (As another example of the unwholesome mixing of the biological and psychological approaches I will remind those familiar with the psychoanalytic literature of Ferenczi's Thalassa [1924].) These errors have not been without deleterious consequences. At the present time, for example, the use of certain ambiguous concepts, leading a sham existence in the no-man's-land between biology and psychology, are creating a good deal of confusion. I am thinking here in particular of the widespread use of the concepts of dependence (the related concept of symbiosis could also be mentioned in this context) for the purpose of explaining certain phenomena. The popularity of this (pseudo-) explanatory concept is not due to its comprehensive meaning, is not due to the fact that it is giving us any profound or new insights either with respect to biology or psychology. Its attractiveness is due to the fact that the same term conveys a biological meaning (referring to the condition of the dependence) and psychological meaning (referring to the wish to be dependent). The preceding statement should not be taken as the expression of the view that the biological and the psychological approaches must always be strictly separated. It is permissible to attempt to apply both the biological and the psychological approach simultaneously so long as one is aware that one then neither moves completely in the realm of

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biology nor completely in that of psychology but that one has entered a new area of cognition dominated by the rules of a new conceptual framework. The acceptance or nonacceptance of such a move depends then ultimately on the answer to the question whether it proves to be fruitful or unfruitful, specifically, it depends on the answer to the question whether it leads to the broader, deeper, and more consistent understanding of the phenomena we wish to explain. I believe that the foregoing considerations are essentially in harmony with von Witzleben's views. I agree with him that the physician, and especially the psychiatrist, must not feel that he has to choose between either natural science or psychology or humanism, but rather that he should strive to achieve the cooperation of these different areas of knowledge and education in his actual work as a healer, investigator, and teacher. I would add one further point to my over-all agreement concerning these important matters, namely, that in our professional work, and particularly in our scientific activities, we should not gloss over the fact that by mixing the approaches of psychology with those of biology we are attempting to create a new theoretical framework. T h e capacity for an inner counterbalancing of contrasts, the capacity for integration and synthesis, has always struck me as being one of the most essential constituents of h u m a n strength; it is the unifying force that lies at the center of our being—the "concealed knot" in the deepest recesses of the personality, to which Goethe once referred in a letter to his friend Knebel. In our professional lives as physicians and as psychiatrists, this strength manifests itself in our ability to remain one and the same, even though we have to apply varying methods in order to adjust to different or changing circumstances. If a physician has reached this unity in his personality, then he will be able to concentrate his attention fully on the organic disturbances of his patients, yet not reject taking the psychological viewpoint when the circumstances

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demand. And the psychotherapist, on the other hand, while usually concentrating on establishing causal connections within the psychic field, will not dismiss the possibility of the presence of organic factors. Finally, if a physician or a psychiatrist with a philosophical bent wishes to speculate about problems that transcend those of his daily professional activities, he might permit himself, temporarily, the intermingling of both points of view; and in his search for meaning he might then even contemplate the processes of the physical world with the conceptual armamentarium of the psychological observer. If we engage in all these activities, we will, in the microcosm of our own lives, follow in the direction that Freud, the great pioneer of modern psychiatry, indicated through the example of his life. It was humanism that permitted Freud to make his great discoveries—humanism, with its respect for the individual, for the personal-human element and thus for the human-psychological element. Freud's greatest contribution, evaluated from the point of view of the history of humanism, was the discovery of the significance of the child and of infantile mental life. Freud's personal courage drove him to pursue a scientific career devoted to the elaboration of his essential discovery—his life work was devoted to exploring the manner in which the primitive, the infantile aspects of our mental life are fitted into our adult and mature personality and especially how, under certain circumstances, the infantile begets pathology. T h e ideal goal of our psychotherapeutic endeavors, which Freud defined for us, is also a humanistic one because it rests on the psychotherapist's respect for the individual and for his right to decide. We do not offer our patients a new content for their lives—no new religion or philosophy. Nor does our code permit us to serve as a model for the patient, no matter how attractive it might be to permit such a use of our personality and how strongly the patient himself might plead

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with us to be allowed to model himself after us. We merely help him to see his infantile drives and wishes as clearly as possible, and, with a clear conscience, we leave it u p to him to make new and better use of them than he had done before. To end on a note of caution: It is good to remind oneself that, when it comes to the large questions, one should not insist on having all the answers. Among the lessons Freud taught us is one that I have come to hold in especially high esteem: that we have to learn to bear uncertainty and must often be satisfied with having defined the unclarities clearly.

7

" 'Eros and Thanatos': A Critique and Elaboration of Freud's Death Wish" by Iago Galdston DISCUSSION

T h e subject matter of Dr. Galdston's rich and scholarly paper is among the most perplexing ones in our difficult field. It touches on the bewildering relationship between general biology, psychology, and psychiatry, and I am aware of the tendency in all of us to avoid the confusion of analogous yet often unrelated points of view by an escape into dogmatic positions. I am making this introductory statement to stress the tentative nature of the ensuing remarks, a precaution that seems necessary because limited time forces me to make my statements more simply and directly than would be suitable for a topic that skirts the borderlines of our knowledge. I must also resist the temptation of following Dr. Galdston on any of the many fascinating side-roads he opens to us at various places and restrict myself to the following topics: The evaluation of Freud's Eros and Thanatos theory, Dr. GaldPresented at a joint meeting of the Illinois Psychiatric Society with Northwestern and Downey Veterans Administration Hospitals, December, 1954. Dr. Galdston's paper was published in the American Journal of Psychoanalysis (1955), 15:123-134.

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ston's own clinical thesis, and the position within the framework of psychoanalytic theory of the formulations Dr. Galdston extracts from his clinical examples. I find Dr. Galdston's interest in and partial acceptance of Freud's theories around Eros and Thanatos very gratifying. Dr. Galdston does not join with the chorus of those who favor the wholesale condemnation of these concepts, which, from some viewpoints, have undoubted merit. I prefer not to retrace Dr. Galdston's discussion nor to take u p in detail where I agree and where I disagree, assuming that his impressive presentation is still fresh enough in your mind so that you will recognize our points of agreement and disagreement. As Dr. Galdston has pointed out, this theory has been widely criticized by psychoanalysts. His opinion that this is the theory "least acceptable to his disciples, even to those . . . least prone to question the Founder's words" is, as I see it, correct in its most important aspect. Not that divergence of opinion is rare in psychoanalysis or that differences in theory and practice are not debated, as the religious terms Disciple and Founder imply. But it is true that the attitude among analysts (Jones's, for example, or Fenichel's) toward Freud's theory concerning Eros and Thanatos contains something which at times, reminds one of Freud's own disappointment with those of his early fellow-workers who, he felt, had left the demanding field of rationality and science and had returned to an easier mysticism. Our task is, therefore, to examine the theory and evaluate its scientific nature. While Freud always shunned entanglement with philosophical speculation, he never shied away from the task of setting up temporary abstractions and generalizations, which he treated as working hypotheses and considered legitimate scientific tools. He rejected the use of sharply defined concepts that are characteristic for a speculative theory and said that psychoanalysis would have to be content with some nebulous conceptions which it hopes to apprehend more clearly with time, and

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which it is prepared to replace. T o quote (1914b): "For these ideas are not the foundation of science, upon which everything rests: that foundation is observation alone. They are not the bottom but the top of the whole structure, and they can be replaced and discarded without damaging it. The same thing is happening in our day in the science of physics, the basic notions of which as regards matter, centers of force, attraction, etc., are scarcely less debatable than the corresponding notions in psychoanalysis" (p. 77). The question, then, is whether the concepts of Eros and Thanatos are such replaceable abstractions or whether Freud in this theory transgresses the standards he had set himself. T h e answer is not simple, even if we exclude the question of the correctness of the theory or of its usefulness for psychoanalysis, psychiatry, or general biology. W h a t is legitimately arrived at as a result of scientific investigation is intimately bound u p with the methods used because it is not only the subject matter that defines the limits of a science, but also, operationally, its predominant method of research. We must therefore judge Freud's theory from two sides. As a psychological investigator he used the psychological method of introspection, either his own or as reported by his patients. As a biologist he drew predominantly on his knowledge of the results of researches obtained by methods other than introspection, particularly as it concerned the theory of evolution. As a psychologist, Freud adhered throughout his life work to theoretical concepts that one may term double-layered. Whatever he observed as a clinical fact in himself and in his patients he described with such terms as "secondary," "manifest," "actual." In addition, he assumed a readiness or tendency toward such a reaction to have been present before the clinical circumstance that brought it about. These potentialities or prior tendencies he called "primary." There are many examples of this form of conceptualization in Freud's

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work, for example, his psychodynamic description of the various forms of manifest or latent clinical homosexuality and the theoretical assumption of a basic psychological capacity toward homosexual object choice. Similarly with the concepts of primary and secondary narcissism: the clinical propensity to react to frustration by objects with increased preoccupation with the self, and, underlying this clinical fact, the theoretical stage (primary narcissism) of a libido distribution that has not yet reached out for objects. Neither primary homosexuality nor primary narcissism are clinical facts except perhaps by inference, insofar as they explain the greater or lesser ease with which untoward environmental circumstances may bring about the clinical result. Now, if this kind of psychological concept formation is permissible, there can be no objection to the concepts of "primary aggression" or "primary masochism," as extrapolated from the clinical phenomena of aggression and masochism. It bears repeating that neither primary aggression nor primary masochism nor, for that matter, the psychoanalytic concept of a drive are clinical concepts (in contrast to the term instinct, borrowed from animal behavior, which denotes an archaic form of ego function and is used in misleading translation of the German Trieb). It must also be stressed that all these concepts of the "primary" series (primary narcissism, primary masochism, and drive) must be considered psychological abstractions, valid within the framework of knowledge obtained by the method of introspection, perhaps analogous to some findings of general biology, but not general-biological concepts themselves. Freud the biologist, on the other hand, draws on knowledge that is not obtained by the psychological method of introspection. We may agree that it is legitimate to assume that inorganic matter preceded the development of organic life, and support the theory, for example, by the findings of geology. We may also accept Freud's right to take for granted

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the observable fact that higher forms of equilibrium or adaptation tend under stress to return to the simpler, chronologically preceding ones. We may grant him then the right to the biological concept of a life drive (i.e., the tendency of inorganic matter to become organic, of simple organic forms to get more complex, etc.) as well as to the concept of a death drive (i.e., a tendency of complex organizations to become simpler, of organic organizations to become inorganic). T o summarize the already overly simplified preceding statements: I consider the concepts of primary masochism and primary aggression legitimate abstractions of psychoanalytic theory, and the concepts of life drive and death drive legitimate abstractions within the field of general biology. This statement intentionally disregards the question of either the correctness or usefulness of these ideas but simply asserts that they are, in accordance with Freud's definition, no more than the superstructure of a science and can therefore "be replaced and discarded without damaging it" (i.e., the science). Freud's conceptual framework becomes muddled however —a "brain mythology" in reverse—when he introduces the concept of a death drive into the field of psychology and attempts to link it with the psychological abstractions of primary aggression and primary masochism. By borrowing the biological concepts of Eros and Thanatos and using them as the foundation for a new psychological drive-theory, Freud transgresses the limits he h a d formerly so well defined and leaves himself open to his own criticism of having created a smooth but speculative theory. I cannot here follow the further details of Freud's theory, although one ingenious attempt to cover u p the essential inconsistency is worthy of note. I am thinking of his introduction of the principle of repetition compulsion, which, in fact, can be demonstrated in the psychological as well as in the general-biological context and

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which overlaps the biological concepts of a return to the inorganic as well as the psychological concept of primary masochism. As Dr. Galdston confessed, it is intriguing to ponder over Freud's failure at that particular time. I would be inclined to seek the reason less in the personal experience of his aging, or in the possible dim recognition of his future malignancy, but rather in a competitive aspect of Freud's relationship to his friend and pupil Ferenczi. Freud h a d recently read Ferenczi's manuscript of Thalassa (1924), a study that had also transgressed the boundaries between sciences—and with startling results. While he admired Ferenczi's flight of fancy and the richness of his imagination, he did not accept Ferenczi's conclusions. Yet, soon afterward, Freud himself followed a similar p a t h . In so doing he reapproached, in scientific disguise, Goethe's preromantic philosophy that had so impressed him in younger years. Let me remind you here only of Goethe's adoption of Spinoza's famous maxim Deus Stve Natura (God and nature are one) or the concept of man as the sensorium commune (sensory organ) of nature; or of Goethe's celebrated poem "Ultimate Yearning," which begins, "Let the sages only hear it And the vulgar jeer in vainl I extol the living spirit T h a t for fiery death is fain." T h e poem continues by describing the relatedness of sexual union and the wish for death, and ends approximately as follows, "And whilst this thou has not with thee,/This: 'Die to win thy beingl'/Art thou but a sullen guest/Upon earth unseeing." In other words, only through acceptance of death does one truly live. T h e second part of my discussion can be very brief. Dr. Galdston's clinical thesis, i.e., the clinical description of the narcissistic type, the variations depending on whether it is manifested in man or in woman, and finally, the vicissitudes of these types through the development from adolescence through maturity, are beautiful, concise, and true to life. I regard the characterological survey he has given as reaching

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the most fruitful level of generalization and the broad range of his characterological implications about the attitude toward the self, toward progeny, and toward life and death as a legitimate and correct appraisal of an important clinical phenomenon. T h e clinical presentation strikes me, however, as on more secure ground than its theoretical context, and this in two related areas. The one is that it is seen in a connection with and as an extension of Freud's Eros and Thanatos theory; the other is the tendency to relate a complex clinical psychological phenomenon, i.e., the narcissistic types, to such wide concepts on the borderline between psychology and general biology as those of life and death and "procreation." Both, I think, detract from the initially stated purpose that the thesis concerning fear of death is advanced as a postulate in psychodynamics, a purpose Dr. Galdston so admirably fulfilled in the clinical part of his presentation. Only briefly to the first point: It would appear to me that the clinical syndrome in question belongs, if one wants to apply psychoanalytic concepts, in the framework of the personality development from narcissism to object love. This development is never complete and irrevocable, and under the stress of severe setbacks in our relation to objects, regression may take place. Such a theoretical context is quite consistent with Dr. Galdston's clinical observation that persons with fully matured object love fear death less, the narcissistic ones more. It is an extension and inversion of Freud's illustrative observation that it is impossible to be in love when one has a toothache. In other words, he who is totally committed to others does not fear his own death. But while I agree both with the scientific validity of the connection between heightened narcissism and increased fear of death and with the correctness of the opposite statement, I believe that speculations concerning the biological facts of living, dying, and progeny, as well as the setting up of far-

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reaching analogies between h u m a n psychology and animal behavior, belong more to a specific philosophical outlook on the true values of life—values that are more personal and time-bound than Dr. Galdston appears to claim. Not that I necessarily disagree with his value system —but then I am a child of rather the same era and brought up perhaps with similar prejudices. Values do change and people have defied death and fear of death for a variety of motives other than the one extrapolated from the analogy with the biological sequence of dying while the next generation lives on. Think, for instance, of death "pour la patrie" (a mother figure), or if this example is not unambiguous enough, think of fearless death for an ascetic ideal, e.g., the early Christian martyrs. What these examples have in common —and Dr. Galdston supplied additional ones —is the intense investment of an object in the widest psychological sense, be it one's children or an intensely held belief. 1

My disagreement with Dr. Galdston's thesis is, however, more theoretical than would appear on first sight. I will grant him that the value system he propounds is a deeply ingrained one, and also that it is present in many cases where the superficial awareness denies that such goals of self-fulfillment through the upbringing of the future generation are present. T h e clinical facts of neurotic fear of aging and dying may well in many cases (though not in all) be directly related to the inner awareness of not having fulfilled such an internal d e m a n d . My critique here is based on the opinion that superego contents, goals and ideals, are not a direct expression of a biological inheritance, nor even of psychological "drives," but acquired indirectly through the influence of a 8

1

[Compare this statement with the subsequent conceptualization of "Tragic Man" (Kohut, 1977).] [The idea of the fulfillment of such an internal demand attains a central position in the psychology of the self in the concept of the nuclear self (Kohut, 1977).] 8

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biological as well as of a psychological environment and that the latter depends on the conscious and unconscious expectations from the parents and their later successors, including the mores of the era in which one lives.

8

The Haunting Melody: Psychoanalytic Experiences in Life and Music (1953) by Theodor Reik BOOK REVIEW

Reik defines the problem he proposes to treat as follows (p. vii): "What does it mean when some tune . . . occurs . . . again and again, so that it becomes a haunting melody?" Ferenczi answered a related question in more specific form: "I wonder whether there are tone associations that are not determined by verbal contents. . . . A rhythm that corresponds to an affective state is probably sufficient to produce the associative emergence of a tune without text" (1909, my translation). Freud, quoted by Reik, also touches on the problem: "The tunes which suddenly come into a man's head can be shown to be conditioned by some train of thought to which they belong,. . . without his knowing anything about i t . . . . The connection with the tune is to be sought either in the words which belong to it or in the source from which it comes: I must, however, make this reservation, that I do not maintain this in the case of really musical people of whom I happen to have h a d no experience; in them the musical value First published in The Psychoanalytic

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Quarterly (1955), 24:134-137.

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of the tune may account for its suddenly emerging into consciousness" (1916-1917). Freud here implies three separate problems in the question of the haunting melody: (1) its emergence from the unconscious, (2) the extramusical context that lends it its obsessional significance, and (3) the question whether an intrinsically musical factor, alone or combined with extramusical factors, can account for the sudden emergence of a tune. Reik's interest embraces all three components of the problem; his major contribution, however, lies in his rich anecdotal exemplification of the first two points. "Every analyst can contribute numerous instances that prove the unconscious motivation of the haunting melody" (p. 246); yet certainly nowhere else is an example as exhaustively reported as the piece of self-analysis concerning the tune that recurred to Reik after he had received news of Karl Abraham's death. The tune, from Mahler's Second Symphony, arose unmistakably out of unconscious ambivalence to the father imago. The context, however, was extramusical; it was determined by Reik's knowledge that the composer, too, had been in conflict over his ambivalence toward a father figure during the time of composition of the tune. T h e question of the emergence of tunes from predominantly musical contexts remains, however, the most difficult one. Freud, without affirming it positively, granted such a possibility in "really musical people." Ferenczi supposed from self-observation that there was a connection between the rhythm of the emerging tune and his mood of the moment. Hardly any of Reik's examples are unequivocal in this respect. T h e fact that a tune emerges before a verbal or other extramusical context reaches consciousness proves only the presence of isolation, a mechanism that is clearly not restricted to musical obsessions. A claim to have discovered the origin of the musical impulsion seems vaguely implied in such

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statements as, "Human speech denotes the material reality, music is the language of psychic reality" (p. 8); or "The tune expresses . . . the immediate quality of experience. It is an emotional expression much more adequate than words" (p. 249); or "When I am singing a melody that haunts me, I am expressing emotions. It has the same meaning as when I am laughing, crying, sighing or sobbing" (p. 250). Such descriptions are, however, only a little more definite than Mahler's declaration (quoted by Reik) that his need for musical expression "starts only where the dark emotions begin, at the Other world,' the world in which things are not any more separated by time and place." Similar statements about music have been made frequently; they appear to be motivated not by the recognition of its extraverbal nature but by the wish to exalt its primitive, infantile, narcissistic (objectless), and preverbal nature. Reik, however, gives a more precise example of one kind of relationship between the musical and extramusical contexts of an emerging song (p. 21). As he listens to a woman's complaint about her husband's impotence, the ditty Three Blind Mice occurs to him, words and tune, anticipating perfectly his later judgment regarding her character. Reik's thought concerning her unconsciously "castrating" attitude as expressed by the verse ("She cut off their tails with a carving knife . . .") is covered up by the internal humming of the gay and playful tune which corresponds to his perception of her cheerful external attitude. This example seems to corroborate Ferenczi's conclusion that it is a rhythm corresponding to an affective state that determines the associative emergence of a tune. The rhythm of the ditty becomes especially cheerful where the words are most threateningly close to the unconscious meaning, which is exactly what Reik's verbal formulation about the defensive significance of the woman's external cheerfulness would be. Reik's book discusses a variety of other topics only loosely

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connected with the main theme. Among them are Freud's defensive attitude toward the emotional lure of music; a study of the Austrian dramatist Grillparzer who through piano playing—for him a mourning equivalent—cured a work inhibition after his mother's death; and a letter by Freud, describing briefly his single therapeutic session with Gustav Mahler during the last year of the composer's life. The easy flow of the author's style is a pleasure throughout. T h e absence, however, of a clear order of presentation, the lack of summarizing chapters and an index, and the tendency to indulge in lengthy descriptions of self-analysis make the reader's task unnecessarily difficult.

9 Beethoven and His Nephew: A Psychoanalytic Study of Their Relationship (1954) by Editha and Richard Sterba BOOK REVIEW

1

T h e Sterbas' pathography is written so expertly that the reader is likely to be unaware of the enormous labor expended in collecting and correlating the documentary evidence for their thesis. T h e study omits, as must all psychological pathographies of great men, an examination of the essential attribute of a genius, his greatness. An investigation of greatness, however, would have to include the response of the masses to the artist's creations, to which the psychoanalyst can contribute nothing more than the evidence that artistic expression of a universal conflict has universal appeal. T h e central purpose of the work is the psychoanalytic elucidation of Beethoven's personality, particularly as it is revealed in his smothering love for his nephew Karl. "Ludwig's relationship to Karl resembles that of a certain type of mother, who idolizes her son . . . so long as she feels sure of First published in The Psychoanalytic Quarterly (1955), 24:453-455. [Kohut subsequently differentiated this kind of study from a "pathography" and suggested calling it a "biography supported by psychoanalysis" or a "biography in depth" (see p. 300 below).] 1

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possessing him. When her son displays independence, this type of mother . . . is bitter in her r e p r o a c h e s . . . . Such a mother believes that . . . she fully compensates her son for his obligation to belong to her entirely." Beethoven's identification with his mother and his latent homosexuality, as well as his possessiveness and his inability to share or to compromise, are also clearly shown in the attacks of boundless jealousy aroused in him by his brothers' attachments to women and by their marriages. T h e description of the composer's narcissistic personality (which lay between delinquency, paranoia, and impulse neurosis) is supported by an abundance of facts, and, except for the well-substantiated demonstration of Beethoven's identification with his mother, the authors wisely indulge in little speculation about the genesis of his character. Their unqualified conviction that Beethoven died as the result of his psychological conflicts—post hoc, ergo propter hoc—is not, however, equally cautious. Yet, the most fundamental error of many* other psychoanalytic pathographies is largely avoided: the authors do not attribute Beethoven's genius to his psychopathological traits. Beethoven's periods of creativity coincided with increases in his unfulfilled homosexual and maternal strivings; this correlation accounts for an impulsion toward creative work, but is not a condition specific for artistic (or musical) creation. It is curious that pathographers never investigate the disturbing influence of genius (whatever its origin) upon character. In Beethoven's case this influence must have been considerable and may well have been clinically decisive. T h e adoration bestowed upon him by the highest nobility, the mystifying experience of his creativeness springing from unconscious roots and achieved with the aid of unconscious or preconscious processes, the awareness of a specific superiority and unique originality not fully within the comprehension of his contemporaries — all these circumstances do not account

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for the immaturity of his character (impatient, uncompromising, furious when frustrated), but they certainly created a climate unfavorable for the curbing of such a disposition. One of the few blemishes of the volume is the authors' inclination to overstate their case by defensive repetition and exaggeration of their assertions. They rightly complain that many earlier biographers have taken Beethoven's side against the nephew and his mother; but the Sterbas tend to fall into the opposite error by becoming Beethoven's accusers instead of remaining objective. One may also take exception to the uneven manner in which they present some of their sources. The work of those biographers of Beethoven whose idealization contrasts most unfavorably with the authors' realistic outlook is presented at length in the text; Ernest Newman's outspoken objections to the hero worship of the biographers, however, are relegated to the appended notes. This study not only describes with convincing accuracy the pathological features of the personality of one of the greatest creative minds of Western civilization, but in so doing rescues Beethoven from the shadowy idealization of many of his biographers and brings him to life. Despite its small defects, the volume is a restrained and fruitful application of psychoanalysis to biography. It should be studied by every psychoanalyst.

10 "Modern Casework: The Contribution of Ego Psychology" by Annette Garrett DISCUSSION

It gives me great pleasure to be permitted to discuss Miss Garrett's splendid essay. It deals with a theoretical topic, yet is characterized by a devotion to the field of social work which is exemplary because it combines genuine feeling with rational restraint. As I have nothing to criticize and much to admire (and because I know that a discussant's repeated expressions of agreement with a presentation tend to become burdensome), I shall not attempt to take up the details of Miss Garrett's paper, but will give you a few personal thoughts on and around some of the topics which Miss Garrett discussed. I shall begin with some remarks about the relationship between psychoanalysis and casework. T h e term relationship implies the existence of attitudes and activities between separate individuals or distinct groups. It is true that the activities of both caseworker and psychoanalytic psychiatrist can be described as lying within the larger field of applied Presented in 1956 at the Annual Fund Raising Lecture for Smith College School of Social Work, organized by Chicago Chapter of Alumni of Smith College School of Social Work.

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psychology; their professional individuality, however, is clearly defined by their different basic operations. Our fields are different because our basic working methods are not the same, which, in turn, leads to the result that we to some extent acquire a different fund of knowledge and experience. Why, then, is the relationship between our two fields frequently not the ideal one of acknowledged distinctness and mutual learning? Why do the borders of our separate areas of activity so often become blurred—to the detriment of both professions? I will suggest to you two reasons for this, at times unwholesome, lack of differentiation. First, it must be admitted that our fields do in effect form a continuum, with a large and important intermediate area in which our activities overlap. This fact, however, must not lead us to the illogical conclusion, already exploited by the sophists of antiquity, that various areas within a continuum are one and the same. Let me clarify these assertions by the use of an example. Childhood and maturity form a developmental continuum, and sometimes it is fruitful to discover the remnants of childhood in the adult or to consider the potential adult in the child. T h e end-points of the developmental continuum are, however, manifestly different and, for example, psychotherapy with children and psychotherapy with adults lends itself to a specialization which, despite some drawbacks, has also natural advantages and, at any rate, seems to be unavoidable because human learning capacity is limited. If we apply these considerations to the field of social work and psychoanalytic psychiatry, it becomes evident that the workers in the two fields develop decisive differences of competence and of their principal interest despite the existence of an intermediate area in which our activities are alike. When a psychoneurotic patient's ego is overwhelmed by an internal structural conflict, the skill, knowledge, and experience of the psychoanalytic psychiatrist should be employed. When, however, the client's ego is predominantly

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threatened by the excessive demands of social reality, then it will be the skill, knowledge, and experience of the social worker that will most competently support, counsel, and guide him to a new, a renewed, or more reliable balance with the environment. I now want to suggest the existence of a second cause for the trend to obscure the limits between our fields. It is a nonrational one, and I know that its discussion requires both objectivity and tact. Many social workers are in, have been in, or are considering entering psychoanalytic therapy. This is natural enough as an expression of the fact that social workers are an informed group who avail themselves of the personal and professional advantages that can be obtained through psychoanalysis. We are all aware of the implications of transference, the revival of the admiration for and feeling of inferiority to the adults who constituted our childhood surrounding. To resolve the transference is a psychological task of great magnitude, not only for the analysand but also for the analyst. It was one of Freud's greatest emotional feats to recognize that he was not as great as his patients believed him to be and thus to discover in their attitudes to him the ambivalent love from childhood. I believe that the persistence of such transference remnants, of irrational admiration in the analysand and irrational feelings of greatness and allknowingness in the analyst, contribute to the fact that — instead of rational equality and mutual exchange of experiences—the psychiatrist tends to remain the eternal teacher, consultant, and advisor, and the social worker his eternally willing pupil. Such a relationship is legitimate where a patient's structural conflicts are concerned; it becomes irrational in the area of the client's reaction to the environmental stress where, by all rights, the social worker should be expected to teach the psychiatrist. Instead, however, we often see the social worker and the psychiatric consultant cooperate in twisting an understanding of stress reactions and of

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problems of adaptation into the framework of the psychology of neurosis. I shall now briefly discuss another aspect of the relationship between psychoanalytic psychiatry and social work: the problem whether theoretical concepts are useful only in the field from which they have arisen (in our case: psychoanalysis) or whether —and to what extent —they are capable of being, so to say, exported into another field (in our case to social work). These are questions which, despite their great complexity, I can treat only briefly here. The psychological theories psychoanalysis has evolved consist of abstractions and generalizations from clinical observation. T h e clinical observation, in turn, depends in psychoanalysis on the report of introspection by the analysand to the analyst. T h e psychoanalytic theorist abstracts and generalizes from a series of such reports of introspection. Introspection, for example, reveals the presence of wishes. When we observe a wish in ourselves, we recognize not only a content, aim, or goal, not only an object that is destined to fulfill the wish, but also a driving power of a certain intensity. T h e latter we call, in our theoretical generalization, a drive, i.e., the general aspects of the experience of being driven toward something. I cannot here pursue the fascinating task of examining in historical and logical sequence how the concept of a structured psyche, the subdivision of the psyche into ego and id, evolved from the discovery of the drives. I must restrict myself to emphasizing that the basic operation of psychoanalysis, the report of introspection we call free association, influences decisively the kind of theory that psychoanalysis has evolved. Now, I do not believe that introspection as it is used in psychoanalysis can have a place of similar importance in casework, and I would therefore conclude that theoretical shipments from psychoanalysis to social work (and vice versa, of course) should carry the inscription "Handle With Care." Casework will more likely have as its basic operation the observation and description, by client and worker, of the client's relationship to the

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social matrix, to the milieu or the setting. This does not imply superficiality of approach nor does it suggest a neglect of the personality of the client. The more refined and the deeper the worker's knowledge of the client's personality, the better will be the understanding that can be reached of the client's interactions with his environment. The primary focus, however, is not as it is in the psychoanalysis of neurosis, the observation of drive derivatives, the recognition of the persistence of wishes from childhood, but the interactions of the client's whole personality with the environment. These considerations do not indicate that knowledge of psychoanalytic theory is unimportant for a scientific approach to social work; they suggest, however, that the fruitful emphasis of psychoanalytic theory will be on certain aspects of the total structure, particularly on certain aspects of psychoanalytic ego psychology. I return to my introductory comments concerning Miss Garrett's paper because they may seem in contradiction to some of the opinions I expressed later on. Miss Garrett's presentation was truly the work of an expert. Only an expert can condense a complex field and present it simply without losing the grasp of what is essential in it. I did not intend to militate against the acquisition of knowledge that transcends the narrow limits of specialization; and for an expert in social work to have an understanding of psychoanalytic egopsychology which may well surpass the theoretical understanding of many practicing analysts is an achievement that must be welcomed as potentially fruitful for both of our fields. It is, however, erroneous to assume that psychoanalytic theory is the theory of social work or that the practice of social work is an attenuated form of psychoanalysis. Yet, of all the areas of psychoanalytic theory, it is the many aspects of ego psychology that should prove to be the most rewarding field of study for the scientific social worker outside the stricter limits of social work itself. Two themes, in particular, are of paramount importance for the social

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worker, and I should like to end my discussion by recommending them to your special attention, not only because you can here learn something useful from the psychoanalytic psychiatrist, but also because the special field of observation open to the social worker may enable you to make important contributions to our combined knowledge in theory and practice . I am thinking of the twofold aspects of the interaction of social milieu and ego structure. Those of you who work with children or with parents, or (in a teamwork enterprise) with children and parents simultaneously, have a chance to contribute to our knowledge concerning those factors in the social milieu of childhood that further the development of ego function or lead to its stunting. What are the influences of the social milieu—of poverty and wealth, of permanency of home or change in domicile, of the type of reward and punishment, of various kinds of love and rejection —upon ego functions; i.e., on the ego's capacity to observe, think, plan, and act; on the ego's capacity for work and for all activities and attitudes called upon in the rearing of the next generation? On the other end-point of development, the social worker can observe the interaction of the mature and largely autonomous ego functions and the tasks that confront them. Which tasks prove too much? For whom? And under what circumstances? And which attitudes in the helping fellowbeing are the most conducive to reintegration? How does one aid people in their efforts to absorb the frustrations of the past and to prepare for the future? All this observational material is at the social worker's disposal and can be a source of a great wealth of important contributions. Information about ego psychology will stand the social worker in good stead by serving as a basic orientation and ordering principle. The knowledge of ego psychology is thus primarily an instrument of observation; it is not a goal in itself.

11 "The Role of the Counterphobic Mechanism in Addiction" by Thomas S. Szasz DISCUSSION

Dr. Szasz presents an interesting thesis. He suggests that the addict's attraction to the drug is counterphobic, i.e., that he was at some time in the past haunted by a conscious but neurotically irrational fear of the substance he is now addicted to. He cannot overcome the original fear, and so he continuously covers it up, to himself and to the judging social surrounding, by proving not only that he is not afraid of it but that, on the contrary, he loves it. Little Hans has become a jockey. T h e thesis is straightaway appealing when we think of how many adolescents flaunt and brag about their smoking and drinking. This is motivated by a denied yet persisting fear of activities that are a prerogative of the adult, such as smoking and drinking are in our culture. Yet we also know that these adolescent smokers and drinkers are not addicts. The emphasis of their activity lies on the claim to adultness; there is no craving for the drink or for the cigarette. It is only Dr. Szasz's paper was presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Psychiatric Association, Chicago, 1956, and was subsequently enlarged and published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1958), 6:309-325.

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later, when our doubts concerning acceptance in the adult circle have subsided, that we develop the usual longing for cigarette or drink. In order to avoid semantic or taxonomic difficulties with the thesis under consideration, I would like to mention two points. First, that addiction may be the symptom of a variety of forms of psychopathology; and second, that phobia, too, is a symptom that occurs outside the specific pathological entity Freud called "anxiety hysteria." Addiction, then, in a wider popular sense, may be a manifestation of various forms of psychological equilibrium, ranging from normal adjustment through neurosis to psychosis. T h e malignant forms of addiction, however, are usually part of a personality disorder that is related not to the neurotic phobias, i.e., to the anxietyhysteria of psychoanalytic psychopathology, but rather to the animistic fears that underlie the borderland of compulsion neurosis, paranoia, and depression. Glover speaks of this second group, i.e., of the addictions in sensu stricto, when he maintains (1939) that the subject's sadism is projected on the drug. Taking the drug represents control of the dangerous substance — "the evil spirit can best be restrained by taking it into the body." And in his classical paper "On the Etiology of Drug Addiction" (1932a) he compares the defensive meaning of addiction and fetishism. Addiction, he says, is a defense against early fears of food, experienced as a fear of being poisoned; fetishism a defense against the small child's archaic dread of clothing, often experienced as fear of contamination. The object of both fears is the frustrating mother from whom the angry child's hatred seems to emanate. Fenichel (1939), on the other hand, described the counterphobic mechanism as a specific secondary ego defense against the ego restriction of phobic avoidance, and Dr. Szasz does not, of course, intend to enlarge Fenichel's concept to a point where it would embrace all attempts at psychological control, mastery, and defense.

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As I see it then, the problem Dr. Szasz's thesis poses is essentially a clinical one: are there addictions of a phobic structure, i.e., addictions that are a defense, not against paranoid, depressive, or compulsive constellations, but against hysterical anxieties? My own analytic experience with addiction — also restricted to one case, analyzed, however, for many years —does not lend itself to support Dr. Szasz's finding. But while one thoroughly investigated case may be taken as at least tentative evidence for a thesis, the opposite obviously does not hold true. T h e only disagreement I have with Dr. Szasz's paper is a minor one. I believe that he misinterprets the psychoanalytic literature when he states that "from a metapsychological viewpoint greatest attention has been centered on the instinctual gratifications provided by the addiction." I can find no evidence of a neglect of the defensive functions, for example, in either Fenichel's theory of the impulse neuroses or of Glover's theory of the transitional disorders to which the addictions belong. T h e misunderstanding, I believe, stems from the fact that the two authors mentioned strove toward the metapsychological elucidation of the personality that tends to be addicted. They both seem to have come to the conclusion that the terminal stage of the severe disorder wai characterized by a breakdown of the defensive maneuvers and consisted in regressive pleasure seeking. Apart from this minor objection, however, we must thank Dr. Szasz for a well-circumscribed thesis concerning the clinical and theoretical aspects of addiction. We cannot reward him better for his effort than by looking at our cases with his thought in mind in order to check his conclusions.

12 Introspection, Empathy, Psychoanalysis

and

An Examination of the Relationship Between Mode of Observation and Theory

Man and animals investigate their surroundings with the aid of the sensory organs; they listen, smell, watch, and touch; they form cohesive impressions of their surroundings, remember these impressions, compare them, and develop expectations on the basis of past impressions. Man's investigations become ever more consistent and systematic, the scope of the sensory organs is increased through instrumentation (telescope, microscope), the observed facts are integrated into larger units (theories) with the aid of conceptual thought bridges (which, themselves, cannot be observed); and, thus, gradually, by imperceptible steps, evolves the scientific investigation of the external world. T h e inner world cannot be observed with the aid of our sensory organs. Our thoughts, wishes, feelings, and fantasies cannot be seen, smelled, heard, or touched. They have no existence in physical space, and yet they are real, and we can First presented in Chicago at the Twenth-Fifth Anniversary Meeting of the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis in November, 1957. Published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1959), 7:459-483. A brief version was presented in Paris at the meeting of the International Psycho-Analytic Association in July, 1957.

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observe them as they occur in time: through introspection in ourselves, and through empathy (i.e., vicarious introspection) in others. But is the preceding differentiation correct? Do thoughts, wishes, feelings, and fantasies really have no physical existence? Are there not underlying processes that could, on the one hand, be recorded by highly refined physical means and still, on the other hand, be experienced as thoughts, feelings, fantasies, or wishes? T h e problem is an old and familiar one, and it cannot be solved as long as it is posed in the form of the alternative of mind-body duality or unity. T h e only fruitful definition is operational. We speak of physical phenomena when the essential ingredient of our observational methods includes our senses, we speak of psychological phenomena when the essential ingredient of our observation is introspection and empathy. T h e preceding definitions must not, of course, be understood in the narrow sense of an actual operation that is taking place at any given time, but in the widest sense of the total attitude of the observer toward the phenomena under investigation. As yet unseen planets influence the course of planets under direct observation, and astronomers can thus ponder the course, the size, the magnitude (i.e., the brightness) of heavenly bodies that have not yet appeared in their telescopes; and they continue to think of the physical properties of comets that will not return to the field of observation for many years. Similar considerations also apply in the psychological field. In psychoanalysis, for example, we consider the Preconscious and the Unconscious as psychological structures not only because we approach them with introspective intention, and not only because we can eventually reach them through introspection, but also because we consider them within a framework of introspected or potentially introspected experience. As our observational data become organized and our

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observations become scientifically systematic, we begin to deal with a variety of concepts that are at a greater distance from the observed facts. Some of these concepts constitute abstractions or generalizations and are thus still more or less directly related to the observable phenomena. T h e zoological concept "mammal" is, for example, derived from the concrete observation of a variety of different individual animals; a m a m m a l per se, however, cannot be observed. Similarly in psychology. T h e drive concept in psychoanalysis is thus, for example, as will be demonstrated later, derived from innumerable introspected experiences; a drive per se, however, cannot be observed. Other concepts, such as the concept of acceleration in the physical sciences or the concept of repression in psychoanalysis, do not directly refer to the observed phenomena. Such concepts clearly belong, however, in the total framework of their respective sciences because they designate relationships between the observed data. We observe physical bodies in space, note their physical positions along a time axis, and arrive thus at the concept of acceleration. We observe thoughts and fantasies introspectively, observe the conditions of their disappearance and emergence, and arrive thus at the concept of repression. But is it always true that introspection and empathy are essential constituents of every psychological observation? Are there not psychological facts that we can ascertain by nonintrospective observation of the external world? Let us consider a simple example. We see a person who is unusually tall. It is not to be disputed that this person's unusual size is an important fact for our psychological assessment — without introspection and empathy, however, his size remains simply a physical attribute. Only when we think ourselves into his place, only when we, by vicarious introspection, begin to feel his unusual size as if it were our own and thus revive inner experiences in which we h a d been unusual or conspicuous, only then do we begin to appreciate the meaning that the

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unusual size may have for this person and only then have we observed a psychological fact. Similar considerations also apply with regard to the psychological concept of action. If we observe only the physical aspects without introspection and empathy, we observe, not the psychological fact of an action, but only the physical fact of movements. We can measure the upward deviation of the skin above the eye to the minutest fraction of an inch, yet it is only through introspection and empathy that we understand the shades of meaning of astonishment and disapproval that are contained in the raising of the eyebrow. But could not an action be understood without recourse to empathy, simply by a consideration of its visible course and its visible results? Again the answer is negative. The mere fact that we see a pattern of movements leading to a specific end does not, by itself, define a psychological act. T h e event that a loose stone's fall from a roof kills a m a n is not an action in the psychological sense because of the absence of an intent or motive that we can empathize with. And, notwithstanding our recognition that there are unconscious determinants to many accidental happenings, we correctly distinguish between accidental consequences of our activities and purposeful actions. A man drops a stone, the stone falls and kills another m a n . If there is conscious or unconscious intent with which we can empathize, we speak of a psychological act; if no such intent is present, we think of a cause-and-effect chain of physical events. If, on the other hand, it should become possible to describe in terms of physics and biochemistry how the sound waves of certain words uttered by A mobilized certain electrochemical patterns in the brain of B, this description would still not contain the psychological fact that is given by the statement that Β was made angry by A. Only a phenomenon that we can attempt to observe by introspection or by empathy with another's introspection may be called psychological. A phenomenon is "somatic," "behavioristic," or "social" if our

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methods of observation do not predominantly include introspection and empathy. We may thus repeat the earlier definition in the form of an explicit statement: we designate phenomena as mental, psychic, or psychological if our mode of observation includes introspection and empathy as an essential constituent. The term "essential" in this context expresses the fact that introspection or empathy can never be absent from psychological observation, and that it may be present alone. Earlier considerations demonstrated the first half of the preceding statement. In order to demonstrate the second half (that introspection and empathy may be present alone in the observation of psychological material) we may turn to psychoanalysis. Here we must first consider the objection which may be raised by some that the major tool of psychoanalytic observation is not introspection but the scrutiny by the analyst of a certain kind of behavior of the patient: free association. A great body of clinical facts has, however, been discovered through selfanalysis, and a system of theoretical abstractions was developed from these facts, for example, in Freud's "The Interpretation of Dreams." In the usual analytic situation, too, it is the introspective self-observation of the analysand to which the analyst is a witness. It is true that the psychological insights of the analyst are frequently ahead of the analysand's comprehension of himself. These psychological insights are, however, the result of the trained introspective skill which the analyst used in the extension of introspection (vicarious introspection) that is called empathy. These considerations do not, of course, imply that introspection and empathy are the only ingredients of psychoanalytic observation. In psychoanalysis as in all other psychological observation, introspection and empathy, the essential constituents of observation, are often linked and amalgamated with other methods of observation. The final and decisive observational act, however, is introspective or

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empathic. And we can, in addition, demonstrate that, in the case of self-analysis, introspection is present alone. It may be fruitful at this point to examine the use of empathy outside of scientific psychology. In everyday life our attitudes are not scientifically systematic, and we are prone to regard phenomena as more or less psychological or mental, depending on our greater or lesser capability of empathizing with the object of our observation. Our psychological understanding is most easily achieved when we observe people of our own cultural background. Their movements, verbal behavior, desires, and sensitivities are similar to our own, and we are enabled to empathize with them on the basis of clues that may seem insignificant to people from a different background. Yet even when we observe people from a different culture whose experience is unlike our own, we usually trust that we will be able to understand them psychologically through the discovery of some common experiences with which we can empathize. Similarly with animals: when a dog greets his master after a separation, we know that there is a common denominator between our experiences and what the dog experiences at the end of a separation from a beloved "you," and we can begin to think in psychological terms even if we should be inclined to stress that the differences between h u m a n and animal experience must be great. Hardly anyone, however, would talk about a plant psychology. T r u e , some enthusiastic observer of flowers may conceivably see in the turning of plants toward the sun and toward warmth something with which he can empathize, an inner striving, yearning, or wish—-but this will be more in the sense of allegory or poetry because we cannot concede to plants (as we do, for example, to some animals) the capacity of rudimentary self-awareness. There are, however, still further gradations. We observe water running down a hill, seeking the shortest route, avoiding obstacles, and even describe these facts in anthropomorphic terms (running, seeking, avoiding);

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yet we do not speak of a psychology of inanimate bodies— much less of a psychology of plants. Introspection and empathy thus play a role in all psychological understanding; Breuer and Freud, however, were par excellence pioneers in the scientific use of introspection and empathy. T h e emphasis on the specific refinements of introspection (i.e., free association and analysis of resistances), the epoch-making discovery of a hitherto unknown kind of inner experience that emerges only with the aid of these specific techniques of introspection (i.e., the discovery of the unconscious), and the scope of new understanding of normal and abnormal psychological phenomena have tended to obscure the fact that the first step was the introduction of the consistent use of introspection and empathy as the observational tool of a new science. Free association and resistance analysis, the principle techniques of psychoanalysis, have freed introspective observation from previously unrecognized distortions (rationalizations). There is thus no question that the introduction of free association and resistance analysis (with the resulting acknowledgment of the distorting influences of an active unconscious) specifically determines the value of psychoanalytic observation. T h e recognition of this value does not, however, contradict the recognition that free association and resistance analysis are to be considered as auxiliary instruments, employed in the service of the introspective and empathic method of observation. 1

With the conclusion of these introductory observations we are now ready to turn to the main body of the present study. T h e following examination is not primarily concerned with the manifold psychological experiences of analysand and analyst, nor is its goal the elucidation of introspection and empathy from the dynamic and genetic points of view. We will take for granted, from here on, that introspection and 1

Freud (1915c, p. 169) expressed comparable thoughts.

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empathy are the essential constituents of psychoanalytic factfinding, and we will attempt to demonstrate how this observational method defines the contents and the limits of the observed field. Because the contents and limits of the field in turn determine the theories of an empirical science, it will also be our task in this study to demonstrate the connection between introspection and psychoanalytic theory, particularly in those areas where a disregard of this connection has led to inaccuracies, omissions, or errors. Resistances against

Introspection

Resistances against free association are properly discussed as a consequence of the defense function of the mind. T h e patient opposes free association for fear of the unconscious contents and of their derivatives, and the process of analysis is resisted because it takes on the meaning of forbidden masturbation fantasies, aggressions, and the like. There seems to be, however, a more general resistance against the psychoanalytic method which expresses itself in highly rationalized ways: a resistance against introspection. Perhaps we have neglected to examine the scientific use of introspection (and empathy), have failed to experiment with it or to refine it, because of our reluctance to acknowledge it wholeheartedly as our mode of observation. It seems that we are ashamed of it and do not want to mention it directly; and yet—with all its shortcomings—it has opened the way to great discoveries. Leaving aside the socioculturally determined causes of our hesitation concerning introspection (exemplified in such catchwords as mystical, yoga, Oriental, non-Western), it still remains for us to identify the underlying reason for the prejudice against acknowledging the observational method that has given us such results. Perhaps the dread that causes the defensive neglect of the fact that introspection is such an important factor in psychoanalytic fact-finding is the fear of helplessness

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through tension increase. We are used to a continuous draining of tension through action, and are willing to accept thought only as an intermediary to activity, as a delayed action or trial action or planning. Introspection seems to oppose the direction of the current by which we achieve tension relief and may thus add the general dread of passivity and tension increase to the more specific fears that are created when the uncovering of repressed content is in the offing. It is true that free association in psychoanalysis does not correspond in this sense to our usual thinking processes. Generally speaking, thinking is "an experimental kind of acting, accompanied by displacement of relatively small quantities of cathexis" (Freud, 1911a, p . 221). Psychoanalytic therapy in toto may be said to prepare for (freedom of) action; free association itself, however, is not preparatory for action but for structural rearrangements via increased tension tolerance. Apprehensions about the length of analysis and the frequency of sessions are often voiced by patients in the early phases of therapy, justified by the sacrifice of time and money that the treatment demands. One gains the impression, however, that at least in some instances these complaints cover the deeper dread of inactivity in the face of increasing tension; a fear, in other words, of the prolonged reversal of the flow of energy through introspection. And it is perhaps a similar discomfort on the part of analysts that has prevented us, in our experiments with the analytic method, from investigating the results of extended periods of introspection, for example, the effectiveness of lengthened analytic hours. Introspection can, of course, also constitute an escape from reality. In its most pathological forms, as in some autistic daydreams of schizophrenics, introspection succumbs to the pleasure principle and becomes a passive acceptance of fantasies. More under the control of the introspecting part of the ego, yet still under the sway of the pleasure principle, are

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the rationalized forms of introspection of mystical cults and pseudo-scientific mystical psychology. T h e fact that introspection can be abused, however, must not deceive us about its value as a scientific instrument. After all, the pursuit of the nonintrospective physical sciences may become equally involved in the service of an unmodified pleasure principle if a scientist uses scientific activity for pathological purposes. Introspection in psychoanalysis is not a passive escape from reality but, at its best, is active, searching, and enterprising. It is animated as much by the desire to deepen and to expand the field of our knowledge as the best of the physical sciences. Early Mental

Organizations

We are confronted, however, not only by irrational resistances opposing introspection but also by realistic limitations. We hear, for example, the critical statement that some author's descriptions or theories are anthropomorphic, adultomorphic, and the like. Stated in the language of the present considerations, these critical terms imply either that the empathic processes of the observer have not been handled with discretion, or that the author in question has wrongly empathized. There can be little doubt about the fact that the reliability of empathy declines, the more dissimilar the observed is from the observer. Psychoanalysis is genetically oriented and looks upon h u m a n experience as a longitudinal continuum of mental organizations of varying complexity, varying maturity, and the like. T h e early stages of mental development are thus a particular challenge to the ability of empathizing with ourselves, i.e., with our own past mental organizations. (These considerations apply, of course, not only to the longitudinal but also to the transverse-sectional approach, e.g., when we speak of psychological depth and of psychological regressions during sleep, neurosis, fatigue, stress, and the like.) What kind of concept must we use when

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we are describing primitive, early, or deep psychological processes? In the Freudian syndrome of the actual neuroses, for example, it was operationally decisive that persistent introspection (even in the form of free association and resistance analysis) could not uncover any psychological content beyond anxiety in anxiety neuroses, or beyond fatigue and aches in neurasthenia (Freud, 1898). Freud must have considered those various fantasies he occasionally encountered to be built up secondary to (as rationalization of) these symptoms. T h e absence of psychological findings led Freud to the formulation that actual neuroses are a direct expression of organic disturbance—in other words, of a condition that promises more fruitful exploration by nonintrospective methods of investigation, for example, examination by biochemical means. Analogous considerations also apply to such psychopathological entities as neurotic disturbance, vegetative neurosis (Alexander, 1943) or organ neurosis (Fenichel, 1945), and to the device of differentiating a primary functional phase of mental development (Glover, 1950). Similarly, we should not pretend at a precise understanding of the psychological content of the earliest phases of mental development, but should, when discussing these early phases, avoid terms that refer to the analogous phenomena of later experience. We must thus be satisfied with loose empathic approximations and should speak, for example, of tension instead of wish, of tension decrease instead of wish fulfillment, and of condensations and compromise formations instead of problem solving. Harder to detect than these terminological mistakes are operational shifts that are sometimes employed in the discussion of early psychological states. Instead of the attempt to extend a rudimentary form of empathic introspection into an early state of mind, the 1

* Freud (1910b) contrasted neurotic disturbances with psychogenic disturbances, which means approximately with psychoneurotic symptoms.

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description of a social situation is offered —for example, the description of the relation between mother and child. T h e investigation and description of the early interactions of mother and child are of course indispensable; but it should not be forgotten that we are then dealing with a form of social psychology and are therefore moving to a frame of reference that must be compared but not equated with the results of introspective psychology. We must thus be careful not to confuse and not to intermingle theories based on observations carried out with the aid of the introspective method with theories based on the observational method of, for example, the social psychologist or of the biologist. T h e brook runs downhill and, avoiding rocks on its way, finds the shortest route to the river —and thus an adaptational problem between the water and its environment is solved. A married woman in a conflict over the temptation to unfaithfulness develops hysterical blindness —and again a problem of adaptation may be said to have been solved. Another woman, under similar circumstances, decides that she no longer wishes to be tempted; she, too, does not want to see the tempting m a n , and she hurriedly decides to return home —and again a problem of adaptation is solved. The social psychologist may attempt to differentiate these adaptational processes by comparing the varying complexities of the task, the biologist by comparing the varying complexities of the means employed in solving it—not an easy differentiation in view of the electronic "brains" (computing machines) of our era. Whatever the solution of the social psychologist or the biologist may be, it is clearly at variance with the one of the psychoanalyst who, by employing introspection and empathy, differentiates the mechanisms neither by their effectiveness or inefficacy nor by their complexity or simpleness, but via empathy with the experiences of another person by estimating the relative distance of various mental activities from the introspecting self. Some psychological processes

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(tension, tension release of the newborn) are almost beyond empathy, and the adaptations that take place may be said to lie closer to the movement of the water as it interacts with rocks and gravity. Other processes, while somewhat nearer to the empathic observer than the foregoing, are still quite distant from the self-observing ego: the compromise formations, condensations, displacements, and overdetermination that we call primary processes (e.g., in psychoneurotic symptom formation); a n d finally, we find those psychological processes that lie closest to our introspection and empathy: the secondary processes of logical thinking, problem solving, and deliberate action —the faculty of choice and of decision. Endopsychic

and Interpersonal

Conflict

We shall next examine the position of the concepts of endopsychic and of interpersonal conflict within the framework of psychoanalytic theory, especially in consideration of the frequently expressed conviction that psychoanalysis is not "interpersonal enough" or that it uses a one-body frame of reference instead of the social matrix. Such views fail to take into account that the essential constituent of psychoanalytic observation is introspection. We must, therefore, define the psychoanalytic meaning of the term interpersonal as connoting an interpersonal experience open to introspective selfobservation; it differs thus from the meaning of the terms interpersonal relationship, interaction, transaction, etc., which are used by social psychologists and others. Freud's early research was directed toward the introspective and empathic investigation of the psychoneuroses. His efforts were rewarded by two great discoveries: the unconscious, and the phenomenon of transference, i.e., the particular influence exerted by the unconscious upon the part of the psyche more accessible to introspection. Persistent introspection leads in the transference neuroses to the recognition

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of an inner struggle between infantile strivings and inner counterforces against these strivings: the structural conflict. The analyst, to the extent that he is a transference figure, is not experienced in the framework of an interpersonal relationship but as the carrier of the analysand's unconscious endopsychic structures (unconscious memories). A patient, for example, reports lightheartedly that he evaded the payment of the bus fare on the way to his session. He "noticed" that the analyst's face was unusually stern when he greeted him. T h e analyst as transference figure is (as persistent introspection with analysis of resistance reveals) an expression of unconscious superego forces (the unconscious father imago) in the analysand. Gradually, however, the range of psychoanalytic inquiry increased and soon began to include the psychoses. A new task was thus set for the analyst: he now had to empathize with the experiences of primitive mental organizations, with the experiences of the prestructural psyche. The two great early discoveries in the realm of the psychoses were Freud's comprehension of the meaning of psychotic hypochondria (1914b), and Tausk's (1919) empathic or introspective recognition that the schizophrenic's delusion of being influenced by a machine was the revival of an early form of self, a regression to painful and anxious body experiences after the contact with the "you"-experience is lost. Persistent introspection in the narcissistic disorders and in the borderline states thus leads to the recognition of an unstructured psyche struggling to maintain contact with an archaic object or to keep u p the tenuous separation from it. Here, the analyst is 3

4

s

For the acceptance of memory trace as a structural concept see Glover (1947). * T h e introspective experience of the struggles with the marginal object in the psychoses and borderline states is not the same as the observation of interpersonal relations. It is instructive to study the consequences of a combination of these two theoretical approaches, achieved, for example, by the use of a bridging concept such as that of the "participant observer,"

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not the screen for the projection of internal structure (transference), but the direct continuation of an early reality that was too distant, too rejecting, or too unreliable to be transformed into solid psychological structures. T h e analyst is therefore introspectively experienced within the framework of an archaic interpersonal relationship. He is the old object with which the analysand tries to maintain contact, from which he tries to separate his own identity, or from which he attempts to derive a modicum of internal structure. A schizophrenic patient, for example, arrives at the analytic session in a cold and withdrawn state. In a dream of the preceding night he was in a snow-covered, barren field; a woman offers him her breast, but he discovers that the breast is made of rubber. T h e patient's emotional coldness and his dream are found to be a reaction to an apparently minute, but in reality significant, rejection of the patient by the analyst. Reactions to realistic rejections by the analyst, of course, also occur in the analysis of the transference neuroses, and their recognition and acknowledgment are of tactical importance. In the analysis of the psychoses and borderline states, however, archaic interpersonal conflicts occupy a central position of strategic importance that corresponds to the place of the structural conflict in the psychoneuroses. The same considerations apply also mutatis mutandis to the structural conflicts encountered in the psychoses. We cannot leave the topic of endopsychic and interpersonal conflict without some further brief remarks on transference. Freud's basic definition of transference (1900a) was the result of unambiguous concept formation: transference is wherein fruitful distinction between the structural concept of a transference object in the neuroses and the archaic interpersonal object in the narcissistic disorders disappears. The result is the emergence of a logical and internally consistent conception of psychopathology in which, however, the most diverse clinical phenomena may be regarded as varieties or degrees of schizophrenia (Sullivan, 1940).

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the influence of the unconscious upon the preconscious across an existing (though often weakened) repression barrier. Dreams, symptoms, and aspects of the perception of analyst by analysand are the most important forms in which transference appears. T h e present confusing usage of the terms transference and countertransference (often denoting specific interpersonal relationships in the sense of social psychology) stems from an unwitting inconsistency concerning the operational mode on which the theoretical framework must be based. We can retain the great advantage of operational consistency without being hamstrung by the cruder model of mind with which Freud was working in 1900 if we fit the early concept of transference into his structural diagram of 1923 and define it, in addition, with regard to ego autonomy (Hartmann, 1939). T h e transference experience of the object in the therapeutic situation would thus retain its original meaning as an amalgamation of repressed infantile object strivings with (in the present reality, insignificant) aspects of the analyst. It would be clearly delimited from two other experiences: from the strivings toward objects that, although emerging from the depth, do not cross a repression barrier (cf. Freud's diagram in "The Ego and the Id": the repression barrier separates only a small part of the ego from the id); and from the object strivings of the ego that, although originally transferences, have later severed the ties with the repressed and have thus become autonomous object choices of the ego. It is important to recognize that in both of these instances the object choice originates partly in the past, i.e., later object choice is patterned after childhood models. But while it is true that all transferences are repetitions, not all repetitions are transferences. It is not possible by the nonintrospective historical approach to differentiate influences from the past that have affected the growth of the mental apparatus from the present influence of a remnant of the past that still is in actual

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existence, i.e., the repressed unconscious. Through persistent scientific introspection, however, we are enabled to differentiate nontransference object choices patterned after childhood models (e.g., a part of what is often erroneously called the positive "transference") from true transferences. The latter can be dissolved by persistent introspection; the former, however, reside outside the sphere of structural conflict and are not directly affected by psychoanalytic introspection. Dependence Some concepts used by psychoanalysis are not abstractions founded on introspective observation or empathic introspection, but are derived from data obtained through other methods of observation. Such concepts must be compared with the theoretical abstractions based on psychoanalytic observations; they are not, however, identical with them. Let us consider, for example, the hypothesis that the importance of childhood sexuality in general and of the Oedipus complex in particular is related to or part of the prolonged, biologically necessitated dependence of the h u m a n infant. Is this a psychoanalytic hypothesis? In a general sense the answer is, of course, affirmative because we know that the hypothesis in question could not even have been formulated prior to the introspective discovery of phallic, anal, and oral-erotic experience and the recovery of the oedipal passions in the transference. More precise considerations, however, will demonstrate that not all of the concepts used in the hypothesis can, without modifications, be treated as if they had been derived from introspective and empathic observations. T h e problem of drives and sexuality will be considered later; the concept of dependence shall be examined at this point. T h e term dependence can be used to convey two distinct meanings, which, confusingly, are often but not always

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related to each other. The first meaning refers to a relationship between either two organisms (biology) or two social units (sociology). T h e biological observer may affirm that various mammalian neonates are dependent (for survival) on the care they receive from the mothering adults of the species. Similar judgments concerning dependence can also be m a d e about the relationships between h u m a n adults. In our complex and highly specialized civilization every member of society develops only certain skills, and he is therefore dependent upon the whole of society (the sum total of the skills of others) for his existence as he knows it, and most likely also for his very biological survival. Apart from the biological or sociological meaning of the term dependence, we encounter a psychological concept going by the same name which we have used widely in our psychodynamic formulations. We say that some patients either have dependence problems or that they develop them in the course of psychoanalysis. Or we speak of oral-dependent personalities and conclude that their oral dependence may contribute decisively to their wish to perpetuate the relationship to the analyst. As we are here dealing with a psychoanalytic concept of dependence, it must be assumed that we derive it through psychoanalytic observation of our patients and that the term constitutes some generalization or abstraction concerning the mental state of the analysand. And indeed, this is often clearly the case, for example, when we say that a patient is in conflict over his dependence strivings, or, in a structural formulation, that he has repressed them. Such a formulation seems unobjectionable because it appears that we are simply applying the proven concept of regression. In addition, however, we have tacitly m a d e an assumption which we must isolate before we can examine the plausibility of the preceding formulation. Regression, as a psychoanalytic term, denotes the return to an earlier psychological state. Our problem does not, therefore, concern the undisputed fact

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that an infant is dependent on his mother (in the biological or sociological sense) but rather the puzzling question whether the infant's mental state corresponds roughly to what we find when we uncover repressed dependence strivings in an adult analysand. In order to demonstrate the unreliability of such efforts, we may entertain the opposite hypothesis and claim that rudimentary self-awareness of the healthy infant at the breast should rather be compared with the emotional state of an adult who is totally absorbed in an activity of the utmost importance to him as, for example, the sprinter at the last few yards of the hundred-yard dash, the virtuoso at the height of the cadenza, or the lover at the peak of sexual union. The assumption that dependence states in the adult are a reversion to a primal psychological gestalt that cannot be further reduced by analysis is thus opposed by our empathic understanding of healthy children. It may, of course, sometimes be useful for the psychologist to take his clues from biological findings or principles in order to orient his expectations about what he might observe. The final test, however, is psychological observation itself; and it is erroneous to extrapolate the interpretation of a specific mental state from biological principles, especially if they contradict our psychological findings. It would thus seem that the fearful or stubborn clinging, the holding on, the resistance against letting go, that we encounter in some of our adult patients is not a repetition of a normal phase of psychological development, i.e., not a regression to the mental state of the reasonably normal child of reasonably normal parents. Reactions of clinging dependence in adults, if they are regressions to childhood situations, refer not to the return to a normal oral phase of development but to childhood pathology, often of later phases of childhood. They are, for example, reactions to specific experiences of rejection, i.e., intricate mixtures of rage and retaliation fear. Or they protect the patient (e.g., against the emergence of guilt or

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anxiety that is associated with hidden structural conflict) by his clinging to the therapist who has become the omnipotently benign carrier of projected narcissistic fantasies. We must thus also object to the tendency toward ascribing psychological dependence almost exclusively to orality. Such an association undoubtedly does exist in some instances. Empathic observation that remains unfettered by biological expectations will, however, be open to the recognition that a great variety of drives, particularly if held in a state of nearunfulfillment (incomplete psychoanalytic abstinence — and when is it ever complete?) can contribute to the creation of a state of Hörigkeit (i.e., bondage) to the therapist. And it is therefore the insistent clinging and not the association with a particular drive that characterizes the psychological state in question. Perhaps the most general psychological principle one could evoke in explanation of some of these states is the resistance to change ("the adhesiveness of libido"), but one should probably turn to this most general explanation only after the other possibilities are exhausted or if there is direct psychological evidence for this factor in a special case. T h e following episode, which was reported to me recently by a thirty-five-year-old m a n , can perhaps be explained in these terms. He had been one of the thirty survivors in a concentration camp in which, in the course of the years of his detention, about a hundred thousand people had been killed. When the Russian advance became threatening, the Nazi guards abandoned the camp and the thirty inmates were free. Despite the fact that they were in a passable physical condition, they could not bring themselves to leave the camp for almost four long days. T h e phenomenon of dependence must be viewed still differently in analysands with insufficient psychological structure. Some addicts, for example, have not acquired the capacity to soothe themselves or to go to sleep; they have not

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been able to transform early experiences of being soothed or of being put to sleep into an endopsychic faculty (structure). These addicts therefore have to rely on drugs, not as a substitute for object relations, but as a substitute for psychological structure. If such patients are in psychotherapy, they may be said to become addicted to the psychotherapist or to the psychotherapeutic procedure. Their addiction must not, however, be confused with transference: the therapist is not a screen for the projection of existing psychological structure; he is a substitute for it. Inasmuch as psychological structure is necessary, the patient now really needs the support, the soothing of the therapist. His dependence cannot be analyzed or reduced by insight; it must be recognized and acknowledged. In fact, it is a clinical experience that the major psychoanalytic task in such instances is the analysis of the denial of the real need; the patient must first learn to replace a set of unconscious grandiose fantasies that are kept u p with the aid of social isolation by the, for him, painful acceptance of the reality of being dependent.

Sexuality, Aggression,

Drives

T h e psychoanalytic concept of sexuality has led to much confusion and argument. T h e sexual quality of an experience is adequately defined neither by the content of the experience nor by the body zone (erotogenic zone). An adolescent's looking at medical illustrations may be a sexual experience; for the medical student, it is not. Nor can we properly define the psychological concept of sexuality by a reference to specific biochemical substances (e.g., hormones). If the biochemist could demonstrate, for example, that the overproduction of certain sex hormones contributes to the growth of certain malignant tumors, it would not necessarily follow that these tumors are the result of preconscious or unconscious sexual wishes of the afflicted. T h e psychologist can,

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however, take his clues from such biochemical findings. If, for example, hormones that are usually involved in pregnancy should be discovered in the etiology of cancer, our psychological investigation may turn to the preconscious personality with the question whether such people have chronic unfulfilled pregnancy longings. The final psychological proof for the factual existence of such longings must, however, be their introspective and empathic discovery. Similar considerations apply, of course, mutatis mutandis, to clues that the biochemist can derive from depth psychology. Analysts have not sufficiently emphasized that the sexual quality of an experience is one that cannot be further defined. True, it is understood by analysts that by "sexual" we mean something much wider than genital sexuality and that pregenital sexual experience includes sexual thinking processes, sexual locomotion, and the like. Yet, it is instructive to ponder Freud's (1916-1917) half-joking, half-serious remarks concerning the equation "sexual is the improper" (p. 80S), and the again half-joking remark: "On the whole, indeed, when we come to think of it, we are not quite at a loss in regard to what it is that people call sexual" (Freud, p . 304). Pregenital sexual experience of childhood and adult sexual experience (whether in foreplay, in perversions, or in intercourse) have thus a not-further-definable quality in common that we know to be sexual, either by direct experience or after prolonged and persistent introspection and removal of internal obstacles to introspection (resistance analysis). And we may therefore say that for the infant and child a large number of experiences have the quality that adults are most familiar with in their sex life; our sex life thus provides us with a remnant of an experience that was, early in our psychological development, much more widespread. T h e term, according to Freud (1921, p . 91), was chosen "a potiori," i.e., from the best known of these experiences — a

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name, in other words, that will most indisputably call u p the right kind of meaning in us. There would be less reason to insist on the term "sexual" if its meaning were biological. Freud's refusal to relinquish it was the only way to safeguard the essence of its psychological meaning. Such terms as "vital force" and "mental energy" do not lead to an equally unmistakable recognition of a rejected primary mode of experience. Similarly, much clarity is gained if we admit that the psychoanalytic term "drive" is derived from the introspective investigation of inner experience. Experiences may have the quality of drivenness (of wanting, wishing, or striving) to varying degrees. A drive, then, is an abstraction from innumerable inner experiences; it connotes a psychological quality that cannot be further analyzed by introspection; it is the common denominator of sexual and aggressive strivings. Freud's hypotheses of primary narcissism and primary masochism also lie within the theoretical framework of introspective psychology. He observed the clinical facts of narcissism and masochism and postulated that they were the revival of early (theoretical) forms of sexual and aggressive (potential) experience to which the later forms (clinical narcissism, clinical masochism) had returned in response to environmental stress. T h e assumption, however, of life and death instincts, paralleling the theory of primary narcissism and primary masochism, constitutes an entirely different type of theory formation. T h e concepts of Eros and Thanatos do not belong to a psychological theory grounded on the observational methods of introspection and empathy but to a biological theory which must be based on different observational methods. T h e biologist is of course at liberty to take whatever useful clues he can find in psychology; his theories, 5

5

Considerations parallel to those elaborated for sexuality also apply with regard to the other continuum of introspected experience, i.e., hostility- aggression.

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however, must be based on biological observations and biological evidence (Hartmann et al., 1949). T h e application, on the other hand, of the methods of introspective psychology to all animate matter, as, for example, in some forms of teleological biology, is unscientific. Thus, while we may admire the audacity of Freud's biological speculation, we must recognize that the concepts of Eros and Thanatos lie outside the framework of psychoanalytic psychology. Freud usually resisted being led by biological speculation, be it ever so plausible, when he could not confirm it by the findings of psychoanalytic introspective observation. An example of this empiricism is contained in his papers on female sexuality. Much has been said about Freud's supposed antifeminine bias as evidenced by his stressing the importance of the phallic strivings in the development of female sexuality. T h e obvious biological truth seems to be that the female must have primary female tendencies and that femaleness cannot possibly be explained as a retreat from disappointed maleness. It is improbable that Freud's opinion was due to a circumscribed blindspot that limited his powers of observation. His refusal to change his views on female sexuality was much more likely due to his reliance on clinical evidence — as it was then open to him —through psychoanalytic observation, and thus he refused to accept a plausible biological speculation as a psychological fact. Penetrating beyond the feminine attitudes and feelings of his patients, he regularly found the struggle over phallic strivings, and, while he accepted biological bisexuality, he rejected the postulate of a preceding psychological phase of femininity without psychological evidence for it. 6

Freud's attitude concerning the development of female sexuality is only one of many examples of his faithful adher* Ferenczi's Thalassa (1924) is the outstanding example of overextending the introspective and empathic method.

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ence to the introspective and empathic method of observation. It is important to admit, however, that despite his usual loyalty to psychoanalytic observation, Freud preferred to remain noncommittal about some of his concepts and to keep them in a no-man's-land between biology and psychology. Such a borderland, however, ceases to exist once the operational position is taken. Seen from this angle, it is hardly more justifiable to consider the dynamic point of view with its concept of drive as hormonal or biochemical (i.e., biological in the operational sense) than to think of the structural point of view with the concept of superego as anatomical. Free Will and the Limits of

Introspection

Psychology, and especially psychoanalysis (Knight, 1946; Lipton, 1955) has lately been confronted with a new edition of a paradox that has in various forms long plagued theology, philosophy, and jurisprudence: how is our faculty of making a choice or of coming to a decision compatible with the law of psychic determinism? Psychoanalysis seems, on first sight, to lend weight to the argument against the existence of free choice, by showing, first, how we are driven by irrational forces that we are only capable of rationalizing and, second, that we tend toward narcissistic overvaluation of our psychic functions and thus harbor a megalomanically deluded feeling of freedom concerning our cherished higher mental activities. Closer scrutiny, however, shows that the psychoanalytic attitude concerning the existence of choice and decision is neither uncomplicated nor without discrepancies. Freud's own contradictory position is perhaps best described by stating that he always, between the lines and as a personal opinion, subscribed to the conviction of an area of freedom, choice, and decision in h u m a n psychology, but that, on the other hand, he was for a long time extremely reluctant to

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incorporate this conviction wholeheartedly into the theoretical framework of his science. It is characteristic of this irresolution that his famous, frequently quoted statement regarding the goal of psychoanalytic psychotherapy is relegated to a footnote. He says in "The Ego and the Id" (Freud, 1923) that psychoanalysis sets out "to give the patient's ego freedom to choose one way or the other" (p. 50; the italics are Freud's). Freud's earlier theoretical formulations were oriented toward absolute psychic determinism, and there seems little room in his earlier theoretical system for an ego's "freedom to . . . decide." The concept of Ichtriebe (ego drives, ego instincts), the statements that the ego develops out of the id, or that the reality principle is but a modified pleasure principle, will serve as illustrations for this view. Freud's later theoretical formulations, however, began to incorporate, admittedly only implicitly for the most part, more of the spirit of his earlier convictions concerning some freedom or independence of the ego. T h e emphasis upon the ego as a psychic structure and, in addition to the statement in "The Ego and the Id," some remarks about the independent genesis of the ego in "Analysis Terminable and Interminable" (Freud, 1937) are examples of this slight change in his theoretical outlook, anticipating perhaps what we now, with H a r t m a n n (1939), usually designate as the ego's autonomy. Some of the confusion may perhaps be reduced if we again approach the problem by clearly defining the observational method by which we obtain the raw material for our theoretical abstractions. For a science that obtains its observational material through introspection and empathy, the question may be formulated as follows: We can observe in ourselves the ability to choose and to decide —can further introspection (resistance analysis) resolve this ability to underlying components? T h e opposite psychological configurations, namely, the experience of being compelled and the experience of (for example, obsessional) indecision and doubt, can

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usually be broken down by means of introspection. As we succeed in reducing these phenomena psychoanalytically by establishing their motives, we move simultaneously toward the re-establishment of free choice and decision. Can we do the same with the introspectively observed capability of choice? Can we, by introspection, resolve the experience of making a choice into the components of compulsion and narcissism? T h e answer to this question is no, despite the emphasis that psychoanalysis puts on unconscious motivation and rationalization; for all that the persistent recovery of unconscious motivations and of rationalizations leads to is, under favorable circumstances, a wider and more vivid experience of freedom. Each branch of science has its natural limits, determined approximately by the limits of its basic tool of observation. T h e physical scientist admits that all theory has to begin with certain unexplainable facts that lie beyond the law of causality, for example, the existence of energy in the universe. These unexplainable variables (the elements, heat, electricity, and the like) may be replaced or their number may be reduced as the physical sciences change or advance. No reduction to zero of the number of such primary elements is, however, thinkable, nor does a reduction to a single element seem useful for a science that has to account for the variety of natural phenomena. Each science thus arrives at a small optimal n u m b e r of basic concepts. T h e limits of psychoanalysis are given by the limits of potential introspection and empathy. Within the observed field reigns the law of psychic determinism, which comprehends the assumption that introspection, in the form of free association and resistance analysis, is potentially capable of revealing motivations for our wishes, decisions, choices, and acts. Introspective science must, however, acknowledge the limits beyond which the observational tool does not reach and must accept the fact that certain experiences cannot at present be further resolved

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by the method at its disposal. We can recognize wishes or other compelling inner forces and may express this introspectively irreducible fact of observation by the term "drive" or as the sexual and aggressive drives. And we can observe, on the other hand, the experience of an active " I " : either dissociated from the drive in self-observation, or merged with the undischarged drive as the experience of a wish, or fused with motoric discharge patterns as action. What we experience as freedom of choice, as decision, and the like, is an expression of the fact that the I-experience and a core of activities emanating from it cannot at present be divided into further components by the introspective method. They are, therefore, beyond the law of motivation, i.e., beyond the law of psychic determinism.

13 Observations on the Psychological Functions of Music

What can the psychoanalyst contribute to the broad and manifold aspects of musical activity and musical experience? On first sight it would seem that he has no claim to competence in any of the many aspects of the field. Yet here too, as in the investigation of many other complex human activities, the psychoanalytic approach promises insights not obtainable with the conceptual tools derived from the field to be examined, that is, in the case of music, the laws of acoustics and the rules of musical aesthetics. T o be more specific, intermediate and mediating between the unfolding potentialities of innate musicality and the activities of the developed musical function are areas of conflict. T h e area of "primary autonomy" of musical function (innate musical talent, sequence of musical maturation, etc.) is the field of the geneticist, the neurologist, and of those who investigate child behavior; here belong also such biological theories as Darwin's, who looked upon music as the residue of a formerly more important means of communication in the service of the survival of the race (1872, vol. 2, p . 330). The area of "secondary autonomy" (the mature musical functions) is the domain of the experimental psychologist and, par excellence, of the musicologist. To be sure, one must avoid schematism, First published in the Journal of the American ation (1957), 5:389-407.

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Associ-

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except for the purpose of initial exposition. Although the chronologically and structurally intermediate area of conflict is the province of the analyst's genetic orientation, the findings and insights thus obtained are often fruitfully applied, particularly in the investigation of the developed function. T h e following study continues earlier inquiries concerning the psychology of musical activity (Kohut and Levarie, 1950; Kohut, 1951b), which, on the whole, were oriented according to the outline given above. In the first part, some of the thoughts expressed in earlier communications are summarized; in the second part, a wider frame of reference will be used in order to broaden the scope of the present essay beyond the area of the preceding work.

/

It is generally acknowledged that music is a highly developed art form and that it therefore involves the whole personality of the musician, be he composer, performer, or listener. Three effects of music are widely recognized and seem well understood: that music provides sensual pleasure for the listener and the performer; that the execution or composition of music provides for the player or composer the enjoyment of his own skill; and that musical activity may be a social experience (for example, in ensemble playing, group singing, and the like). Few additions to these generally accepted facts need be made. T h e direct libidinal satisfaction in music is an aim-inhibited and displaced one. T h e composer's enjoyable awareness of his mental skill or the performer's awareness of his physical dexterity contributes to the general level of healthy narcissism and, therefore, to self-esteem. And, finally, the reassurance of "belonging," which musical group activity gives to the participants, is genetically derived from the old reassurance of being the member of a family;

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the leader or conductor represents the parental authority and the ego ideal, the other members of choir or orchestra are the brothers and sisters. All these effects of musical activity are undoubtedly important. They are, however, not specific for musical activity but are also experienced in all other forms of art, in sports, hobbies, and professional pursuits. In order to advance our understanding of what is specifically musical about the effects of musical activity on the psyche we shall first approach the problem by an application of the structural point of view. First, music as it relates to the id. In this context we must look upon music predominantly as a cathartic experience or, metapsychologically, as either a transference phenomenon, a compromise formation, or a sublimation. The tensions produced by repressed wishes are allowed vicarious release in the musical emotion when otherwise they would have remained pent up, threatening the ego with unmodified forms of discharge. Some primitive rhythmic experiences, for example, belong to the part of psychic life that Freud subsumed under the concept of infantile sexuality. The rocking of disturbed children and of schizophrenics and the ecstatic rites of primitive tribes may serve as examples. Rhythm, of course, also plays an important role in mature sexuality, the only experience of the adult ego that equals the quality and relative intensity of infantile psychic life. T h e emotional release of such tensions, however, may occur by very subtle musical means, as in the barely perceived rhythms in the accompaniment of a sweet tune, or in the rhythm contained in the aesthetic abstractions of a Bach fugue. In these instances we can experience a catharsis of primitive sexual tensions under cover because our conscious attention is directed toward a tune or a thematic variation and diverted from the rhythmic phenomenon. The weaker the aesthetic disguise of such rhythmic experiences, the less artistic becomes the music, as, for example, in some forms of jazz. For

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a similar reason one must also question the artistic value of Ravel's popular "Bolero," in which a thinly disguised, monotonous, and prolonged sexual rhythm ends with a clearly orgastic dissolution and transformation. On the other hand, when, as has happened in some forms of modern music, a reliable rhythm disappears for all practical purposes, i.e., cannot be perceived by the listener because the rhythms have become overcomplex and changing in a hyperintellectual art form, then deprived and disappointed audiences have been known to leave the concert halls in understandable rebellion. It must be stressed that the foregoing considerations are merely to be understood as illustrative examples for the cathartic role of musical experience as it relates to repressed contents. Another example, cited in an earlier contribution (Kohut and Levarie, 1950), is the experience of aggressive impulses in martial music. Striking evidence for the occurrence of sexual-kinesthetic discharge through musical activity has been given by Sterba (1946). As a second application of the structural point of view we arrive at a discussion of music as it concerns the ego. Here the thesis is again proposed that musical activity offers itself to the ego as an enjoyable form of mastery, as the enjoyable overcoming of the threat of a traumatic state (that is, the prevention of the experience of panic), analogous to the theory of play that Freud advanced in 1920. T h e thesis suggested before (Kohut and Levarie, 1950) is, in brief, as follows: sounds were once a threat to the weak psychic organization of the infant. Later, psychological organizations that constitute a regressive approximation of the infantile state are characterized by hypersensitivity to noise, and the startle reaction when sudden noise intrudes on the unprepared continues throughout life the Moro reflex of infancy. Similarly do we find hypersensitivity to noise during acute traumatic neurosis, in severe physical illness, and in states of extreme fatigue. On the basis of the preceding examples we may

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conclude "that the archaic mental apparatus, whether in the infant, in primitive m a n , or, under special circumstances, in the adult, has the tendency to perceive sound as a direct threat and to react reflexly to it with anxiety" (Kohut and Levarie, 1950). T h e adult ego is usually more at home in the world of words, concepts, and images; the adult musical ego is, however, in addition, distinguished from the infantile psyche by being capable of understanding the orderliness of form and content in musical sounds. T h e adult ego can cope with the musical-sound stimulation by perceiving that the composition has a beginning and an end and that music is m a d e up of an organized system of tones and has a recognizable rhythm. Repetition of passages that have already occurred, the familiarity of form and style of compositions, and the use of familiar instruments aid the ego in its task of mastery. With this background of security, the musical ego can now playfully repeat the original traumatic threat and enjoy it. A minor increase of tension is created by the musical movement into dissonance and followed by enjoyable tension relief as the music returns to consonance. Thus, the playful mastery of the threat of being overwhelmed by sounds becomes an enjoyable ego activity which contributes to the total enjoyment of music. If, because of the overcomplexity of the musical task, the musical content cannot be mastered, then the exposure to music becomes unpleasant. Compulsive laughter, the production of counternoises (hissing, booing), or flight were by no means rare, for example, in the early days of Schönberg and his pupils. Analogous observations can be made if the ability to understand music is disturbed as a result of brain damage. Goldstein (1948) states that "musical sounds, according to Quensel and Pfeiffer, are perceived by patients with perceptual defect in musical performance as disordered noises, and hence experienced as very disagreeable" (p. 147).

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The preceding outline of the ego's playful mastery of threatening sounds deserves elaboration in one direction. Among the external noises confronted by the weak infantile organization is the sound of the infant's own cry. We must assume that the experience of his own cry is, at first, not yet comprehended as belonging to the self; the cry is not "willed"; it is automatic and occurs in a setting of hunger frustration. It may well be that the threatening quality of primitive sound is enhanced by this early psychological association. The pleasure quality of mastered sound, as well as the peculiar position of music in a no-man's-land between self and external world, may therefore be seen genetically in the context of hunger and cry changing into satiation and subsiding noise (that is, mastered cry). In the third place, music relates to the superego when our participation in it is weighted toward the recognition of rules and obedience to them. In art, the emotional place of the code of morals is taken by the aesthetic code, in music, by the rules of form and harmony. Musical activity may thus become a kind of work, and the submission to a set of aesthetic rules gives to the musician a feeling of satisfaction and security which is akin to the moral satisfaction of having done right. What we call the aesthetic experience is intimately connected with the satisfaction that results from the compliance to the formal demands of a musical superego. The artist follows his inner standards of beauty, and the truly creative musician is capable of enlarging the domain of the beautiful beyond the limits that were recognized before him. Part of this process of change and development in musical form may, of course, also be motivated by a rebellion against existing order of aesthetic rules, i.e., the rebellion against a poorly integrated superego. The result is sometimes a quasineurotic compromise formation between rebellion and submission. Michel (1951) believes, for example, that the music of the Protestant Bach should be understood as a secret

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continuation of Catholic artistic tradition. He also quotes Coeuroy's opinion (1951) that Schumann forestalled the outbreak of his psychosis by the intensive study of the works of Bach which, according to Michel, was an attempt to make peace with the father superego. As an alternative to and variation of Michel's theory, it might be suggested that the inner experience of the disintegration of ego functions may lead to desperate efforts at self-healing through musical contact (or identification) with omnipotent figures. The discussion of the potential meaning of music in psychosis will, however, be undertaken later. Up to this point we have summarized the significance of musical experiences for the fully structuralized psyche —that is, for a psychological organization characterized by verbal, abstract, logical thinking, by object recognition, and by a relatively high degree of independence from objects, m a d e possible by an effective internal tension-regulator, the superego. T h e conclusions derived from the application of the structural point of view are these: first, music allows catharsis for primitive impulses; music is an emotional experience. Second, musical activity constitutes an exercise in (substitutive) mastery; music is a form of play. Third, music, as an expression of rules to which one submits, becomes a task to be fulfilled; music is an aesthetic experience. With the aid of the structural point of view we comprehend how the pressure of unacceptable strivings, the despair at being incapable of inner or outer mastery, and the demands of an outmoded or tyrannical sense of duty lead us in our musical activities to substitutive forms of discharge, mastery, and compliance in a nonverbal medium that lies, usually, outside the field of most structural conflicts. II We can advance our understanding of the psychology of music by availing ourselves of three other psychoanalytic

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tenets which are closely related to each other. They are the principle of the gradual development of psychological function from primary processes to secondary processes; the principle of the developmental hierarchy of psychological stages; and the principle of regression. Primary and Secondary Musical

Processes

Psychoanalytic psychology postulates the gradual development of psychological functions. Primary processes are primitive forms of psychological tension mastery by direct, rapid discharge, residually exemplified by the child's relative incapacity to tolerate delay. Secondary processes are refined and complex means of tension mastery via the tension-tolerant functions of concept formation and logical thinking, of problem solving, planning, and deliberate action. Musical activity, too, undergoes a development, the end points of which may be considered primary and secondary musical processes. In the mind of the adult, primary processes continue to exist in the id, experienced, for example, in the wish-fulfilling hallucinatory discharge phenomena in dreaming; they are, however, covered up by the secondary processes of the waking ego. Similarly, we find musical primary processes covered by musical secondary processes. To repeat an earlier example: a simple rhythm is often concealed by a highly sophisticated and rarefied tune or by complex elaborations of a theme. This layering resembles the structuralization of poetry: the meaningful content of poetry is the secondary-process surface of the phenomenon; the form, however, with the Klangassoziation rhymes and the rhythm of the words, belongs to the primary process, the primitive psychic forms of the unconscious. In poetry a verbal secondary-process layer (content) may cover a deeper musical primary-process layer (rhythm, rhyme), in music a musical secondary-process layer (tune) may cover a deeper musical

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primary-process layer (rhythm). But musical rhythm need not always be a primary-process component of music. Sophisticated changes in rhythm may, for brief periods, enter into the realm of the secondary musical processes, and the description of the layering becomes thus more complex: the primary-process experience of rhythm is covered by secondary-process changes and complexities in the rhythm itself. This, however, is not the rule; in most compositions, especially in the simpler ones, the rhythm experience is clearly due to the formally more primitive component of music (for example, the simple accompaniment) that underlies the melodic line to which most of the conscious attention is directed. Some musical inhibitions (inability to play in rhythm, for example) are related to the more primitive, sexual elements of music and must therefore be regarded as hysterical. As another example of such double-layering may be mentioned the two strata of parental command or censure. The words and their meaning are the superficial layer (secondary process); the tone of, for example, the father's voice is the more primitive layer and "c'est le ton qui fait la musique." As pointed out in a previous communication, this may lead to the result that some people "hear in the specific inflections of a male voice the voice of an angry father and react to it with anxiety" (Kohut and Levarie, 1950). An important sector of our superego develops from the parental commands, censures, and approvals, transmitted by the sounds of parents' voices, which may be piercing or cutting, heatedly angry, or coldly killing by mortifying distance. This sector of our superego contains, therefore, not only a content that can be expressed and experienced on the level of secondary-process function (that is, the code of behavior that is demanded and the specific censure for transgressions), but also a form which could be called the sound or the tone of the voice of conscience. An example for the artistic application of the

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concept that the voice of conscience may have a frightening sound was given in an earlier contribution (Kohut and Levarie, 1950). It was pointed out that in O'Neill's Emperor Jones the thumping of a drum coming closer and closer not only indicates the approaching external punishment but is also the symbol of the internal guilt. Similar considerations also apply to the approving parental introjects. We may therefore conclude that the deeper layers of the superego, or its formal quality, are related to a preverbal acoustic sphere. This relationship explains the deeply calming, soothing, or near-hypnotic effect of some forms of music, patterned on the whole after the early experience of the mother's lullaby. Music cannot alter the moral code, but it can temporarily replace the coldly rejecting inner voice (for example, the voices that the paranoiac hears) with a loving one. Lewin (1953) has recently proposed views that may be fruitfully compared with the theories presented here. Basing his position predominantly on Isakower's essay (1939), he sees the genetic roots and the deepest layers of the superego in intimate connection with the acoustic sphere. T h e sequence of sleep at the breast and arousal by the father's voice corresponds, in his formulation, to the disturbance the adult suffers when guilt feelings intrude. This view seems quite compatible with the theory that the pleasure in listening to music is partly based on the joyful adult mastery of the acoustic threat to the infantile psyche. Lewin subsequently (1954) postulates a pre-acoustic superego (corresponding to the infant's arousal by hunger or cold), which is overlaid by one that consists of words in an imperative mood. By contrast, the formulation suggested in the present essay does not attempt to reach into depth in which the superego may extend beyond the acoustic sphere, but stresses the difference between the deeply threatening sound of the primitive layers and the less threatening verbalizable contents of the surface layers.

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In this context I should also like to mention Freud's advice that the analyst should listen to his patients with "evenly hovering attention" by which he implies that the analyst should try to be receptive to the primary-process components of his patients' communications. T o these belong, par excellence, the sound of the patient's voice, the music that lies behind the meaningful words. Here, perhaps, lies a road to the solution of part of the riddle of interpersonal communication which Freud (1922, 1941) repeatedly discussed in his papers on telepathy. T h e fact that there are two types of speech, or two "languages," is also well known to the neurologist. In some aphasias, unemotional speech is disturbed whereas emotional speech (swearing, for example) remains largely unimpaired. Closely related are clinical observations concerning some cases of motor aphasia. Not only may the ability to sing a tune be preserved in motor aphasia, but occasionally one can even find a patient who, although unable to say words or sentences, is capable of singing them. Goldstein (1948) says that "the difference between singing and speaking is due to the different physiologic and psychologic structures of both performances. According to the close relationship of singing . . . to emotional language . . . singing will be preserved longer than language" (p. 146). Music and the Developmental of Psychological Stages

Hierarchy

T h e principle of the developmental hierarchy of psychological stages comprehends the recognition that the h u m a n psyche develops, beginning with birth or even earlier, from comparatively simple to more and more complex organizations, especially in respect to an at first nonexisting, then slowly dawning, then evergrowing recognition of an outside world, with the increasing awareness of the separateness of the " I " of "self" from the "you" or the "outside world."

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The meaning and function of music can be defined not only in terms of primary- and secondary-process functions but also by relating it to the depth of the whole psychological layer that is activated. In other words, what appears objectively to be the same piece of music will affect different people differently, or the same people differently at different times, or the same person at the same time differently at various layers of his personality. Conversely, we might learn in time to isolate in the complexity of a musical composition those factors that are responsible for reverberations of the more primitive psychological structures as well as those that are directed toward the higher forms of the psychological organization. And, finally, we may return again to the starting point and aspire to apply our knowledge to the various forms of psychopathology with the ultimate goal of broadening our understanding of the wholesome effects of musical activity on a variety of personality types. T h e earliest psychological organization (pre-ego, preobject, and, of course, preverbal) is characterized by increases and decreases of inner tensions. T h e psyche can neither register its needs (that is, experience them as wishes) nor provide for their relief; the tensions remain, without psychological elaboration, on the physical level. The rage caused by the mounting "unpleasure" can be understood as a form of automatic tension relief which is also not psychologically elaborated by fantasies. A partial return to such functioning in selected and circumscribed areas of tension is found in the organ neuroses, which will be briefly discussed first, and in a group of diffuse personality disorders, a specimen of which will be presented more extensively later. T h e hypertensive patient, for example, is in one segment of his psychological functions unable to elaborate anger psychologically (e.g., by vengeful fantasies), and part of his anger translates itself directly en masse into physiological phenomena. Such a patient must learn psychological forms of

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discharge, the psychological buffering of his rage. It would be naive, however, to expect that newly acquired musical activity could constitute a psychological channel for discharge by such simple means as playing the trumpet, percussion instruments, and the like. Only under exceptional circumstances (as in the case described later) will a potential for psychoeconomically significant musical activity be liberated in the course of psychotherapy. Musical experience (especially by "oral" listening) may, however, relieve a person's deepest tension anxieties (and thus secondarily diminish his frustrated raging) by permitting the regressive experience of a primitive narcissistic equilibrium. Such regressions, described by Freud (1930) as the "oceanic feeling" in some religious states, can therefore also be attained through music (Kohut and Levarie, 1950). Forms of therapy that seem to be concerned with the patient's structuralized personality can also help only indirectly, most often by creating the experience of being soothed by closeness, or of being comforted by a powerful therapist. T h e content of the verbal contact (explanations, for example) is not by itself effective. Psychoeconomically similar to the organ neuroses is another form of psychopathology in which there is also no psychological elaboration of inner tensions in the sense of neurotic or psychotic symptom formation. In these cases we find that an insufficient ego system is unable to deal with any of a wide variety of tensions; thus these cases differ from the organ neuroses, in which the area of pathology is more narrowly circumscribed. T h e following case illustrates this type of disorder, as well as the role that musical activity began to play in the patient's life concurrent with psychoanalytic therapy. T h e patient, a married man in his middle forties, was employed by a large university in an administrative job. He had been in psychotherapy of one sort or another for most of his adult life. He gave as reason for his seeking therapy that

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he did not like his job, did not do well in it, and wanted to obtain a better working adjustment through analysis. It gradually became clear that this complaint was a rationalization he had constructed, not only because it was socially acceptable, but mainly because the real disturbance was too vague for him to clearly perceive and describe. T h e only way he could describe his discomfort was by talking about an unbearable tension, either in the pit of his stomach, in his throat, in his extremities, or in his head. It came close to what Freud called the actual-neurotic hypochondriacal core of schizophrenia, without, however, ever becoming involved in further psychological formations, for example, by developing into a delusion. It is true that occasionally he worried about having a physical illness such as cancer. But the theories he had formed had no great importance to him; he changed them often, and most of the time he had none. T h e original complaint of not liking his job was, however, related to the tensions, although in a way which at first could not be appreciated. His father had been a well-known scientist whose achievements the patient could not match. After the father's death, part of his considerable fortune went to the patient, who could expect even greater future wealth because most of the inheritance had gone to the mother. T h e patient was thus financially independent, and his job held no emotional or intellectual interest for him. His complaint meant that under these circumstances his work could not absorb his interest and energies and that it was therefore useless to him for the relief of his inner tension. There is no need to discuss at length the nature and genesis of his tensions. While they were predominantly oraland anal-sadistic, their main characteristic was their diffuseness and lack of elaboration by fantasies, even during childhood or in his adult dream life. T h e genesis of his tensions seemed related to certain typical childhood situations in which the adults repeatedly stimulated his greed, or created

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rage by sudden frustration, while at the same time they prevented an expression of the need or of the frustrated anger by their contemptuous coldness and withdrawal from such ungentlemanly behavior in the child. Only the lifelong psychotherapy, which was tantamount to an addiction, appeared to be able to ease his tensions. In therapy he could continuously talk about himself; he could complain to a magically powerful and kind parent and receive interpretations which to him had the meaning of being consoled and pacified. A resume of the course of psychoanalytic therapy and the psychoeconomic changes resulting from it follows. Interpretations were first directed at his use of psychoanalysis for direct tension relief; that is, he had to learn to listen to the content of the interpretations rather than being soothed by the sound of the analyst's voice. This phase of therapy was characterized by a typical form of resistance. While he had originally commented frequently on the pleasing qualities of the analyst's voice, his use of language, the lovely slight trace of a foreign accent, and so on, he now became very critical. He pointed out the analyst's errors in pronunciation or his wrong use of idioms and often asked the analyst to repeat what he h a d said, with the pretext that the wording of an interpretation had been unintelligible to a native American. As he began to listen to the content of the interpretations, however, he became more specifically aware of his tensions, of his need for tension relief, his fear of overstimulation, and his lack of meaningful relations to objects or to activities that could absorb his energies. Some progress was also m a d e toward an understanding of his childhood, particularly of the family atmosphere in which the early tensions arose and relief by any form of discharge was prevented. A critical appraisal of his values and his mode of life followed and, with it, a gradual decrease of his tensions. T h e improvement remained at first puzzling to the analyst. His mode of life continued

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seemingly unchanged: his occupation was pursued without gusto, and his marital sex life continued in the same automatic, emotionally unsatisfactory manner as before. There was, however, as gradually became evident, a new aspect to his life, a passion for music, which gave it content, the experience of strong emotions, and, secondarily, even an evergrowing richness of meaningful social contact. In the course of several years he became reasonably proficient with the several musical instruments that he had formerly played only in the most superficial fashion; he began to compose music; and he became a regular participant and finally a leading exponent of the active musical organization at the university. It is true that he had always been fond of music. Even as a young child he had for long periods listened to recorded music and immersed himself in the pleasing sounds. It is interesting to note that, so far as could be ascertained, no verbalizable daydreams had accompanied these pleasurable experiences. He had been, and still remained, occasionally, fondest of listening to music from various operas, and it seems that the dissolution of h u m a n voices into the extraverbal medium of the surrounding orchestral music contributed greatly to the pleasure he obtained. It was an early regression from the painful world of people and their words to an extraverbal world whose stimulations could be kept within bounds and could therefore be enjoyed. In the course of later childhood, adolescence, and during adult life, however, music played only a small role in his psychic economy because his deeply fearful and insecure personality h a d adapted itself increasingly to an environment that stressed athletic achievement and the role of capable administrator and polite representative. T h e psychoeconomic efficacy of psychoanalysis in this instance may be said to have been attained by these therapeutic steps: (1) the patient became aware of the true nature of his distress; (2) he learned the inadequacy of his imitative

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social adaptations; (3) he developed the courage to enjoy musical activity which could absorb a good deal of his tension. T h e major resistances were encountered in the first two phases; he developed a great deal of reactive hostility against the analyst, whom he correctly held responsible for the anxiety that was aroused in him when he undertook to reassess the inefficacy of his imitative masculinity, which until then he h a d considered as truly himself. The third phase, however, in which he turned to music, not only developed without recognizable resistance, but may be said to have taken place outside of therapy. It is the third phase that, in the framework of the present essay, is the most interesting one. The diminution of the diffuse tensions from which the patient suffered cannot be accounted for as would be the disappearance of hysterical symptoms after correct interpretation. No unconscious meaning was attached to the tensions; they were a fixed actualneurotic "symptom" for which psychoeconomic relief had to be found. T h e case demonstrates the psychoeconomic efficacy of musical activity for the relief of pregenital libidinal and aggressive tensions; and it can be assumed that, in the psychoeconomic household of the normal individual, musical activity may have a similar significance. T h e question remains why music plays this role only for some people. In the case described, musicality was not created by analysis, but had been potentially available since childhood. Leaving aside the question of inborn talent, the early childhood surrounding was favorable to the development of potential musicality. Free expression of emotions was prohibited, yet both parents condoned the child's turning to music. T h e early interest in music was passive (listening), and no significant musical skills were attained. Musicality was thus not integrated into the ego and was given up during latency and adolescence under the social pressure of peer groups. Patients suffering from organ neuroses and those of the

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type exemplified in the preceding case report are both characterized by absence or paucity of psychological elaboration of their tension states, that is, by the absence of neurotic or psychotic symptom formation. On the next higher level—the level of schizophrenic psychosis—our understanding of the significant psychopathological formations is on firmer ground. They correspond to a still preverbal developmental stage (or layer) of the personality which is characterized by a gradual separation of what is experienced as " I " from what is recognized as either the helping-loving or the neutral-hostile "object." Anxiety, in this phase, concerns the loss of this tentative differentiation and is therefore psychologically more elaborated than the tension increases of the preceding developmental stage. A replica of the acute anxieties of this stage in adult psychopathology are the nameless fears that overwhelm the schizophrenic and paranoiac in the early phases of his illness (Kohut and Levarie, 1950); they are experienced as a fear of uncontrollable loss of contact with reality or as a fear of permanent object loss. The schizoid individual is a potential schizophrenic who employs a chronic defense; he distances himself from reality in order not to be hurt. Musical activity is relatively frequent among schizoids; and schizoids seem to be relatively frequent among musicians. Musical activity supports the maintenance of the often precarious balance of the schizoid by permitting pleasurable activity and enjoyable experiences in a sphere outside the vulnerable interpersonal segment of the ego. T h e pleasure that music provides to the balanced schizoid is predominantly abstract and intellectual; the emotions experienced are not violent or ecstatic, but correspond to the schizoid's withdrawn personality. The schizoid balance may be disturbed by an experience of rejection—often negligible to the observer—which results in a sudden decrease of object cathexis. T h e schizophrenic's ego recognizes that the tide of withdrawal has become uncon-

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trollable, but cannot stem the current because the raging selfdestructiveness caused by the feeling of having been rejected or slighted is greater than the will to hold on to reality. If these events take place in the course of psychotherapy, the flow of the narcissistic regression can most often be halted. This is, however, a specific situation because the regressive movement is usually started in the therapeutic situation itself, by the severely taxed therapist's mistakes and ambivalence. Although intimacy with an understanding psychotherapist cannot be provided for the great majority of schizophrenics, artistic substitution for h u m a n contact is often available and is used as a preventive measure, unrecognized as such, by many ambulatory schizophrenics. Music, in particular, allows in this stage a controlled and limited regression. It provides a nonverbal experience that does not tax the crumbling secondary processes, while at the same time remaining socially acceptable; and it establishes the symbolic contact with an archaic "you" that the schizophrenic's ego is in danger of losing permanently. Once this active stage of regression has been passed, however, and the schizophrenic has truly been torn from reality, music, insofar as it is part of social reality, can no longer be understood by the patient. In this stage of regression the schizophrenic experiences the world as cold, empty, and far away. If the schizophrenic listens to music during this phase, no meaningful emotional experience results. Unlike the brain-injured patient (Goldstein, 1948, p . 147), the schizophrenic recognizes and remembers music; yet there is no sensual quality to the experience and no emotional response to it. If the musical schizophrenic is forced to listen to music or to participate in musical activity during this phase, no wholesome result can be expected; on the contrary, the schizophrenic interprets such lack of tact and understanding by physician or music therapist as hostile indifference, and the new experience of rejection drives him

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more solidly from attempts at renewed contact. Later, however, a new psychological balance may be attained. Restitutive processes emerge which are, according to Freud, attempts at self-healing; an illusory reality takes the place of the lost one in defense against deep hypochondriacal tensions which appear when contact with the world is lost. In this comparatively stable phase, music can again play a role for the schizophrenic patient, but the experience is deeply regressive. The schizophrenic spins his autistic dreams and converses with his hallucinations while listening to the sounds of the music. It may be asked whether music in this phase fulfills a wholesome function or whether it does not rather intensify the regressive withdrawal. Two considerations support the assumption that musical activity may be beneficial even at this stage of schizophrenia. Chronic schizophrenics tend to strike a balance in toto with social reality and may adapt to some social demands. Listening to music may sustain such superficial social adaptations by providing the psychotic patient with periods during which he can relax in his psychosis without being forced to dissimulate. It is true, however, that these adjustments concern only the preconscious and that the nuclear objects of childhood remain lost to the unconscious. T h e second consideration, in contrast, concerns the fundamental dynamic constellation. Unlike the neurotic, whose internal motivation toward health is never completely lost, the schizophrenic does not react with true internal change to external pressure, even if it is applied with great tact; pressure only forces him to dissimulate. A comprehension of the changing needs of the schizophrenic during the various phases of his illness may nevertheless enable the environment to satisfy wishes that the schizophrenic cannot afford to express or even recognize. If the comfort of soothing regression in the form of music is provided, a movement toward the recathexis of memories of friendly voices may be

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initiated and the musical sounds may, in some cases, become the first emotionally significant representatives of a regained reality. Music and the Principle of

Regression

T h e final principle to be applied in this examination of the psychology of music is the psychobiological principle of regression, which Freud introduced into the realm of psychoanalytic theory. T h e most highly developed functions and organizations are the most vulnerable ones; under stress they tend to be given u p and older modes of psychological adjustment reappear in their stead. A voluntary, temporary, controlled return to earlier forms of adjustment, however, may rejuvenate the higher functions: controlled, temporary regressions tend to prevent or counteract uncontrolled, chronic ones. Freud's paradigm for this kind of fluctuation was sleep, in which most ego functions are reduced and older modes of psychic function make their reappearance. Within the framework of this essay, it need only be repeated that the extraverbal nature of music lends itself particularly well to the type of controlled regression that Kris (1936) called "regression in the service of the ego." Music is not necessarily regressive in this sense; or, at any rate, it need not be more regressive than any other artistic activity. Art helps the individual in the substitutive solution of structural conflicts, but substitution is not regression. Yet, in addition, art may offer the disturbed psyche a temporary, controlled regression to which the extraverbal nature of music lends itself particularly well by offering a subtle transition to preverbal modes of psychological functioning.

14 The Arrow and the Lyre: A Study of the Role of Love in the Works of Thomas Mann (1955) by Frank Donald Hirschbach BOOK REVIEW

Thomas Mann is close to the analyst's heart because of his rational attitude toward psychoanalysis and his respect for Freud. One must, however, agree with Hirschbach who maintains that the influence of psychoanalysis on Mann's writings should not be overestimated. He sees Freud's work as only one of the sources of Mann's intellectual, philosophical, and artistic outlook; and he mentions the German romanticists, and Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Wagner, and Goethe as having been of equal or greater importance. Mann understood and used artistically the tenet of psychoanalysis that explains "many of the occurrences in our daily lives as instances of an outgrowth of our own unconscious will" (p. 108). Hirschbach quotes, as an outstanding example of Mann's grasp of this principle, the chapter from Joseph and His Brothers "in which Isaac blesses Jacob instead of Esau. No one can be mistaken about the fact that the father wants to bestow the blessing upon the 'younger' of the First published in The Psychoanalytic

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Quarterly (1957), 26:273-275.

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twins, wants to be deceived." Hirschbach also gives illustrations from Mann's later novels, especially from Joseph, and demonstrates the artistic use which Mann made of his knowledge of the Oedipus complex, of sexual dream symbolism, of flight into illness, and the like. Hirschbach's main thesis —the omnipresence in Mann's stories of a battle between Eros and Agape, i.e., between passion and Christian love or "charity" — holds little interest, however, for the psychoanalytic psychologist in the form in which the problem is presented, even if we translate it into its approximate psychoanalytic analogue as a conflict between sexual and sublimated libido. Hirschbach's framework is the history of ideas, and he sees the presence of the struggle in Mann's work as due to the influences of his intellectual and philosophic preceptors. T h e analyst would not deny the presence of this factor, but would be inclined to assign to it a secondary role; it determines the form in which a conflict is expressed, but it is not its cause. But we can hardly criticize the author of this careful study for remaining within the limits of his science. While his information about psychoanalysis appears to be greater than one would expect, it is, of necessity, limited. He does not, for example, pass the crucial test of basic psychoanalytic knowledge, the distinction between the preconscious and the unconscious, both of which he covers by the term "subconscious." T h e psychoanalytic reader of Mann's novels and stories (ably summarized and discussed in five of the six chapters of Hirschbach's book) will be particularly impressed by the repeated description of one theme in Mann's writings: his heroes' precarious psychological adjustments, and their fight against narcissistic regression and hypochondriacal preoccupation. One can be sure that Mann, particularly during the early part of his creative life, must have faced serious emotional problems; and it may well be that the schematic

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shadowiness of some of the characters he created —a defect especially of his early work —was due to the fact that these figures were symbols and projections of inner conflicts that could not be completely bound in artistic creativity. The heroes in Mann's books who are threatened by disintegration may be contrasted with Joseph and with Felix Krull, two charming personalities in narcissistic balance. Both were created or, in the case of Krull, elaborated, during a late period in which Mann had found security as a happy husband and father and as a world-famous writer. T h e analysis of biographical data promises to deepen our understanding of Mann's work. T h e present study contains, unfortunately, very little biographical material, partly out of "respect for a living author," as Hirschbach explains. A careful psychoanalytic investigation of the life and work of Thomas Mann should, however, prove to be a worthy challenge to the student of the role of sublimation in h u m a n adjustment.

15 "Some Comments on the Origin of the Influencing Machine" by Louis Linn DISCUSSION

Some analysts examine the psychoses from a dynamicstructural point of view, while others emphasize the psychoeconomics of a total prestructural regressive psychological organization. Freud did both. His formulations of the content of the paranoiac's delusion exemplify the first approach, his theory of libido regression in psychotic hypochondria the second. A modern example for the first approach is Waelder who, in his paper "The Structure of Paranoid Ideas" (1951), regarded delusions as the (compromise) result of unsuccessful denial just as the symptoms of psychoneurosis are the (compromise) results of unsuccessful repression. Now, one of Tausk's major theoretical contributions in "On the Origin of the 'Influencing Machine' in Schizophrenia" was a highly original integration of these two approaches. T o him, the structural content of the delusion was a secondary expression of the awareness of the deeper, primary libido regression. To quote Tausk: There has been an Presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, May, 1957. Dr. Linn's paper was published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1958), 6:305-308.

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"influx of organic narcissism" affecting the whole body. " . . . lovers . . . suitors [and physicians] . . . threaten a narcissistic position with their substantial demands for object libido and are, therefore, repulsed as enemies. . . . "The narcissistic organ libido [transforms] the entire body into . . . a libidinal zone. . . . the influencing apparatus is a projection of the entire body . . . the genital is merely a symbol of a sexuality older than the symbolism and [older] than any means of social expression. . . . T h e distortion . . . into a machine is a projection . . . of the pathological process which converts the ego into a diffuse sexual being . . . expressed in the language of the genital period . . . into . . . a machine independent of the aims of the ego . . . " I shall now briefly apply the second point of view to some features of Dr. Linn's case. I consider this approach more fruitful and more in accord with Tausk's thesis than laying stress on content, as, for example, on conflict over masturbatory impulses. I would thus see the pruritus vulvae not as the precipitating trauma but as an early symptom of the narcissistic regression of libido upon the body, in keeping with the accompanying hypochondria. T h e machine and its actions, I would, with Tausk, understand as a description of the patient's altered self-awareness, expressed in the language of a much later developmental period. A further difference in interpretation concerns the author's direction to dream. Fisher (1965) differentiates the content meaning of the suggestion to dream (i.e., what the patient is told to dream about) from a "transference meaning" (i.e., the fact that the patient is given such a command). The latter often leads to the object-libidinal fantasy that the order is an impregnation and the dream a gift-baby. In a narcissistically regressed psyche, object-libidinal fantasies cannot be easily stimulated and I would therefore be inclined to emphasize, not the phallic nature of the "robot," the "mechanical m a n , " and the "cigar store Indian" in the patient's dream-equivalent, but

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rather the lifelessness, lack of h u m a n warmth, and strangeness of these figures. The patient's response contains a rejection of the object-libidinal demand made on her by the suggestion to dream. It represents the object (the psychiatrist) and the self as one, devoid of libidinal ties. I would also draw different conclusions about the patient's reaction to being told about her autoerotic sensations in the clitoris. I believe that the essential correctness of the interpretation tends to confirm the "reality" of her delusions, i.e., that there is a lack of boundary between her and others and that others know (i.e., have) her sensations and thoughts. She reacts to this confirmation of her delusions by further narcissistic withdrawal and by further depersonalization. We are indebted to Dr. Linn for his clear and straightforward clinical description and for the openness and absence of hedging in his interpretations. Dr. Linn also deserves praise for a performance that is as valuable and important as it is rare: that of an analyst who has restricted himself to the writing of a confirmatory essay. Despite the different emphasis I have put on some of the material, I consider Dr. Linn's report a valuable clinical confirmation of Tausk's description and am grateful to have had the privilege of discussing it.

16 "A Note on Beating Fantasies" by William G. Niederland DISCUSSION

Let me begin by repeating in a few sentences the crucial part of Dr. Niederland's all-too-Brief Communication. The patient says: " 'Noises are terrible. When I come out of the building and hear all the noises of the city I get a panicky, chaotic feeling. My body shrinks as if I were a one-year-old baby, even less . . .' After this diffuse anxiety experience, the patient 'structures the situation' by telling a homosexual partner to threaten him by talking to him in a masochistichomosexual way. The threat has been transformed into enjoyment." Now let us consider the three phases of the development of the beating fantasy established by Freud: (1) T h e preoedipal phase, giving expression to the child's sibling rivalry: a parent beats a sibling. (2) T h e oedipal phase, experienced by the phallic child as passive homosexual: the father beats me. (3) T h e latency fantasy, a disguise for the unconscious oedipal one: a teacher beats a boy. The important thing is that, in the usual case (which does not lead to masochistic perversion), the main trauma is oedipal, especially the oedipal primal-scene anxiety. T h e preoedipal conflict about Presented at the Fall Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, New York City, December, 1957.

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sibling rivalry is a less cathected forerunner; the manifest fantasy of latency is the expression of successful defense and disguise. We must first note the clinical difference: Freud described the development of a very common, perhaps universal fantasy. Dr. Niederland presents a case of overt homosexualmasochistic perversion. Dr. Niederlande penetrating study allows us to postulate a genetic formulation for the clinical difference. In both cases we have the primal scene in which the child identifies with the passive partner. In Freud's cases the primal scene was the major trauma, which was rendered harmless by defenses, with the result that the fantasy relating most closely to the primal scene disappears (the fantasy "I am being beaten by my father" becomes unconscious). In Dr. Niederlande case, however, the major trauma must have been early, preoedipal, and the primal-scene experience seems to have served for the mastery of a preceding trauma. As in the two steps of the perversion, one may assume that a diffuse chaotic early threat of contentless sensory overstimulation (what Dr. Niederland calls the threat of "auditory extinction") was mastered through erotization, with the aid of the contents of the oedipal period. This explains the conscious persistence of, and even insistence on, a fantasy that is so close to the primal-scene experience itself. It explains the need to re-experience the very fantasy that becomes unconscious in Freud's cases. We do not know the nature of the early preoedipal trauma. It was not recovered in the analysis, and it remains a question whether such remembering is possible. Early diffuse sensory threats seem to lead to the compulsion to repeat and to master, but they are apparently the stuff of primal repression; the psyche attempts to turn from it without internal psychological elaboration. But even if direct recovery of the early acoustic trauma is not available, the diffuseness of the threatening object symbolized as "the city," the vagueness, yet

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universality, of the threat, and the regression-experience (my body shrinks as if I were a one-year-old or even less) are extremely suggestive. Dr. Niederland has helped us further with supporting evidence by providing us with the demonstration of a "succubus response" in a fifteen-month-old child. Not having watched the child, I cannot be sure. But it seems as if the photographs portrayed both ego responses: the turning away (the regression) and the turning toward— buttocks and head—(the first trace of mastery through erotization). Let me close by saying that I am aware that I have done hardly more than elaborate a little on Dr. Niederlande description and reflections. I think Dr. Niederlande short paper constitutes a distinct advance in the psychoanalytic knowledge about the meaning and genesis of sexual perversion.

17 "Looking Over the Shoulder" by Morris W. Brody and Philip Μ. Mechanick DISCUSSION

Brody and Mechanick discuss, on the basis of a clinical example, the cause of the discomfort felt by people when somebody looks over their shoulder. The authors' approach is analogous to that of Freud when he delimited the category of "typical dreams." In other words, the authors assume that the relative uniformity of the conscious content of a "typical experience" in a "typical situation" is regularly bound u p with and explained by a specific unconscious content, analogous to the connection between uniform manifest content and unconscious meaning in the "typical d r e a m . " There can be no objections to following the methodological philosophy by which the authors were guided if we remain alert to the possible discovery of unsuspected specific meanings in the material. I am not certain how far I follow the conclusion that the relevant meaning of the discomfort one experiences in the "typical situation" the authors study is due to castration anxiety. Even the presenting symptoms that the authors take Presented at the Fall Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, New York City, December 1958.

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as the starting point for their theoretical considerations — the patient's fears of fainting and of blood—which lend themselves so clearly to being understood as a direct expression of castration fears, can also, I believe, be fruitfully considered in the context in which they first appeared when the patient was eleven. To quote: "These symptoms were identical to those his mother was then experiencing with the menopause." From this and other details of the history, it becomes evident that the patient was forced into a pathological identification with a mother who intruded into his innermost thoughts —a mother who even demanded of him an account of his sexual feelings. In my endeavor to understand the patient from the history the authors presented with such expertness, and especially as I tried to grasp the meaning of the crucial transference dream, I finally concluded that he was involved in a struggle against the intrusion of mother and analyst, that the closeness and intimacy he craved tended to become what Greenacre (1955) once referred to as an "absorption," with the resulting threat of the loss of his own personality, including, of course, the loss of the capacity for independent masculinity. Consequently, he attempts to safeguard the boundaries of ego and self by asserting independence through opposition. I should also like to direct your attention to the fact that people do not, I believe, react with the feeling of uneasiness in the typical situation unless, as in the manifest content of the transference dream, an element of intrusion is present. The patient says: "I . . . was writing down the dream and you were looking over my shoulder making comments." And later he tells of his annoyance over the fact that his mother, as usual, expected him to tell her all the details of a trip. Drawing on my own clinical experience, I would judge that the major transference conflict of the patient at the time of the dream was the libidinal striving for and the attempt to

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ward off the intruding mother-imago. He is attempting to fight off the pathologically anxious mother who does not love and respect him as an independent individual, but who intrudes into him, who does not let him make his own discoveries, who draws out his secrets and looks over his shoulder even as he has his dreams. A modicum of castration anxiety is likely to be present as well, but it does not seem to me to be central. I believe, furthermore, that the familiar feeling of mild discomfort when someone looks over our shoulder may often contain this element of intrusion. As we read a book, for example, the book and the self have become a unit from which we like to exclude others; if someone looks over our shoulder into the book we are reading, he disturbs a narcissistic equilibrium and we become resentful. If, on the other hand, someone looks over our shoulder when we are not similarly preoccupied, the experience is usually a neutral one. I do not deny, however, that the physical closeness of specific instances of somebody looking over one's shoulder may also evoke unconscious fantasies of a symbolic castration threat, and that there are some people who are particularly prone to experiencing the situation in this sense. In this context I suggest that we take a fresh look, in the light of the interesting thesis Drs. Brody and Mechanick have presented to us, at the characteristic combination of feelings of being observed and of being followed that is so frequently encountered in paranoid states. Is it not very likely that both the fear of absorption or intrusion as well as castration anxiety are fused in this delusion? I conclude by expressing my gratitude to the authors for the opportunity to study their forthright clinical description and for the occasion to discuss their thought-provoking conclusions.

18 Childhood and Creative

Experience Imagination

CONTRIBUTION TO PANEL ON T H E PSYCHOLOGY OF IMAGINATION

Both Dr. Greenacre and Dr. Editha Sterba began their examinations of the highest activity of the h u m a n mind, creative imagination, by turning their attention to certain mental activities of childhood: the imaginative play of children and the fantasy of the imaginary companion. Drs. Beres and Rosen steered a somewhat similar course this morning. T h a t analysts should pay attention to the childhood precursors in their attempt to understand the developed adult function would ordinarily be small news. But I believe that in this instance the relation between childhood function and the adult performance is a very specific and intimate one, in a special kind of sense, which I should like to discuss. Psychoanalysis has dissolved a universal delusion —the myth of the paradise of childhood. And we have come to understand furthermore that this myth is actively created to serve as a screen that protects us against the painful recall of the memories of the childhood traumata which are stored in An expanded version of remarks made at a Panel on Childhood Experience and Creative Imagination. The Panel was held at the Annual Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association in April, 1959, and was reported by Kohut in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1960), 8:159-166.

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the repressed unconscious. Although Freud's original assumption that certain gross external events (the sexual seduction of the child by adults) were the traumatizing factors was in error, the establishment of this fact that during early life the child is exposed to innumerable traumata has remained one of the great discoveries of analysis. The conceptualizations concerning the phase-specificity of trauma, the importance of traumatic childhood fantasy ("psychic reality"), the definition of trauma as a psychoeconomic concept, and the comprehension of the role of the relative vulnerability of the child's psychic apparatus have provided a theoretical framework consistent with empirical discoveries. But what about the positive aspect of the myth? Is the myth no more than a denial of the trauma —a repression of the unpleasant memories with creation of the opposite content to safeguard the repression? For our present purposes I should like to stress what I believe to be a fact, namely, that both contents, the denying as well as the denied, have a factual source in childhood experience. We say that the traumatic nature of childhood is due to traumatizations which the adult psyche could master more easily —or at least could master differently, with less propensity for the permanent sacrifice of whole areas of psychic functioning. We assume furthermore that the adult ego's strength rests on its gradually acquired structure, slowly built u p in consequence of innumerable frustrations of tolerable intensity. This structured ego serves as stimulus barrier and buffer in the interactions with inner and outer environment. It provides for the neutralization of drives and for ever more complex, varied, and efficient modes of discharge through action. Stimuli that once created panic, for example, now lead only to the anxiety signal. I believe, however, that not only the unpleasure (pain) of childhood is more acute but that the child's pleasure experience is also of an intensity no longer available to the adult's buffering and neutralizing ego.

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A certain childlike quality in the psychological make-up of the paradigms of creative imagination, the geniuses of art and science, has been often observed and has been remarked on by various speakers today. Jones mentioned Freud's credulity and a lack of prejudice that sometimes seemed hard to separate from naivete. Again (and other speakers have already remarked on the suffering of the genius), as with the assessment of childhood, we must not mistake this childlike quality for unmixed childhood happiness. T h e great in art and the truly pioneeringly creative in science seem to have preserved the capacity to experience reality, at least temporarily, with less of the buffering structures that protect the average adult: from traumatization—but also from creativeness and discovery. And in the truly creative, as in the child, the near-traumatic impact of new impressions necessitates an inner elaboration of unusual degree. I would therefore be inclined to consider characteristic for the psychological makeup of the great creators, not firmly organized neurotic structures—though neurosis may be present—but rather the childlike aspects of their personality, in accord with the tendency toward perverse erotism and the intense but shifting object cathexes of which Greenacre spoke. Creative personalities share with the rest of humanity all varieties of conflict and psychopathology, and I do not believe that either psychopathology or conflict can alone account for productivity. It is rather the special intensity of all the varieties of experience, normal or pathological, that forces him to create: the artistic temperament leads to productivity. In order to safeguard his psychoeconomic balance, the creative personality is compelled to employ creative activity to a greater extent than the person who is more successful in absorbing immediate impressions and their inner elaborations through reliable neutralizing and buffering structures. On the other hand, we learn from the biography of creative people that even in childhood the future genius

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possesses the capacity for handling traumatic stimulations and their traumatic inner elaborations by some creative activity, however rudimentary it might be. A self-reinforcing cycle is thus set up from early on. On the one hand, we see that great creative capacity renders the building u p of other forms of tension mastery (the acquisition of buffering, neutralizing structure) unnecessary. While, on the other hand, the continuation of creativity is necessitated by the absence of reliably buffering structures. Or, stated without reference to metapsychological concepts, we can say that the sensitive artistic temperament leads to creativity; and persistent creativity safeguards the artist's sensitive temperament. Individuals with noncreative personality structures, it may be added —the majority who are reliably protected against overstimulation by their well-functioning buffering ego—may obtain a fleeting return to the freshness and intensity of childhood experience from which they are usually barred by participating — as readers, listeners, beholders —in the creations of the artist. It is this return to an old, exhilarating mode of experience which accounts at least in part, for our intense enjoyment of art. And our admiration for the artist rests on our grateful recognition that he has returned to us, at least temporarily, a piece of our own childhood.

19 Beyond the Bounds of the Basic Rule Some Recent Applied

Contributions to Psychoanalysis

ι In an essay written in 1930, the great German writer Hermann Hesse spoke strongly against the abuse of psychoanalytic insights by literary critics, and protested, with trenchant irony, against the attempt to explain the personality of an author by the psychoanalytic investigation of his works: "If a patient should say to his analyst, 'My dear sir, I don't have either the time or the inclination for all these sessions, but I will give you here a package containing my dreams, wishes and fantasies insofar as I have written them down, partly in verse; please take this material and decipher from it, if you please, whatever you need to know'—what a scornful response would such a na'ive patient receive from the doctor!" (1930). T h e problem Hesse points up so sharply has remained an important one from the early days of psychoanalysis to the present. Can there be psychoanalysis without the persevering study of transference and resistance in the consistent and A book essay based on Swift and Carroll, A Psychoanalytic Study of Two Lives (1955) by Phyllis Greenacre; Great Men: Psychoanalytic Studies (1956) by Edward Hitschmann; Daniel Paul Schreber, Memoirs of My Illness, edited by Ida Macalpine and Richard A. Hunter (1955); and Beethoven and His Nephew, A Psychoanalytic Study of Their Relationship (1954) by Editha Sterba and Richard Sterba. First published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1960), 8:567-586.

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relatively objective form of free associations, supported by the (at least initially present) cooperation of the analysand? T h e question is, of course, academic: psychoanalysts, beginning with Freud, have not restricted themselves to observing under optimal conditions, but have employed the findings and principles obtained in the area of the central experiment in that borderland which has come to be known as Applied Psychoanalysis. Doubts about the reliability of the findings and procedures of applied analysis as well as about the soundness of its objectives have, however, continuously beset the workers in this field, and the suspicion of playful amateurism and absence of scientific rigor has often been voiced not only by those prompted by inimical motives but also by those most sincerely concerned with maintaining high scientific standards in psychoanalysis. T h e findings and claims of applied analysis offer, of course, an easy target for derisive condemnation by those whose enmity toward psychoanalysis has unconscious personal roots, and much of the most violent criticism the workers in applied analysis encounter can thus be understood as rationalized resistance. T h e authors of several of the books with which we are concerned describe and discuss these resistances. T h e Sterbas, for example, may be said to analyze resistances against psychoanalytic biography by contrasting the idealizing distortions of earlier biographers with their own striving for psychological truth. T h e following statements about Beethoven's first biographer, Anton Schindler, throw much light on the emotional background of the biographer's need to idealize his subject and thus also, indirectly, on the resistances against the nonidealizing psychoanalytic approach. " [Schindlern] reverence for Beethoven was of the fanatical type which we find when a negative undercurrent is to be suppressed and concealed by the intensity of positive atti-

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tudes. He was determined to present Beethoven as a figure harmonizing with the legendary approach and with his own hero-worship of the master, to whom he refers as Our hero.' The contents of many of the Conversation Books must have stood in the way of his undertaking. Schindler circumvented the difficulty by an act of force majeure unique in the history of modern biography. He destroyed 264 of the 400 Conversation Books" (p. 15). T h e Sterbas feel that Schindlern "purificatory activities . . . exemplify the way in which most of the later biographers have gone to work" (p. 16). They praise Alexander Wheelock Thayer as the "most important, accurate, and devoted to truth" among the Beethoven biographers. Yet, "when Thayer reached the point where he h a d to deal with Beethoven's relationship to his nephew . . . he was obliged to give up his work. . . . He developed intolerable headaches, which lasted all day, even if he worked on the biography for only one hour. At the same time he could devote himself to other work without ill consequences, and wrote two scholarly books during the period when he h a d to renounce work on his Beethoven biography" (p. 16). 1

In distinguishing their own efforts from the idealizations of the nonanalytic biographers, the Sterbas state: "Our presentation differs in essential respects from that of the usual Beethoven biographers. It attempts, as far as possible, to avoid evaluations, and, uninfluenced by his works, to recognize the psychological drives which are to be found in Beethoven's h u m a n relationships, especially in the most important of them, his relationship to his nephew. Such an undertaking is bound to encounter strong inner resistances" (p. 303). Greenacre, too, discusses the irrational resistances encountered by the psychoanalytic biographer. She ascribes the "peculiar cultish attitude of the admirers of the Alice books" 1

Notebooks into which Beethoven's partners in conversation, and sometimes Beethoven himself, wrote when talking became impossible because of Beethoven's deafness.

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to the fact that "Carroll's supreme art . . . furnishes an unconscious outlet through humor for . . . destructive pressures without a provocation to action" (p. 257). She describes the outraged reaction that followed upon Paul Schilder's (1938) paper on Alice in Wonderland and Lewis Carroll, which h a d been reported in the daily press. "One newspaper editorial suggested that anyone who sought to understand symbolism or hidden meanings should be kicked downstairs in the m a n n e r of the inquisitive young man and Father William; another m a d e a 'declaration of war' and warned psychiatrists 'to take their hands off our A l i c e ' . . . . Several turned the tables and accused him [Paul Schilder] of being a sadist" (p. 259). And Greenacre asserts that "the reaction of stormy touchiness seemed to indicate an almost religious protectiveness, especially since the main counterassertion was that the writings should not be examined or investigated at all" (p. 259). It seems clear that Greenacre looks upon these utterances with the eye of the clinician. Justifiably she sees in these angry outbursts not arguments that can be answered but resistances that call for interpretation. The Alice books express a vast "Hitlerian fantasy . . . in a form which touches and bemuses people in the psychotic part of Everyman's soul . . . " (p. 257). Yes, "Everyman" may be "charmed and comforted rather than stimulated . . . " (p. 257). But there are undoubtedly many readers in whom the capacity to sublimate the deep aggressions for which the nonsense created by Carroll's genius provides such a delightful catharsis is only insecurely established. These are the people who feel most threatened by the psychoanalytic investigation of the Alice books, and they cry out loudly against it. By implication, then, Greenacre interprets the outcries of the Alice defenders as a manifestation of an insecure capacity to sublimate those deep aggressions for which the nonsense created by Carroll's genius provides such a delightful catharsis. T h e apparent ease with which the worker in applied

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analysis can repudiate irrational attacks must not, however, prevent him from acknowledging the existence of genuine problems. T h e potential shortcomings of applied psychoanalysis are of three kinds: those relating to the qualifications of the worker, those emanating from the subject matter and from the methods of investigation that are employed, and those pertaining to the validity of the goals that applied analysis attempts to achieve. Concerning the first of these problems, we may say that, ideally, the worker in applied analysis should be proficient in two fields. Such twofold expertness is, however, rarely, if ever, completely attained. If the specialist in another field who is not trained in psychoanalysis endeavors to use analytic methods and to apply analytic principles, he often fails because it is well-nigh impossible to gain and maintain familiarity with the psychoanalytic method and to fathom the psychological reality underlying psychoanalytic principles without prolonged and continued clinical practice. Yet, while analysts are sensitive to perceiving the shortcomings of those who are amateurs in the psychoanalytic field, they are not equally aware of their own failings when they find themselves outside their own area of competence, and are then all too frequently ready to be consoled by the optimistic belief that conscientious study of a narrow area within an otherwise not completely familiar field may constitute a workable compromise. Deficiency in the broadly based knowledge that characterizes the expert often betrays itself by the unsuspecting ease with which extensive conclusions are derived from doubtful or insufficient evidence; even the pioneering mind of the genius is no safeguard in this respect against the commission of embarrassing errors. A striking example is the recently discovered mistake that mars Freud's magnificent essay on Leonardo da Vinci (1910a). Freud based a series of deductions on a single word, which was available to him not in the original Italian but in a perhaps only indirect translation,

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which, as has been recently discovered, was incorrect (1910a, Editor's note, p p . 59-62). A good example of the genuine proficiency in other fields that applied psychoanalysis requires of the analyst is Ernst Kris's essay on the Austrian sculptor Franz Xaver Messerschmidt (1933). Kris's imaginative approach, the moderateness of his conclusions, and the wealth and solidity of corroborative evidence he offers make the article a paradigm of research in applied analysis. Repeated critical contemplation of the work Messerschmidt produced during the last decade of his life led Kris to postulate the presence of a strange artistic failure that called for an explanation. Kris's trained aesthetic sensibility and his familiarity with the field of the plastic arts allowed him to compare the productions in question with the artist's earlier work and with the work of other artists of the same period. Kris's training in depth psychology gave him empathic access to a profoundly disturbed personality and led to the recognition—in opposition to the judgment accepted by professionals and laymen — that the busts were not, as had been believed, "representations of the h u m a n passions," but portrayals of the autistic grimaces of a schizophrenic. T h e thoroughness of the evidence that Kris (as both art historian and psychologist) is able to furnish in support of his thesis is worthy of study for anyone who wishes to investigate the methodological requirements of work in applied analysis. In addition to the problems concerning the qualifications of the worker in the field of applied analysis, there are others that relate to the method of investigation employed and to the subject matter investigated. These problems arise from the circumstance that applied analysis must proceed without the central instrument for the investigation of the unconscious: free association. Within certain limits, of course, it is true that, as Greenacre states, "the study of the works of a prolific artist offers material as usable for psychoanalytic

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investigation as the dreams and free associations of the patient" (p. 13). What is lacking in such a study, however, is the still more informative interplay of interpretation and resistance and the living ebb and flow of the transference, encountered, for example, in the reverberations to interpretations in the dreams of the subsequent night. Moreover, we must not forget that in the investigation of the works of even a prolific artist we are supported neither by the patient's therapeutic incentive toward self-revelation nor by his emotional tie to the therapist. T h e absence of a wish to be cured by insight and the lack of a transference bond are significant, because the work of the great may also be motivated by a tendency to hide and to deny, even when the artist professes to be prompted by an urge toward confession or self-revelation. Clearly, Freud seems to have assumed that the wish to hide was an important factor in the motivation of the poet, as the following report by Hanns Sachs demonstrates: "We were standing in front of . . . Goethe's works which filled three . . . bookshelves. Freud said, pointing towards it, 'All this was used by him as a means of self-concealment' " (Sachs, 1944). Having examined the qualifications of the worker and certain problems of methodology, we must now turn our attention to questions concerning the soundness of the aims of applied analysis. Do we contribute anything of importance to the understanding of great men and of their creations when we apply o u r psychoanalytic clinical insights to this nonclinical subject matter, or do we force our methods and values upon a field where they do not belong? Francis Fergusson, in discussing Jones's study of Hamlet, one of the classics of applied psychoanalysis, makes the following cogent statement about "psychoanalytic reductionalism": "My objection to Jones's interpretation is that it reduces the motivation of the play to the emotional drives of the Oedipus complex. This overworks that complex, and takes us

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too far from the play itself. Thus part of the point of the Polonius-Laertes, Ghost-Hamlet analogy is the comic similarity and the tragic difference between the insights of Hamlet and Polonius; and this tension cannot be reduced to the Oedipus complex. T h e Oedipus complex does not account for the fact that Hamlet, besides being a son, is also a dispossessed prince; nor that Claudius, besides being a father symbol, is also the actual ruler of the state. But the actual movement of the play—to say nothing of its ultimate meaning—depends upon such objective facts and values as these." And he continues: "In short, the analogous stories, situations, and relationships in Hamlet point, not to the Oedipus complex, but to the main action . . . of the play. And in that the emotional tensions of the Oedipus complex are only one element. T h e disease which is killing Denmark does not have a purely psychological explanation and cure, and the attempt to understand and destroy it has a moral as well as an emotional content. T h e religious, cultural, moral values of the tradition are at stake in this action; and the play as a whole has dimensions which cannot be completely understood if one thinks of it in these psychological terms . . . " (1949, pp. 111-112). It is true, of course, that the reproach of "psychoanalytic reductionalism" is no longer justified. T h e modern psychoanalyst is aware of the fact that the customary psychoanalytic approach to psychopathology is inadequate when he attempts to deal with the distinctive qualities of the personality of creative men or with their works. As long as psychoanalysts were predominantly occupied with the investigation of manifestations emanating from the repressed unconscious, however, studies of art remained focused on the elucidation of the traditional problems of psychoanalytic research: the uncovering of the contents and forms of the unconscious. To prove that the findings obtained in the clinical setting could be confirmed in other media was an equally important addi-

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tional incentive toward work in applied analysis. T h e work of art was therefore important only insofar as it admitted access to the unconscious complexes. Applied analysis, at that stage, was not primarily oriented toward the secondary field but toward the central area of psychoanalysis itself. Freud's essay on Leonardo, for example, was not primarily a contribution to the comprehension of Leonardo's personality and the vicissitudes of his creativity; it was a medium for the presentation of a particular form of homosexuality. It is against this type of applied analysis that the nonanalyst — from the viewpoint of his own field—may with some right direct the reproach of psychoanalytic reductionalism against the analyst's one-sided contribution. With the shift toward psychoanalytic investigation of the ego, however, and with our increasing knowledge of the ego, the scope of applied analysis has widened, and new areas for research have become accessible. T h e activities of the ego are now being studied not only in their genetic and dynamic relationship to the repressed, i.e., as defenses and sublimations, but also as either primarily or secondarily independent (autonomous) functions. While the discovery and investigation of manifestations of defense in the creative work of art remain of the greatest interest to analysts, the study of autonomous ego functions (for example, in artistic work) has become an important additional objective of applied analysis.

Among the efforts in applied psychoanalysis that form the basis for the present considerations, the investigation of Schreber's Memoirs can be identified most unequivocally as one focused on the traditional problems of psychoanalytic research: it is a psychoanalytic pathography. As a matter of fact, since Freud's interpretation (1911b), the Memoirs have been almost appropriated by psychoanalysis and have, in a

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sense, become a psychoanalytic classic. It may therefore be hard to acknowledge that Freud's investigation must be considered "Applied Psychoanalysis" of a kind; yet, obviously, it was undertaken outside the confines of the basic rule. Nevertheless, it is clear that Freud's interest was directed toward one of the central areas of psychoanalysis: the elucidation of a chapter of psychopathology. The writer is mentally ill, his productions are pathological, and the investigator analyzes Schreber's pathological personality and interprets his productions, which are seen as manifestations of his illness. Freud made no attempt to investigate either Schreber's creativity or its relation to his mental illness; nor did he examine the correlation of phases of productivity and nonproductiveness with other manifestations of Schreber's illness. And yet, not only can there be no doubt that Schreber possessed an extraordinary mind, but it is also apparent that his characterological make-up retained a degree of straightforwardness, sincerity, and strength despite the severest pathological distortions. Like the creative artist, Schreber does not wish to be cured as does the analysand, for example, in the initial, cooperative phases of therapy—he intends to teach and to convince. Macalpine and Hunter explain Schreber's motivation in writing the Memoirs by stating: "Believing himself the sole object of these divine miracles, Schreber felt it his duty to spread this knowledge . . . " (p. 5). In this respect Schreber is, like many creative minds, a m a n with a message that needs to be communicated. The fact that he possesses, in addition, considerable gifts of communication produces the curious result that the psychoanalytically trained reader finds himself at times undecided whether he should let himself become absorbed in the Memoirs as a movingly written h u m a n document and thus a kind of literary work, or whether he should follow the train of communications as if they were the free association of an analysand. T h e indecision resolves itself in favor of the interpretative approach when Schreber ex-

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pounds his delusional system at length and in the minutest detail. Content and form of the manifest production, although intended to convince the reader, cease to be appealing. Creativeness and art give way to almost pure pathology. Freud's essay on the Schreber Memoirs, the "Psychoanalytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia (Dementia Paranoides)," was published in 1911. Psychoanalysis has, of course, undergone significant developments since that time, some of the most far-reaching of which were introduced in Freud's own work. T h e outlook of the psychoanalyst of the 1950's who re-examines the Schreber Memoirs with modern conceptual tools will consequently be significantly different from that of Freud in 1911. Macalpine and Hunter's critique of Freud's essay is, however, disappointing on several counts. T h e authors appear to feel defensive about contradicting Freud's classical paper and are led to a vast overstatement of the position that psychoanalysis as a whole is still clinging to an unmodified acceptance of the results of Freud's first pioneering steps toward an understanding of the psychoses. The result is not only a lack of generosity toward shortcomings that are unavoidable in the first explorations of a new field, but an almost complete absence of historical perspective. Even more serious are the objections that must be raised against the level of the interpretations Macalpine and Hunter advance in opposition to Freud's results. According to these authors, Schreber was not defending himself against a homosexuality in which "a man qua man desires sexual relations with another of the same sex" (p. 404), but was communicating pregnancy wishes. If this theory had been presented some thirty years ago, it could have been considered an interesting alternative to the "neurotic mechanisms in paranoia" which are contained in Freud's Schreber paper. In the present stage of development of psychoanalytic knowledge, however, their theory —correct though it may be as an interpretation of surface content

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independent of psychological depth —is in certain respects rather old-fashioned. In 1911 Freud had already stated in his Schreber paper that the loss of the libidinal tie to objects, the loss of reality, was the central pathology and (the italics are his throughout) that "the delusional formation, which we take to be the pathological product, is in reality an attempt at recovery, a process of reconstruction" (1911b, p . 71). And he asserts "that the length of the step back from sublimated homosexuality to narcissism is a measure of the amount of regression characteristic of paranoia" (1911b, p . 72). Glover summarizes the psychoanalytic position toward paranoia well when he states in his textbook that "the delusion is an attempt to restore object relations of a homosexual type" (1939, p . 236). Later he continues: "The compromise in the case of psychoses is between total abandonment of pathogenic object relations and their reconstitution in a psychotic form" (1939, p . 236). It is remarkable that Macalpine and Hunter, in their critique of Freud as well as in their own hypothesis, do not acknowledge the existence of this central part of Freud's theory of the psychopathology of paranoia, but make it appear as if Freud had consistently placed it within the framework of mature object relations, "mature sexual lust," and the like. Freud's paper "On Narcissism: An Introduction" (1914b), published only three years after the Schreber paper, is not in the bibliography, despite the fact that here the object loss, the resulting hypochondriacal tensions, and the attempt at reconstitution are spelled out even more clearly. Neither is there a reference to van Ophuijsen's significant article of 1920. Edward Hitschmann's contributions to applied analysis are of two kinds: (1) reflections on the methods that might be employed in the study of biographies of great men, as well as considerations concerning the purposes of such investigations; and (2) the psychoanalytic investigations of the lives and personalities of important men. He believes that psychoanalytic

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biography has two aims: "to comprehend the subject of the biography in terms of the dynamic forces of his developmental experience" and to discover "the nature of the creative m a n and of the creative process," or, in other words, "the origin of creative imagination" (p. 17). In addition to the usual methods of psychoanalytic biography, he proposes "a new kind of group analysis, i.e., comparative analysis of the biographies of individuals in given fields, for example, writers, philosophers, painters, musicians . . . " (p. 7). And he adds: "Perhaps we might find in certain events such as bodily defects or the early loss of a parent or sibling a common origin for the tendency to be productive." He mentions that several of his "biographical subjects show a traumatic experience in early childhood as a possible source of their creativity. All are excessive daydreamers. . . . Many show a certain bisexuality or femininity or at least some conflict in masculine or feminine identification. Their productivity can be compared to the act of childbirth." Later he states his central conviction: "I found among my subjects that the father was always the most important person who was decisive for the destiny of the son—not only the main influence, but indeed the origin of all biography, of all life and of all i n s p i r a t i o n . . . . It seems as if these creative artists were productive through identification with the father who, as the breadwinner, represented achievement through work" (p. 20). Hitschmann's biographical essays make easy, pleasant reading; yet despite their numerous beautiful details, despite the clarity of the insights they often provide, and despite the many cogent brief statements they contain, the essays often leave the modern analyst dissatisfied. Here, "psychoanalytic reductionalism" really flourishes, although it must not be overlooked that the reductionalism is for the most part candidly avowed and almost always tactfully employed. From essay to essay, however, the reader is struck by the repetitive

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demonstration of the vicissitudes of the Oedipus complex, in particular of the father-son relation. The expositions are clear and convincing—yet Hitschmann's enviable certainty and simplicity can hardly be shared by the analyst of the midcentury. For example, such statements as: " . . . the scientist succeeds to a great extent in sublimating his infantile interests and inquisitiveness; the philosopher reveals by his endless doubting, searching, struggling, that he is never done with the primary problems and 'suffers' from them all his life" (p. 36) obviously contain a good deal of psychoanalytic truth, but immediately a great many questions arise which Hitschmann in 1913 (the quotation is from his essay on Schopenhauer) had no need to face. Is psychoanalysis really qualified to banish all philosophy into the realm of unsolved infantile curiosity? Clearly, the genetic derivation from the context of infantile sexual problems does not constitute an indictment of either science or religion and philosophy. And it is rather the inhibitions of the capacities to participate in scientific, religious, and philosophic experience, or the neurotic distortions of these activities, for which a disturbingly active infantile-sexual segment of the psyche must be held responsible. That Hitschmann himself was also aware of the fact that ego activities must be evaluated within the frame of reference of their own contribution, i.e., without regard to a genetic context, is clearly evident in his mildly critical attitude toward Freud's psychoanalytic views on religion. Freud, he says, "must have gone through a very intense oedipus complex which prompted him to write, at the age of seventytwo, The Future of an Illusion, his polemic treatise against religion. It presented a personal point of view; he himself said that his pupils may think differently about the problem" (pp. 263-264). To this statement one must only add that the Oedipus complex can be used to indict neither religion nor antireligious attitudes and opinions. Hitschmann often seems to be aware of the fact that the attitudes, opinions, and works

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of the great must be measured by a different yardstick and cannot be explained simply on the basis of "a very intense oedipus complex." Hitschmann, however, lacked the conceptual tools (especially Hartmann's concept of secondary autonomy) for such an undertaking, with the result that he tends toward the acceptance of the average, the usual, and the commonly encountered as a baseline from which to measure deviations. In his paragraphs on Albert Schweitzer, for example (p. 248; first published in 1947), he quotes Schweitzer as expressing his guiding principle as follows: "It struck me . . . as incomprehensible that I should be allowed to live such a happy life, while I saw so many people around me wrestling with care and suffering." Hitschmann's concluding commentary on Schweitzer's resolve to live a life of Christian action strikes one, however, as insufficiently grounded: "External happiness in which not all people participate in equal degree, he [Schweitzer] experiences as sin. Since this feeling is not a general one, we assume the existence of an unconscious guilt feeling which originated in early years and was revived by regression" (p. 49). T h e underlying assumption here that the deviation from the normal attitude is a reaction formation may be correct, yet it would seem that a keen awareness of the misery existing in the world and the determination to live a life devoted to the suffering are the autonomous attitudes of a mature ego. One might rather pose the question why this man was capable of maintaining his ideals beyond the temporary crisis of his early years and thus, during a period of unparalleled crisis of Western Christian civilization, could become by his very existence the spiritual support of so many. We must not leave the discussion of Hitschmann's contributions, however, without stressing the fact that the shortcomings that are so apparent are not Hitschmann's, but belong to the early period of psychoanalysis which remained his intellectual home. Few of the older analysts were able to

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fathom the extent of development that was introduced with Freud's "Inhibitions, Symptoms and Anxiety" (1926). Hitschmann's biographical essays are nevertheless worthy representatives of early psychoanalytic writing (notwithstanding the dates of some of the essaysl), and they contain beautiful and succinct applications and good examples of that id-oriented era. One still reads with undiminished pleasure many of his clear and insightful statements, such as the following: "One trait which is found most commonly as a reaction formation to a cruelty toward people is most pronounced in Schopenhauer: a deep compassion for the sufferings of animals" (p. 83). Or with reference to Goethe's son August: "If children of men of genius turn out badly, it is not necessarily hereditary taint or exhaustion of germ plasma; the narcissism of the father should not be forgotten as an explanation" (p. 151). Or about Samuel Johnson: "Johnson suffered from a severe insomnia, which frequently occurs in connection with oral insatiability" (p. 178). T h e Sterbas' Beethoven and His Nephew and Greenacre's Swift and Carroll are two outstanding contributions to psychoanalytic biography. They are appropriate samples for a scrutiny of the influence exerted by contemporary psychoanalysis as a whole on this branch of applied analysis, because the two books, alike only in their excellence, are markedly different in their aim and plan of execution. T h e Sterbas' work (which I have already reviewed elsewhere [1955b]) is impressive by virtue of the modesty of its aim, the thoroughness with which the main findings are substantiated, and the solidity of its structure. T h e authors concentrate on one aspect of Beethoven's personality which manifested itself first in his relation to his brother Karl and later in his ambivalently engulfing love for his nephew. It is the relation to the latter, the nephew Karl, that forms the major topic of the book. The authors study, report, and document extensively the known external facts concerning

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Beethoven's relation to his nephew. Their exposition includes a thorough investigation (from the vantage point of the psychoanalyst) of the reliability of the sources (discussed earlier in this essay). The Sterbas have thus set themselves a limited task, and they succeed in it: they provide the reader with a comprehensive portrayal and a convincing understanding of an important aspect of Beethoven's personality. Their success is due to the fact that psychoanalytic knowledge, when applied expertly to sufficient data, is capable of elucidating the personality being studied by extending surface features into the depth without replacing the living, struggling, and suffering man with the shadowy "formulations" and "dynamisms" toward which the amateur and the untalented tend. T h e following samples from the Sterbas' study will give a taste of the type of presentation the authors employ. First a quotation concerning Beethoven's attitude toward his brother: " . . . Ludwig's relationship to Karl resembles that of a certain kind of . . . mother to her son. Everyone knows this type of mother, who idolizes her son, babies him, gives in to all his demands and is blind to all his faults, always makes excuses for him and forgives him everything, so long as he more or less complies with her wishes, and so long as she feels sure of possessing him. When her son displays independence, this type of mother feels deeply hurt, and is often most unjust and bitter in her reproaches against him, accusing him of ingratitude. . . . Such a mother believes that, by this readiness to sacrifice herself, she fully compensates her son for his obligation to belong to her entirely" (p. 28). And a paragraph about Beethoven's attitude toward his nephew: "If Ludwig tortured Karl in this and other ways, he did so out of an inner compulsion. The great danger from which he had saved his beloved nephew . . . was the poisoning woman and mother . . . in so doing, he attempted to replace Karl's mother for him, at the same time identifying himself with her. In this

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identification, it was at First more the positive and loving side of the mother . . . which found expression, even though mingled with the negative traits of possessiveness, jealousy, and distrust. Gradually, however . . . the negative traits of the mother-image acquired the upper hand. Thus, he became more and more the evil, poisoning mother. As such, he was inwardly compelled to poison his nephew's life. He did so systematically, with increasing intensity and persistence, until the victim was stricken down" (pp. 274-275). T h e Sterbas' Beethoven and His Nephew may thus be considered an excellent example of one kind of application of psychoanalysis to the biographical data of a great m a n . It undertakes a task for which the instrument employed (i.e., the main body of psychoanalytic knowledge) is fully adequate if it is handled with the expertness these authors have at their disposal. There is no attempt to extend the limits of psychoanalytic knowledge and no attempt to explain Beethoven's creative genius on the basis of the distortions of his character. Even though the authors' concentration on one aspect of Beethoven's personality (and probably on the most pathological one) naturally provides a one-sided picture, the reader is rewarded by obtaining an image of the great man who, with all his glaring defects, appears more humanly warm than when portrayed by the usual tendentious biographical idealizations and glorifications. Greenacre's undertaking is much more ambitious than that of the Sterbas. While an ill-disposed critic might challenge the Sterbas' work by asking whether an analyst was needed to write such a study and whether the task could not have been undertaken by a psychoanalytically sophisticated professional novelist or biographer, the same critic might object to Greenacre's work by saying that, here, applied psychoanalysis has been overextended and that the psychoanalyst who wishes to present new clinical theses should restrict himself to reporting cases of patients whom he has

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analyzed. Neither of these objections, however, is justified. In the case of the Sterbas' book, it can be said that only experienced professionals could have achieved such seeming ease, and that it is precisely their thorough familiarity with psychoanalytic observation and psychoanalytic concepts that allows the authors to write their study so simply and without the use of technical terminology. It is quite different with Greenacre. While she makes some effort "to present the biographical chapters in as nontechnical language as possible . . . [her study] is intended primarily for psychoanalysts and readers already well-oriented in psychoanalytic theory and principles" (p. 12). In addition to presenting biography in depth as the Sterbas do, Greenacre's interest is directed toward two more strictly psychoanalytic areas: the presentation, discussion, and exemplification of a clinical thesis concerning the genesis and manifestations of a specific disturbance of the body image related to fetishism; and—what Greenacre calls "an unplanned dividend" —a contribution to the metapsychology of certain forms of humor. It is perhaps the only shortcoming of Greenacre's book that sometimes her interest in these two areas of research and her gifts for presenting biography in psychoanalytic depth do not mutually support each other, but tend to confuse the reader's interest and concentration. Thus, the figures of Swift and Carroll, well drawn and revealing though they are, do not emerge from Greenacre's descriptions with quite the same convincing poignancy as does the Beethoven of the Sterbas. In the Beethoven study, the attention is sharply focused on one relationship, which is described exhaustively in all its various surface manifestations and followed into the depth only insofar as the material allows itself to be traced with ease. Genetic reconstructions are therefore at a minimum. Greenacre, on the other hand, attempts to reconstruct the psychoanalytically crucial childhood situation of Swift and Carroll by a most expert application of the special-

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ized skill of the analyst: the matching of adult characterology and adult behavior (including, of course, foremost, the artistic oeuvre) with the available data from the childhood of her subjects. Her reconstructions, therefore, aim at a longitudinal and transverse-sectional completeness, which is, however, not often attained even via the clinical route, and which, beautifully complete and rounded out though her results appear, can never carry with it the degree of certainty that could be demanded by the very strictest of standards. Only the scantest psychologically significant information about Swift's infancy and earliest childhood is available; yet, Greenacre achieves a masterly integration of these data with the dynamics of Swift's adult personality as manifested in his opinions, his literary work, his political activities, and his psychopathology. The confusion created in the child by the bewilderingly unusual situation in which he found himself in the first years of his life exerted a profound influence on the permanent structure of his personality. Swift never knew his father, who died before Swift was born, and he had the task of assimilating two mother imagos: his natural mother and a nurse who, when he was a year old, kidnapped him and took him to England. "It was to be expected that a posthumous child would inevitably be a special child . . . [and that] the kidnapping . . . would tend to make him an object of great interest and curiosity" (p. 95). T h e result of these circumstances must have been deep-seated uncertainty about his identity, reactively heightened narcissism, fixation on voyeuristic curiosity, and fears of kidnapping—all of which Greenacre demonstrates in Swift's later character features, in his interpersonal attitudes and activities, and especially in his literary work. Gulliver's relatively changing size, in particular, is the artistic incarnation of the living reminiscences of Swift's early uncertainty about the nature and the boundaries of his self-identity, experienced in frightening shifts of early body feelings and contradictory swings of his narcissistic

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balance. In the First Voyage, "Gulliver is an enormous figure . . . " thus expressing the "primary narcissistic omnipotence of the infant who did threaten the welfare of those who cared for him. In the Second Voyage, he is reduced to a small size among giants, expressive of the helplessness of the child and the awareness of his small size which must become apparent to an infant between a year and eighteen months . . . (p. 96). While next to nothing is known about the kidnapping nurse, who reared Swift until he was four, Greenacre assumes, mainly on the basis of Swift's character development, that the nurse was one of those determined educators who force their charges to achieve premature mastery of a variety of skills, especially in the intellectual sphere. If the child is, for example, pressed to become proficient in the skills of reading and writing during a period when sphincter control is not yet reliably established, "when these educative achievements of intellect are being urged or forced before the emotional energy is sufficiently freed from attention to bodily preoccupation, the latter invades the former and the two are indissolubly linked" (p. 108). Swift thus seems to have been confronted, from the age of one to four, by a mother figure of overpowering ambitions in her demands for perfection of both sphincter control and intellectual achievement. Under such circumstances, Greenacre says, the child's ego development is "possible only through an early negativistic attitude, an ego organization through opposition, which follows an overly strong attempt at absorption by the mother. In some instances indeed, the early negativism and the anal fixation combine — exactly the same sort of anxiously demanding and protective mother tending to promote both in a basically strong and well-endowed child" (p. 104). It is evident that Greenacre here describes the probable genesis of Swift's anal and compulsive character: his contrariness and obstinacy; his scatological propensity, yet his revulsion for the apertures

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of the body; and his increasing hypochondriacal preoccupations. Greenacre demonstrates the association between Swift's intellectual and artistic powers and his rebelliousness. He "seemed like one who can only feel himself a person through opposing . . . " (p. 32); and he seems to have required the demeaning experience of being conceded his Bachelor's degree by a special dispensation before he could "become openly rebellious and with this rebellion begin to liberate some of his intellectual powers" (p. 26). T h e severest blow of his adult emotional life, the rejection by Varina, seems to have cemented the anal regression (p. 36) and thus "the selfrealization which was denied him through his failure with women, he sought instead from the satisfaction of power . . . " (p. 86) and in literary activity. It is, of course, neither possible nor even desirable to retrace the details of Greenacre's study of Swift in the present review. What should have become apparent is that in this and in the following masterpiece of modern psychoanalytic biography Greenacre is able, within the limits of the material at her disposal, not only to demonstrate the genetic and dynamic context of the personality development of two eminent figures in English literature, but also to show how their creative abilities, although emanating from their most threatening conflicts and embedded in the matrix of a pathological personality in precarious balance, achieved a significant measure of autonomy. In her presentation of Lewis Carroll, Greenacre uses the same technique previously employed for presenting Jonathan Swift. T h e writings and the adult character deformity of the quaint genius of nonsense are convincingly related to the few data available from his childhood, while the psychologically significant facts of the early emotional environment are reconstructed with that "tenderness, thoroughness, caution . . . and willingness to state probability rather than to assert downright certainty" (p. 13) which Greenacre demands of the

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psychoanalytic biographer. Carroll grew up as one of many children in an environment characterized during the crucial periods by the overwhelming presence and influence of his mother and sisters and by excessive demands for the complete and premature control of hostile envy. Again, as with Swift, Greenacre's capacity to sum up the early crises is unsurpassed. She describes "the plight of the little boy Charles," his feminine identification, and the pregenital coloring of his Oedipus complex: "The age of four to five (the phallicoedipal phase) is a critical time in the lives of most children, being a period of . . . special genital awareness due to the influx of heightened sensations in these organs. This is usually accompanied by a sense of generalized activity, energy and expansion. If, however, the possession of individual (including sexual) identity is already confused and considerable energy is bound in resentments which must not be put into action or even revealed, the natural buoyant expansiveness of the period becomes complicated. Especially in boys . . . the increased genital sensations accompanying tumescence and detumescence become bewildering and frightening rather than invigorating. The child then . . . [feels his oedipal attachment] . . . too much in terms of earlier stages of development, with the wish for oral conquest and the fear of an oral retribution" (pp. 216-217). Charles thus "had much in his nature that suggests the Victorian woman" (p. 223), a character development that was due to the uncertainty of his body identity and his fear of any strong emotion, especially those accompanying rage and sexual stimulation. As he grew older his personality became more and more split into Dodgson, on the one hand, the Oxford don who was an average mathematician, controlled and retiring, and Lewis Carroll, on the other hand, the writer of the charming nonsense of the Alice books which represent "the birth of a unique form of literary art . . . " (p. 257). Greenacre demonstrates that Carroll's poetic productions

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served him as a medium for an incessant working over of his basic psychological problems. She feels that the deep disturbance of his identity and the insecurity of the borders of his early body-self are expressed through Alice's changing size, just as Swift expressed similar problems in Gulliver's Traveh through Gulliver's relatively changing size in Lilliput and Brobdingnag. The capacity for the "reanimation of inanimate objects, the sense of personal communication with Nature, the detailed personalization of animals . . . " (p. 223) which are so prevalent in Carroll's writings, Greenacre dates back to his latency period — the latency period of a child who has not finished with the problems of his earliest years. Those fundamental problems relate to the first firm establishment of reality "when the child is emerging from its primitive state to the dawning conception of consequence, order, and reason . . . the period of transition from primary-process to secondary-process domination of psychic life" (p. 210). Carroll was able, in Wonderland, to reproduce the "spirit of this primitive type of 'feeling-thought'. . . with such gentle ease that it awakens in the reader a feeling of fantastic familiarity with an extravaganza of outlandish nonsense." T h e fears, too, that are expressed in Carroll's writings are mixtures of oedipal anxieties and more archaic dreads, embodied in such monsters as the Jabberwocky or the Snark. A primitive dread of annihilation through overstimulation, fused with oedipal primal-scene anxieties and with still later anxiety-provoking experiences, is ultimately worked over in Carroll's poetry as the grotesque danger of extinction and of vanishing. Greenacre also deduces from the recurrent appearance of parodied foolish merry old men in Carrol's writings (Father William in Wonderland; the Aged Aged Man in Looking Glass; the m a d musical gardener in Sylvie and Bruno) that the final unconscious fantasy was influenced by "some actual but repressed memory of the author's which was insistently recurring in hidden forms: that probably in his childhood Charles had

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been stirred at the sight of an older man, perhaps a gardener, in a state of sexual excitement" (p. 230). Toward the end of her book Greenacre makes an extremely valuable illustrative contribution to the field of psychoanalytic psychopathology by means of a comparison between the characters of Swift and Carroll. "Swift's disturbance . . . was closer to the neurotic. He almost achieved a genital functioning, but, excessively vulnerable, slipped by regression mostly to the anal-sadistic expression of his conflicts and urges, and the strengthening of special concomitant defenses and character traits. His sense of reality was in general good, such impairments as it suffered coming rather from the complications of identity and identification of his early l i f e . . . . Carroll's defenses, on the other hand, controlled a disturbance so basic and primitive as to be closer to the psychotic . . . his reality sense was cramped and invaded by prohibitions invoked against his hostile fantasies which terrified him, until they became masked in humor" (p. 256).

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Having given our attention to each of four recently published volumes of psychoanalytic biography, it is now our final task, on the basis of the preceding examination, to clarify the objectives of this branch of applied analysis and to determine its significance for the whole of present-day psychoanalysis. All the investigations contained in the four volumes of psychoanalytic biography we have discussed were undertaken without the aid of the psychoanalytic interview. Although they thus share a number of important methodological difficulties, their aims are widely divergent. The contrast in purpose becomes most evident when we compare the analysis of the Schreber case with the Sterbas' Beethoven study. Freud's Schreber analysis was undertaken solely in order to

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clarify a chapter of psychoanalytic psychopathology: it is a psychoanalytic pathography. The Macalpine-Hunter contribution, which constitutes a polemic attempt at correcting Freud's findings and conclusions, clearly falls, of course, into the same category. The Sterbas, by contrast, avail themselves of a well-established chapter of psychoanalytic characterology for the elucidation of the personality of an eminent figure of Western culture; their study is a biography supported by psychoanalysis. Greenacre's and Hitschmann's works take positions that lie between these opposite poles. Both authors not only apply existing psychoanalytic knowledge for the purpose of contributing to our understanding of important individuals, they also set themselves the task of enlarging the area of psychoanalytic knowledge itself. Hitschmann discusses the dynamics and genetics of creativeness; Greenacre finds support for a clinical thesis, derived from the analysis of fetishists, in her investigation of the personalities and of the work of Swift and Carroll; and (in her study of Carroll) she also makes a contribution to our understanding of the metapsychology of a specific form of humor. On the basis of the foregoing examination of the aims and purposes of some recent contributions to applied analysis, we can thus distinguish various types among psychoanalytic investigations of creative minds and of their creations: 1. Established psychoanalytic knowledge may be used for the primary purpose of contributing to the understanding of the personalities of significant individuals. This approach may be called biography supported by psychoanalysis or biography in depth. 2. T h e primary aim may be either an expansion of psychoanalytic knowledge or the demonstration and exemplification of already existing psychoanalytic knowledge. Studies with this aim have almost always been focused upon either predominantly pathological individuals or, at least, on pathological aspects of the personality under investigation. We

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will therefore call this approach psychoanalytic pathography. 3. T h e research may be aimed at the elucidation of the contribution made by specific conflicts and other psychological constellations to the development, maintenance, and disturbance of normal or especially desirable ego functions. Insofar as research in this area is concerned with creative people, we shall call these approaches the psychoanalysis of creativity and the psychoanalysis of disturbances of creativity. Such a classification of the psychoanalytic investigations of creative minds and of their creations is not meant to be rigid. Examination of the four recent contributions from which the classification was derived makes it amply clear that studies in psychoanalytic biography only rarely follow a single direction; they usually pursue a variety of goals. In addition, the classification remains unsatisfactory because it deals only with those conscious goals of applied psychoanalysis which are averred in scientific discussion. It omits the search for the dynamic motivation that prompts the analysts who contribute to the field in question and those who constitute their audience. Yet, there can be little doubt that, in spite of frequent expressions of misgivings and repeated calls for scientific rigor, many analysts feel attracted to the field of applied analysis and continue to contribute to it. And there is equally little doubt that studies in analytic biography find a receptive audience in the psychoanalytic community. What is the nature of the affinity between psychoanalysis and art? Freud remarked that the great poets were the precursors of psychoanalysis; yet he was inclined to stress the difference between the sober scientific approach and the intuitive, creative understanding of h u m a n nature which the artist brings to his audience. It struck Freud "as strange that the case histories I write should read like short stories. . . ." Yet he consoled himself "with the reflection that the nature of the subject is evidently responsible for this, rather than any

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preference of my own" (Breuer and Freud, 1893-1895, p . 160). Freud may have had good reasons for underplaying the relationship of the activity of the creative psychoanalyst to that of the creative artist; the field was new and had to be defended against the attack of established experimentalism. Yet, the fact remains that many creative analysts have a flair for the artistic presentation of their material; and, Freud's denial notwithstanding, the formal beauty of his own work cannot be brushed aside with references to "the nature of the subject." Ernest Jones, in his biography of Freud, paid close attention to a suppressed side in Freud's personality when he spoke of "The daemon of creative speculation, which he [Freud] had so ruthlessly checked" and which Freud himself had called "my phantastic self" (1955, p . 431). We know little about the psychology of creative psychoanalysts. It is likely that they are represented by different personality types; yet there is certainly one group among them in which a greater than average need for artistic expression during adolescence and early adulthood is finally channeled into devotion to the science of psychoanalysis. It is probably this group that tends toward the quasi-artistic preoccupation with the biographical branch of psychoanalysis in which imagination plays a greater role, and in which the subject that is investigated can be chosen by the worker according to his predilections and needs. The Beethoven book by the Sterbas and the two essays by Greenacre, especially the one on Carroll, are close to being artistic productions themselves. In these books, analysis, without losing its scientific rigor, again seems close to its poetic origins. Ultimately, we must also acknowledge the contribution made by the biographical branch of applied analysis to psychoanalytic pedagogy. After all, there are many similarities between the free associations obtained in the clinical interview and the material at the disposal of the analyst who investigates the personality of the artist from the data of his

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biography and the details of his work. T h e analysand's stories and those found, for example, in literary works of art contain intricate mixtures of revelation and concealment; there is thus also a structural parallel between the material investigated by the clinical analyst and the subject matter of the worker in applied analysis. While psychoanalytic clinical research must remain predominantly based on clinical evidence "preferably obtained in the psychoanalytic interview" (Kris, 1952b), works such as the Sterbas' Beethoven study or the Swift and Carroll studies by Greenacre are invaluable as teaching devices and as means for the dissemination of psychoanalytic knowledge among analysts. T h e reader has access to the very material upon which the author's conclusions are based, and there is no need to disguise information or to omit data for reasons of discretion, as is unavoidable in clinical reports; the author's procedure is therefore open to examination and direct study. The "wild analysis" of the amateur can be identified by the discriminating reader, whereas the skill, caution, and tact of the experienced and gifted in our field can be studied in their interaction with the free flow of imagination that will always remain indispensable to the psychoanalyst.

20 "Further Data and Documents in the Schreber Case" by William G. Niederland DISCUSSION

I have no claim to the specialized competence that would justify membership in the exclusive and distinguished club of Schreber devotees among analysts. I remember that Norman Reider, on the occasion of a previous communication by Dr. Niederland, expressed similiar misgivings — but he h a d at least lent two books on Schreber to the author. Contrary to tradition, I shall make my most important statement at the beginning: namely, I believe that Dr. Niederlande fascinating researches on Schreber's early environment constitute a significant contribution to psychoanalysis. It seems almost incredible, now, that father Schreber's writings had not been studied earlier by analysts and that the discovery of "the kernel of historical truth" in Schreber's delusions was not made for almost fifty years following Freud's paper. Thanks to Dr. Niederland, it all seems so easy and clear now. Presented at the Fall Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 1960. Dr. Niederlande paper, under the title of "The 'Historical Truth' in Schreber's Delusion" is in his The Schreber Case: Psychoanalytic Profile of a Paranoid Personality. New York: Quadrangle/New York Times Book Company, 1974, pp. 93-100.

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But not only are cogent discoveries like Dr. Niederlande frequently so clear and simple in their power of explaining the unexplained; we have hardly recovered from the shock and the pleasure of recognition, when we are faced with the well-known fact that each new insight quickly transforms itself into a set of new questions. We see, for example, the illustrations from Dr. Schreber's books, and in a flash the incomprehensible Kopfzusammenschnilrungswunder (the head-being-tied-together-miracle) is explained. But is it? What is the relation between the anamnestic data from childhood and the delusions of the adult psychotic? T h e temptation to tacitly accept a simplified cause and effect sequence is great: the early trauma "caused" the later symptom, somewhat like the "imprinting" of the ethologists. Yet, we know that the relation between adult symptom and childhood experience is more complex. To state a paradox: perhaps it was fortunate that Freud, in 1911, had no access to this material, or that he did not know of it. His inevitable fascination with the historical truth might have delayed Freud's central discovery that "the step back ... to narcissism" is characteristic for the psychoses, and that "The delusional formation . . . [is not the central pathology but] . . . an attempt at recovery, a process of reconstruction . . . "(1911b, p p . 171-172). Or should I rather say that it was part of the uncanny ways of genius that Freud, at the time of the Schreber research, was not concentrating on specific anamnestic data but, in the main, was investigating empathically the presenting psychosis in depth? Here perhaps lies the answer to the question about the reason for Freud's restraint on which Dr. Niederland comments in one of his earlier contributions. At the end of his present paper, Dr. Niederland disclaims that the data so far unearthed throw light on the why and how of Schreber's psychosis as such. His reserve is justified, and, insofar as the bare data are concerned, I agree that they

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do not account for the essence of the psychosis: the narcissistic fixation and regression. But I cannot resist expressing the opinion that an interpretation of Dr. Niederlande data may help us to arrive at a plausible hypothesis in this respect. Since the discussant's time is limited, I can present my opinion only in the barest outline, hoping that I shall have a chance to continue my discussion with Dr. Niederland later. I believe, with Dr. Niederland, that the secret of Schreber's psychosis is bound u p with his father's personality—adding the important fact, stressed in the material presented today, that the mother was subordinated to, submerged by, and interwoven with the father's overwhelming personality and strivings, thus permitting the son no refuge from the impact of the father's pathology. What is this pathology? We have no accepted diagnostic category, but I believe he represented, not a severe kind of psychoneurosis, but a special kind of psychotic character structure in which reality testing remains broadly intact so long as it is in the service of the psychosis, of the central idee fixe. It is probably a kind of healed-over psychosis, similar, I believe, to Hitler's, who emerged from a lonely hypochondriacal phase with the fixed idea that the Jews h a d invaded the body of Germany and had to be eradicated. T h e absolute conviction father Schreber had toward his ideas, the unquestioning fanaticism with which he pursued them, betrays, I believe, their profoundly narcissistic character, and I would assume that a fear of hypochondriacal tensions lies behind the rather overt fight against masturbation. His fanatical activities, too, although lived out on the body of the son, belong to a hidden narcissistic delusional system. The son, in other words, is felt as part of the father's narcissistic system, and not as separate. I believe that here lies a major source of the son's narcissistic fixation. To be stimulated and oppressed while included in the hidden narcissistic-delusional system of the stimulating and oppressing adult does not further the

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child's elaboration of object-libidinal sexual fantasy or of vengeful fantasies directed against the object; it predisposes to a narcissistic distribution of the sexual and aggressive drives.

21 'The Unconscious Fantasy' by David Beres DISCUSSION

For some years, many of us have skimmed the table of contents of psychoanalytic periodicals and have now and then turned the pages with pleasurable anticipation to an article by Dr. Beres, looking forward to a scholarly, level-headed discussion without easy generalizations, flashy conclusions, popular simplifications, or cheap dichotomies of true and false. This evening, too, we were not disappointed. T h e subject matter is broad, and because it impinges on almost every aspect of psychoanalytic theory it cannot be discussed in isolation. I shall, however, restrict myself here to two topics: my own theoretical predilections as they bear on the subject of the unconscious fantasy, and the knotty problem of isolating the unconscious fantasy from related psychological phenomena. With regard to the theoretical background, it seems fruitful to me to emphasize an innovation contained in the structural model, one often not sufficiently stressed, I believe, namely, the subdivision (or rather the shading over) Presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, September, 1961. Dr. Beres's paper was published in The Psychoanalytic Quarterly, (1962), 31:309-328.

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of the psyche into, on the one hand, a part where id and ego form a continuum and, on the other hand, a part in which id and ego are divided. I suggest that we call the first segment of the psyche the area of progressive neutralization and refer to the second as the area of structural conflict or the area of transferences. We may accordingly distinguish unconscious fantasies that are involved in structural conflict from those that are not. Near the surface in the area of neutralization, we find the daydream, which is motivated by the present reality situation and by the past as embodied in the sum total of experiences that are not excluded from free (though neutralized) influence upon the rest of the personality. Teleologically (or from the adaptive point of view, if you prefer) we may say that the daydream fantasies serve a buffering function for the healthy psyche when it is confronted with the frustrations and reversals of life. We may wish to write a great paper; we present our thoughts to our colleagues who do not share our narcissistic preoccupations (quite otherwise, in facti); we are faced with our failures, worse, with our averageness; yet, we soften the insight by reactively spinning out wish-fulfilling fantasies concerning the great contribution we will yet make, and so forth. T h e surface fantasies within the psychic continuum of progressive neutralization are also motivated by those deeplying wish constructions acquired in childhood which remain the fountainhead for many of our adult passions, predilections, and goals. These fantasies from childhood are not opposed by a barrier of defenses, and lead to nontransference repetitions in a neutralized, reality-adapted way. 1

1

[Transferences, or transference repetitions arise from behind the repression barrier in the "dichotomized" segment of the psyche. In contrast, nontransference repetitions arise from the depth of the psyche in the nondichotomized segment, referred to as the area of "progressive neutralization" as first expressed by Kohut in this paper and further delineated in

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Although they do not arise in the ego, they are dominated by it and fitted into the ego's organization. They give our personalities depth and provide the life blood for many of our most characteristic preconscious fantasies and conscious predilections and actions. Take, for instance, Freud's (1917a) famous statement that "if a m a n has been his mother's undisputed darling he retains throughout life the triumphant feeling, the confidence in success, which not seldom brings actual success along with it" (p. 156). Here Freud obviously speaks about the results of adaptively valuable narcissistic fantasies which provide lasting support to the personality. It is also evident that these early narcissistic fantasies of power and greatness must not have been opposed by sudden and premature experiences of traumatic disappointment; they must have become gradually neutralized by education and experience in order to be useful vis-ä-vis the realities of life and to fit into the ego's reality-oriented organization. Let me further briefly refer to those major decisions in life which, Freud once advised, one should not make by reliance on reason. I assume he meant the choice of a mate and of a profession. A childhood love object and a complex of fantasies surrounding it forms, I am sure, the basis of most happy marriages; again, an object of identification and a cluster of fantasies relating to it contribute more to the satisfaction with and success of our adult work than do single drive-components that lend themselves to sublimation. It is this area, too, that contributes more to our "identity," "that deep knot" which ties together our personality, as Goethe once said, than the surface layers with their national or religious loyalties which borrow their apparent strength from the deeper identifications. We now come to the second segment of the psyche: the Kohut and Seitz (1963). "All transferences are repetitions, but not all repetitions are transferences" is another way Kohut expressed this earlier (1951a).]

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segment of structural conflict and of transferences. It contains the area that is most familiar to all of us: the repressed Ucs. Here belong the all-important group of fantasies we call the Oedipus complex, positive and negative, with such clusters of individual secondary formations as rescue fantasies, the variations of the family romance, and the like. Dr. Beres has, in his presentation, given an excellent example for the efficacy of a fantasy in this psychic location —the patient's reaction to the wet ceiling. Nearer to the surface, we find not only derivative transference fantasies but also fantasies that serve the purpose of keeping more undisguised transference fantasies in check, for example, fantasies with an ascetic, self-denying, or self-sacrificing content, such as of living a monkish life. I cannot leave the subject without a brief scrutiny of the comparative accessibility to consciousness of the aforementioned varieties of fantasy. In the area of structural conflict, the boundary between what is available to consciousness and what is not is more or less sharply demarcated — not by a distinct line, to be sure; yet the important transitional area of dimness between light and dark is rather narrow. The usual penetration toward the depth of the repressed (let us say during the analysis of a dream) is perforce limited in a single analytic hour. It is quite different with the fantasy structures in the area of progressive neutralization. Here we can pursue the fantasies as they become more and more regressive, and there does not seem to be an abrupt barrier that suddenly calls a halt to observation. It is true, of course, that the deeper fantasies in this area become less and less intelligible; this is not due to "defenses" in the usual sense of the word, but rather to the increasing formal regression (Freud, 1900a, p . 548) of the material. T h e increasingly visual character of deeper-lying daydreams is, of course, familiar to all of us. Deeper yet are the formal characteristics of changes in body feeling, such as the sensations of the Isakower phenomenon—

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which may simply be a name for a great number of different primitive fantasies we are unable to distinguish. Penetration of consciousness into this area can thus be achieved—not limitlessly, to be sure, but quite deeply. T h e presence of another person (except in regressions induced through hypnosis), appears, however, to be an obstacle. Unimpeded solitary concentration and training seem to be necessary. (Think, for instance, of Silberer's observations of hypnagogic phenomena [1909], and of Varendonck's observation of his own fantasies [1921].) The fantasies thus recovered often cast a peculiar pall of boredom on others—probably the result of their very personal, nontransference character. On the other hand, penetration into the depths of structural conflict is extremely difficult without assistance. Pure introspection leads nowhere, and even self-analysis tends to founder on the resistances. T h e analyst listening to the patient's productions in this area is, however, not usually bored, even when he is at sea about understanding the content of the communications—probably because the material consists on the whole of object-directed transferences and thus arouses his unconscious response. Dr. Beres alluded to the topic of creativeness in relation to the unconscious fantasy, and we know that this topic is dear to his heart. Analysts usually have little opportunity to observe their patients' creative activities during the process of analysis. During the early part of the terminal phases of analyses, however, when patients are faced in earnest with having to resign themselves to the nonfulfillment of their transference wishes, we encounter various creative or sublimatory activities, often reminiscent of similar activities undertaken during latency and adolescence. We usually learn very little about the deeper dynamics of these activities even if we otherwise know the patients very well—it is as if we were rightfully excluded here, since this is not a true transference manifestation and thus none of our business. (I might

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mention, as an aside, that I consider any attempt at interpretation of the unconscious motivation of such activities a technical mistake.) There is nevertheless occasionally one access open to the analyst's more intimate observation of the creativity in the analysand during this time: the activity of creative fantasy in the patient's dreams. Let me give you a clinical example of a dream I would consider akin to an artistic production. It was told by a patient (a sensitive, somewhat paranoid m a n in his mid-thirties) in his associations to another, similar dream, which occurred under approximately the circumstances I outlined earlier. T h e dream I will report had been dreamed more than twenty years ago, accompanying the first seminal emission: it was a "wet dream." T h e patient's memory of the dream was vivid and gave the impression of a recent strong experience. In the dream, the patient was gazing on a landscape of great beauty and peacefulness. There were rolling meadows of a warm and dark green and winding brooks fdled with gaily moving water which reflected the blue of the cloudless sky. Small clumps of trees surrounded h u m a n dwellings of rustic style, and, although no people could be seen, there was life: cows were grazing, there were white patches of grazing sheep clearly outlined against the green background of the meadows. Suddenly, the peace was disturbed by a distant rumble. T h e patient looked up and discovered that the landscape which he had beheld was a valley at the foot of a high dam. T h e threatening rumble seemed to emanate from there, and suddenly the patient saw deep rents in the d a m . All the colors of the landscape changed, slightly but significantly. The blue of the sky and of the waters became a blackish-blue. T h e green of the grass changed into a sharp, unnatural green; and the trees appeared darker. The cracks of the dam widened, and then, all of a sudden, a maelstrom of ugly, dirty, destructive floods poured forth, overrunning the countryside with all its beauty, sweeping away the trees,

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houses, and animals. T h e last unforgettable impression, before he woke up in horror, was the sight of the white sheep changing into the spinning whiteness of the whitecaps that enveloped everything. This beautiful dream achieved, in a quasiartistic fashion, the pictorial rendition of a theme that had remained central in the patient's whole life: the disturbing intrusion of a sadistically tinged sexuality upon the comparative peacefulness of his earlier adjustment [see Kohut, 1971, p p . 322-323]. To transmit to you the complexity of condensation, the historical references hidden in this artistic fantasy (a sleepfantasy rather than a dream!) goes beyond the bounds of this discussion. T h e point I wish to raise is that I have gained the impression from this and other dreams of this type that the creative unconscious fantasies that underlie the manifest content of such dreams arise in the borderland where the area of structural conflict and the area of progressive neutralization join. They deal with repressed material, yet with fluid repressions and, if the ego makes a heroic effort, the material can be artistically elaborated instead of being drawn into symptom formation. T h e second part of my discussion deals with two problems: how to define the nature of the unconscious fantasy, and how to distinguish it from other related psychological phenomena. T o begin with, I admit to some bewilderment vis-ä-vis the recurring vexing question, what the unconscious fantasy "really" is. Is this a question psychology can answer, or does it belong to the realm of philosophy? If we follow Freud's earliest conception of consciousness as a sensory organ, a part of the problem is immediately banished into the realm of metaphysical speculation. What mental processes really are (that is, what they are when we are not conscious of them) corresponds, then, to the analogous question concerning the

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essence of the external world. It is an almost universally accepted preliminary axiomatic working hypothesis that things are as we grasp them with our senses. If we have indirect evidence of the existence of an unconscious fantasy in an analysand (from the confluent evidence of his dreams, for example, his personality features, and specific action patterns), and if we later achieve, through the analysis of resistances, his becoming conscious of the corresponding fantasy with the feeling "I have known this all along," I think we may assume that the fantasy had been present approximately in the form in which awareness captured it later. But the question goes, of course, further than this. Does not the work of analysis produce gradual structural changes and thus transform a pathogenic fantasy before it becomes conscious? Or, in other words, is it not likely that some fantasies cannot become conscious in their original form and can only be extrapolated through the indirect evidence of their influence on dreams, symptoms, and behavior? A child cannot tell us about preverbal fantasies; he cannot tell us about later fantasies that have never been conscious (even most of the masturbation fantasies of the oedipal period seem to belong here), and the grownup's direct access to these fantasies is barred by defenses and anxiety. There are two approaches to this problem: experimental and theoretical. T h e first rests on the self-observation of regressive mental content in the psychic continuum of progressive neutralization; the second on the introduction of measurable quantitative units into psychoanalytic theory. T h e experimental approach appears at present to be more feasible. It consists of the self-observation of more and more regressive content, the introspective grasp of the formal characteristics of less and less neutralized primary processes in the area outside the realm of superego anxiety, castration anxiety, fear of loss of love, and fear of loss of the object. T h e greatest difficulty lies, I assume, in the fact that the mere

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intensity of undisguised primary processes, independent of the effect of any specific ideational content, may cause a dread of traumatic overstimulation, and, thus, self-observation has its limits. But we may still be far from having explored this area to the fullest, and the courageous, psychoanalytically sophisticated experimentalist has here a promising field to investigate, for example, with the aid of artificially induced regressions. T h e introduction of usable quantifications still seems far away, indeed. T h e physicist can deal mathematically and without recourse to sensory impressions with significant aspects of reality; comprehending psychology, however, still has to rely on nonquantifiable abstractions from psychological data and cannot employ mathematical operations without becoming utterly sterile and insignificant. In the absence of quantifications, our approach to the problem of differentiating fantasy from other mental activities must still rest on the use of abstractions from a comparative phenomenology and on the examination of the broader mental context in which the various mental activities occur. Undoubtedly, fantasy relates to logical thinking approximately as play relates to work. This does not mean that play or fantasy have no direction, that they are not motivated, or that they may not strive toward a goal. What is different is the participation of the ego. We can, it is true, set u p mental conditions facilitating fantasy, but we cannot will ourselves to fantasy in the same way as we decide to think logically or to work. I believe that most analysts are influenced by Freud's statement (1926, p . 125) about the relation of the ego to anxiety: The ego "gives the signal of anxiety." In my opinion, this phrase is misleading. At first the ego suffers the anxiety passively. But then the healthy ego reacts actively against the spreading of nameless anxiety (it prevents the development of panic) and in so doing gives a specific meaning to the expe-

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rience. A nameless anxiety has now become a message —a signal that a specific identifiable danger is present and that appropriate actions must now be contemplated. A nonadaptive, passive experience has been transformed into adaptive readiness for action. We are not, however, capable of evoking anxiety at will the way we decide to direct our thought to the solution of a problem. T h e same applies to fantasy. Fantasies are organizations, to be sure, and I believe that it is of great merit to stress this point as Dr. Beres has done, but the relation of fantasies to the ego is different from that of goal-directed, task-solving, secondary-process thinking. Fantasies, even those in which there is a sizeable admixture of secondary processes, are also nourished from the depths of the personality where the ego cannot participate as an originator. The ego may prevent or permit and even encourage the intrusion; it organizes it and uses it for its own purposes —but it is always also dealing in part with foreign currency. Only an ego that is confident of its capacity to control can relax enough to permit playfulness and fantasy and put it to its own use.

22 The Psychoanalytic

Curriculum

I am appreciative of the honor of having been asked to prepare an account of the Conferences on Curriculum in which I participated. T o report to you the facts —and the spirit—of these discussions is not an easy task. T h e members of our conferences came from four institutes: New York, Boston, T h e State University of New York, and Chicago; and we met twice, each time for a two-day weekend. We h a d no initial agenda except that each group, as if to introduce itself, had prepared an informal report of its own curriculum. Thus, the Chicago group consisting of Drs. Maxwell Gitelson, Louis Shapiro, and myself, presented the Chicago curriculum; the New York Institute group (Drs. Lillian Malcove, Martin Stein, and Nicholas Young) presented theirs; this was followed by the Boston curriculum described by Drs. Eleanor Pavenstedt, Eveoleen Rexford, and Arthur Valenstein; and finally came the Downstate group (Drs. Mark Kanzer, Sylvan Reiser, and Sidney Tarachow) who discussed the curriculum of T h e State University of New York. We discussed and elucidated a number of specific problems, but what we prized most was the broadening effect of the interchange among individuals from different locations as an antidote to the dangers of unrecognized provincialism. Our ability to communicate fruitfully with each other was First published in The Journal ation (1962), 10:153-163.

of the American

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furthered by a number of favorable circumstances. First and foremost, there was great homogeneity among the participants in their basic outlook on the essentials of psychoanalysis. Second, the four institutes in which we h a d acquired our pedagogical experience are similar in one important respect: they are comparatively large as regards both their faculty and student body. Third, we benefited greatly from the participation of Dr. Bertram D. Lewin and Miss Helen Ross whose broad knowledge of psychoanalytic education in the United States added welcome dimensions to almost every topic we touched upon. And finally, we were fortunate indeed to have in our chairman, Dr. Maxwell Gitelson, an excellent discussion leader, whose skillful summaries and tactful guidance kept us from losing our bearings. But now to particulars. All of us being inveterate psychoanalysts, we soon became aware that we could not discuss such topics as curriculum design or courses or teaching methods without considering the h u m a n element: the teachers and the students. The Teacher. We recognized that there is no perfect curriculum in the abstract and that the curriculum is not a textbook of psychoanalysis given verbally. T h e institute not only provides for the acquisition of knowledge, it also influences the student's ego ideal and his self-image as an analyst. It is evident that the personality of the inspiring teacher is of great significance in this context. Talents and qualifications of the teacher are also relevant to the teaching method, to the choice, for example, between lecture and seminar, and we discovered that even the lowly "reading courses" become great learning experiences when conducted by prominent analysts of the older generation who can enliven the presentation of some classical paper by supplying background information about the period when the paper was written. Literature courses (preferably dealing with topical clusters

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of papers) may also be of value as a training ground, not only for the inexperienced, but even for the seasoned teacher who is asked to cover a new and complex subject in his classes. After a few years the instructor may be able to prepare lecture-seminars which are less directly concerned with individual publications. It must be remembered that it is desirable for the students to have teachers on a variety of levels. T h e influence of the idealized and admired older teacher is great; yet it is also a wholesome experience for the student to observe a young teacher's attempts to master difficulties similar to the ones with which he himself is struggling. T h e individual teacher is thus an important factor in psychoanalytic education, and much can be done on the local level to further his development. Two plans emerged during our conferences, both aiming to counteract provincialism and to broaden and deepen teacher training. T h e State University of New York group proposed concerted efforts toward the organization of the exchange of teachers among institutes. The other idea came from Dr. Gitelson, who suggested that special courses be organized for promising candidates and gifted teachers from all over the country, to be conducted by a nationally selected teaching faculty. Dr. Lewin remarked that in a limited way our Conferences themselves were a test for such a plan, for here, too, the young mingled with the old and the exchange was fruitful and gratifying. The Students. T h e participants in the Conference had not expected a discussion of either the instructor or the student, yet both of these subjects seemed to emerge spontaneously. One topic concerning the student was referred to as the initial student regression. While no attempt was m a d e to define an exact symptomatology, it was apparent that we were all familiar with the phenomenon. To state it in the most general way: many instructors have the uncomfortable impression that beginning students appear to possess much

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less knowledge than the teachers at the institute assume them to have acquired during their psychiatric training. As a matter of fact, there were periods at all the institutes when the teaching of the basic courses was either abandoned or at least questioned seriously because it was assumed that these subject matters had already been dealt with extensively during the psychiatric residency. T h e State University of New York, for example, reported that its faculty had originally even felt that all theoretical teaching should be held to a minimum, not only at first, but throughout the psychoanalytic training, since it was assumed that basic theoretical information had already been obtained during the residency and that the intensive clinical experience at the institute would stimulate the students to turn, on their own, to the literature for additional theoretical knowledge. Judging from the report of this institute, however, the students did not live up to these idealistic expectations, and the faculty arrived at the decision that "an active and early teaching of theory must be undertaken." This discussion led us to hazard a formulation that may be deserving of future consideration: it is unquestioned that during the years of a good residency, solid knowledge and psychotherapeutic experience are acquired. Yet the young psychiatrist may drift into assuming unwarranted attitudes of expertness and skill which remain largely unchallenged. When the new student enters the institute, he fears that he will be unmasked, and initially tends, in a guilt-induced reaction, to lose the knowledge and skill he actually does possess. Few of the participants seemed to have given prior conscious attention to the influence of the institute and its curriculum upon the development and solidification of the student's self-image as an analyst; yet, once the topic was broached, it immediately aroused the greatest interest. T h e role of identification is evident, and we learned that the

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student himself will point primarily to the influence of the personality of the training analyst and of the supervisors in this respect. Yet, while less palpable than the identification with impressive individual teacher personalities, we must not disregard the subtle but perhaps more durable influence of the over-all example furnished by a number of teachers and by the "analytic atmosphere" of the institute. Of critical importance is the institute's approach to the beginning student. A realistic attitude by the teachers, respecting the student's genuine knowledge but not supporting the pretense that our complex field is easily mastered, will further that slow growth which alone can lead to a mature acceptance of the science of psychoanalysis with its assets and limitations. T h e curriculum itself was seen as contributing to the solidification of a psychoanalytic identity in the student. Strangely enough, no mention was made of the imposing example of Freud's personality. T h e frequent accusations that psychoanalysis is a religion and not a science or that Freud's early pupils were his "followers" or "disciples" have undoubtedly led us to avoid holding up to our students the example of Freud's intellectual honesty and courage. Nevertheless, the emphasis on certain courses and on certain principles in the structure of our curricula might be explainable as an aiminhibited strategy pointing in this direction. Specifically, the study of the great early papers, especially the extensive study of Freud's case histories, and the ordering of large segments of some curricula according to historical principles might well become more intelligible when seen in this light. I will not leave the topic of the student without mentioning that we all felt keenly that it was important to obtain the opinion of the students themselves. We all had, of course, been students; but memories fade and curricula change. On the other hand, students in training at the present time may be too close to the experience for an optimal overview. We therefore decided that we should elicit the opinions of recent

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graduates through a questionnaire. I shall report to you later on some of their responses. The Courses. T h e clinical courses were discussed at length, and a resume of these discussions could fill the time allotted for my report. We also talked about the so-called technique courses and about courses on dreams; we argued the advisability of literature courses and attempted to define the position of applied analysis in the curriculum. T h e students' frequently expressed dissatisfaction with the lack of integration between clinical and theoretical teaching led to thoughts (and reports) about experimental courses in which several teachers cooperate. And even small details were debated, such as the suggestion by one questionnaire respondent that written examinations should be given at the end of each course in order to encourage the secondary processes in the student —although perhaps the meaning of this suggestion could be boiled down by saying that somnolence was to be fought by anxiety. From all these topics, I have here selected two which are particularly suitable as examples for the type of interchange in which our group engaged. T h e one concerns the courses on technique, the other the position of applied analysis. Is there any justification for teaching the "technique" of psychoanalysis in special theoretical courses apart from the clinical conferences and individual supervision? A number of participants thought that the inclusion of such courses into the curriculum tends to transform psychoanalysis from a science into a craft. One discussant said that technique courses betrayed a fixation on Freud's early technical papers, and another maintained that the theory of psychoanalysis, if properly presented, explained by itself the psychological processes during therapy. Those who favored the inclusion of courses on technique agreed that the theory of technique is an integral part of the general theory of psychoanalysis and that it should be taught on a high level. They saw no objec-

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tion, however, to a course on the "theory of technique," late in the curriculum, dealing with such topics as the interaction of theory and practice, the metapsychology of the perceptive apparatus of the analyst and of its disturbances, or the theory of the therapeutic effect of psychoanalysis. Ultimately, most of us seemed to accept such courses, though with varying degrees of enthusiasm. In addition, several participants endorsed the pedagogical usefulness of early courses on technique, beginning before the student starts his first supervised case. True, many who object to such courses believe that the demand for them arises from a fundamental misunderstanding of psychoanalysis, the substitution for depth psychology of a superficial psychology of interpersonal relations. Such misapprehensions about psychoanalysis do of course exist; yet, early technique courses are not necessarily on a trade-school level — teaching "gimmicks" and rules of t h u m b . Instead, the teacher can facilitate the clinical comprehension of the beginning students and can thus diminish their anticipatory anxiety vis-ä-vis the unknown by a systematic presentation of endopsychic processes that occur typically or frequently in the early phases of analysis. He might discuss the meaning of the fundamental rule, the patient's fear of regression, the development of the therapeutic split in the ego, the initial narcissistic defenses, or the theoretical basis for the analyst's noninterpretative attitude toward the early dreams and other transference manifestations. Yet, despite these arguments, a number of us remained opposed to an early course and maintained a preference for a discussion of these problems in the case conferences and particularly in supervision. 1

Since several of the members of our Committee have worked extensively in applied analysis, it was to be antici1

[Some remarks Kohut made a year later at a Training Analyst's Seminar held at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis (October, 1963) are of interest in this connection, for they call attention to the problem of bridging the gap between theory and practice, between intellectual and

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pated that we would turn to this subject. Moreover, we were confronted by the fact that a number of the respondents to our questionnaire expressed regret that applied analysis had been neglected during their training. We therefore asked ourselves whether there should be a special place in the curriculum for the applications of psychoanalysis to other fields, for example, to art and literature. As had been the case at first, during the debate about the technique courses, we found ourselves in two opposing camps: there were those who thought that applied analysis should have a special position of importance in a good psychoanalytic curriculum and those who thought that it should not, because a premature preoccupation with it would encourage "wild analyemotional grasp in training analysis, in supervision, and in case conferences: I am glad that a number of the discussants have given serious attention to the gap between theory and practice. This gap has not always been as wide as it seems to me to be at the present time. I will not deny that I may be as much involved in maintaining it as anyone else. When I supervise, I very rarely teach any theory. I stick to the case, explaining what I see; I may encourage the student, depending on his bent, either to be more imaginative, or not to be too speculatively "wild" and to stick to the material. Only very rarely will I say: now, this leads to the generalization, valid beyond this case; or: read this or that paper. I think most of us have become too afraid of intellectualization. Perhaps we have replaced one defense mechanism with another, replacing intellectualization with isolation. Robert Waelder once told an anecdote about Freud. Freud was talking to a group of training analysts and said that he would sometimes during a training analysis, say to the student-patient: sit up now and let's discuss the theoretical meaning of what you have experienced. Helene Deutsch, who was a member of the group, apparently became uncomfortable about Freud's remark and in order to undo the damage said: "Well, in your hands, Professor Freud, such a procedure is all right, but not in the hands of a younger training analyst." Whereupon Freud turned to Helene Deutsch and said: "Really, Dr. Deutsch, the thing is not as difficult as you seem to think." I must admit that I have not changed my own attitude in this regard, and despite the charming anecdote I still tend not to teach during my training analyses. Yet —one wonders.]

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sis" in the student. Once these spontaneous views had been aired, however, we began to re-examine the possible contribution of applied analysis to our teaching efforts. We decided that psychoanalytic knowledge must often be acquired by indirect routes, that an illumination of complex theoretical or clinical problems from a variety of sides enhances comprehension—in short, that teaching by analogy is an indispensable pedagogical device in psychoanalytic training. T h e utilization of applied analysis during training can therefore be very advantageous if it is in the service of our principal endeavor: the elucidation of normal and abnormal psychoanalytic psychology. The individual teacher should thus feel free to use whatever knowledge he possesses to clarify any point of theory or practice. He may assign the reading of "Totem and Taboo" to broaden the student's understanding of archaic ego functions; or he may borrow the Sterbas' description of Michelangelo's furious chisel biting into the white marble in order to facilitate the student's empathic comprehension of the oral-sadistic attack on the frustrating breast in depression. There is also no objection to occasional courses on such topics as the daydream or creative imagination if an exceptional instructor desires to teach them, provided they are integrated with the mainstream of the curriculum, for example, by contributing to the understanding of the borderland between the primary and the secondary process or of the characteristics of thought in free association. Courses on psychoanalytic anthropology, however, or on psychoanalytic interpretations of works of literature should be given only as electives. Training Analysis and Curriculum. Another important topic was the relationship of the training analysis to the curriculum. What is the optimal point, with reference to the training analysis, at which the student should be admitted to the didactic courses, and when should he be given permission to analyze under supervision? We were all aware of the

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conflict between the desire for a thorough analysis and the reluctance to protract training. And we discovered that our four institutes had arrived at similar compromises in this regard or, if you wish to employ the apt term recently imported into the psychoanalytic vocabulary by our CalixtusLewin and Ross, the four institutes had made similar bows to "syncretism." Our average candidate, then, begins his course work after about two and a half years of analysis and his first case about one year later. Such averages are, of course, irrelevant — they are dangerous when they begin to be guideposts and become catastrophic when they replace rational decisions, which should be m a d e on the basis of the comprehension of underlying principles. We shared the universal conviction that the principal objective of the training analysis is therapeutic in the widest meaning of the word, comprehending not only the aims evoked by the term character analysis but also the freeing of such faculties as psychological perceptivity and tolerance of uncertainty, which are specifically required in analytic work. In addition, we must not overlook the didactic objective of the training analysis, which, historically, was the first one acknowledged: the candidate's recognition of the existence of an active unconscious. T h e student's readiness for courses and for clinical work must be evaluated not only with regard to the question whether the secure acceptance of the dynamic unconscious has been achieved in the analysis, but also whether it has become sufficiently emancipated from personal experience to be consolidated through theoretical learning and clinical work. 8

' [This refers to Georgius Calixtus (1586-1656), the German theologian who was the key figure of the "syncretistic controversy" of the 17th century. He led a movement of the Lutherans, seeking to reconcile and reunite the various Protestant sects with each other and with the Roman Catholic Church. The embracing of conflicting and irreconcilable assumptions has since been known as syncretism. In psychoanalysis since Lewin and Ross (1960), the attempt to reconcile the training analysis with the curriculum has been termed "syncretism."]

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Psychoanalytic education in the institute is therefore seen as a further cementing of insight to consciousness, an advance beyond the personal therapeutic aim. Principles of Curriculum Design. Although "The Curriculum" was the subject matter of the entire Conference, curriculum planning as a whole, i.e., the design of the curriculum, emerged as a distinct theme. Some of our most rewarding discussions were related to an evaluation of the course arrangements in the main part of the curriculum and, in particular, to a comparison between the guiding principles underlying the organization of courses in two large institutes. I will confine myself to this topic. At first sight, the main body of teaching at these two institutes, Chicago and New York, appeared to have been organized on the basis of antithetical principles. Chicago has a central three-year succession of courses in which psychoanalytic psychology is taught in historical phases, while the New York Institute has an almost equally extensive set of courses on the various forms of psychopathology. The Chicago Institute thus presents a chain of theoretical courses called: Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1893 to 1919; Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1920 to 1936; Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1937 to the Present. The New York Institute, on the other hand, gives a series of courses on Special Psychopathology (called The Mechanisms and Form of Neuroses and Psychoses) which are organized as follows: Hysteria, Phobia, and Obsessive-Compulsive Neurosis; Depressive States, Paranoid Conditions, Borderline States; Character Disorders. Viewed superficially, these two curricula seemed miles apart. Chicago appears to put undue emphasis on the presentation of a history of ideas rather than on the systematic exposition of the substance of psychoanalytic theory. New York appears to stress the teaching of the various forms of psychopathology, a policy to which objections could be raised

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on two counts: the classical pictures are seen so rarely now that an extensive preoccupation with them is not appropriate as clinical preparation, and, second, the concentration upon psychopathology seems to indicate neglect of the substance of psychoanalytic theory. As we moved from the names of the courses to their content, however, we discovered that the two curricula, while using different approaches, were in fact aiming at a similar educational goal. Chicago by no means presents primarily a history of ideas, but uses the historical framework as a pedagogically useful means of dividing the vast body of theoretical knowledge into manageable portions. Thus Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1893 to 1919 takes up the concepts derived from the investigation of hysteria, phobia, and compulsion neurosis and leads the student through a discussion of the early theoretical framework (the dynamic, topographic, economic, and genetic points of view) to an understanding of symptom formation in the transference neuroses. Likewise, in the course Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1920 to 1936, the teacher demonstrates that the theories of the preceding phase, and especially the model of mind with which it worked, were not adequate to explain those psychopathological entities toward which the interest of investigators had turned: the paranoid conditions, the depressive states, and schizophrenia. The student is then led from an understanding of the new theoretical framework (narcissism, structural model of the psyche, dual-drive theory) to a metapsychological grasp of the paranoid conditions, the depressions, and schizophrenia. A similar plan also underlies the course on the contributions to Psychoanalytic Psychology from 1937 to the Present. The shift in theoretical emphasis to ego psychology is seen in its interactions with the investigators' interest in character disturbance; the presentation of the new theoretical outlook is designed to give the student a better understanding of ego disturbances in character disorders and in related

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forms of psychopathology. The rationale for the whole series of courses is most clearly expressed by stating that the science of psychoanalysis is best understood when its own development is grasped, not as a sterile succession of errors that had to be abandoned, but rather as a sequence of expanding discoveries in which the new is built on the basis of the old. It may already be apparent that the course sequence at New York aims at a very similar educational goal. The instructors do not focus upon the psychopathological entities that give the courses their names, but use them as points of departure for the discussion of various chapters of psychoanalytic theory. In the course on hysteria, for example, the instructor describes two major aims: to teach the theory of symptom formation, using conversion hysteria as a model; and to give a picture of psychoanalysis as a developing, unfolding science, firmly based on direct observation and the accumulation of data. Similarly, the instructor of the course on depressive states aims at a demonstration of the interrelation of the clinical and theoretical approach and shows how clinical understanding leads to theoretical conceptualizations. Specific topics dealt with in this course are, among others: narcissism, identification, and psychoanalytic theory of psychosis (including its historical development). Finally, in addition to the course on character formation and character disorders, a course on ego psychology is given in the last year of the sequence —a clear indication that the teaching of general theory is not at all subordinated to the delineation of individual psychopathological entities. In summary, we may say that at Chicago the student is led from general theory to psychopathology, while at New York the tendency is to start with psychopathology and to arrive at the general theory. While in actual practice the contrast in teaching method is less sharp than the preceding statement implies, the important question remains: whether

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the deductive or the inductive approach to psychoanalytic theory is preferable from a pedagogical point of view. I cannot leave the topic of curriculum design without acquainting you with a valuable supplement to our deliberations in this area. In October, 1960, Dr. Merton Gill expressed himself on the principles of psychoanalytic teaching in a thought-provoking letter. To put it in a nutshell, he felt strongly that the time had arrived to teach psychoanalysis in accordance with a systematic approach, and that curricula, or courses, based on historical or heuristic principles were, to paraphrase Dr. Gill in the mildest possible way, out of date. To this letter, we have an equally thoughtful reply, written in December, 1960 by Dr. Martin Stein, who defended the historical approach on the basis of a number of forceful arguments. T h e chronological presentation of psychoanalytic theory, he said, must not be confused with the historical approach; the rote knowledge of the dates of battles is not the same as an understanding of history. In fact, the historical approach is always correlated with the systematic; and he added that an understanding of the evolution of psychoanalytic theory is a safeguard against its transformation into a set of dogmas. Since these letters do not directly belong to the work of our group, I shall not dwell further on their stimulating content. My only excuse for referring to them is the fact that Dr. Stein was a member of our group and expressed, I believe, an opinion to which we would all subscribe. I must admit, however, that I may not be the best judge in this regard since I am myself strongly in favor of Dr. Stein's approach. The Effectiveness of the Curriculum. Among the topics of our first meeting was the problem of the effectiveness of the curriculum. Since, as one of the participants put it, "teaching faculties tend to have a false sense of security on the basis of random information," we felt that we should obtain the

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students' evaluations of the curriculum. I mentioned earlier that we concluded that the opinions of recent graduates were the best source of information available, and we therefore sent a questionnaire to two groups: to those who had graduated in 1957 and those who had graduated in 1959. The questionnaire contained not only specific inquiries about the courses on theory, on literature, on technique, and the clinical seminars, but also a request for a comprehensive evaluation of the curriculum and an appeal for creative suggestions for improvement. I shall now give you some impressions derived from the study of the questionnaires. The wish for more theoretical teaching was often expressed, and the lack of integration between theory and practice was a frequent and serious complaint. The case conference was considered more valuable as a teaching device for the beginning of treatment and for termination than for "the middle game," where the continuous case seminar was generally preferred. An almost universal complaint concerning all kinds of clinical seminars was that the later phases of treatment were insufficiently represented. A number of the respondents stressed the importance of the gifted teacher, not only for the clinical courses, but for every area of psychoanalytic instruction. These sentiments supported our own opinion that a consideration of the gifted teacher and of his enthusiasm for a specific field should in practice often outweigh abstract ideas about curriculum construction and choice of courses. Some of us experienced a certain discouragement with regard to the potential usefulness of the questionnaire replies upon first reading. It seems that for every specific criticism expressed in one, we could find a corresponding specific praise in another. We had hardly put down one reply affirming the value of theoretical instruction and asking for an even greater emphasis on theory when we read in the next one that

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theoretical instruction had little usefulness and should be more subordinated to clinical teaching. The lesson we soon learned from these contradictory replies was that there are various kinds of students and that the curriculum must provide instruction and stimulation for a broad spectrum of future analysts. Questionnaire replies and other student opinions can therefore be taken not simply as injunctions for change, but only as stimuli for the evaluative judgment of the psychoanalytic educator. A comparison of the replies to our recent questionnaires with responses of future groups of graduates may be of particular interest for those institutes in which the curriculum has recently undergone extensive modifications. Since many respondents indicated that some of their major dissatisfactions were due to the fact that the curriculum had changed during their course of study, it will be instructive to learn how future replies react to a more stabilized situation. I have attempted to lay before you samples of our proceedings, hoping that they would fuse into an informative image. The topics of our preoccupation are commonplace when we compare them with the great early discoveries of psychoanalysis, and we must admit that among the principal tasks of our generation is the unheroic work of emendation and systematization, of practical application and organization. It is to this last-mentioned endeavor of present-day psychoanalyis that our Curriculum Conferences belong. When analysts undertake these new assignments, they are at first inclined to apply to them the skills that have stood them in good stead in their analytic work. Although such applications of the analyst's habitual pursuits are obviously erroneous and ineffective, I do not believe that they constitute a serious danger. They make us a bit inefficient at times, too much disposed toward putting trust in expectant attitudes, spontaneous developments, or merely ^reconscious closures. The greater danger lies elsewhere. When analytic

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methods and ways of thinking produce failures in their direct application to fields (such as education) where they do not primarily belong, there are then those who quickly throw up their hands in despair and declare analytic skill or wisdom to be useless; they then bow to the supposedly superior knowledge of the organizational expert, the nonanalytic educator, or the industrial psychologist. Enterprises such as the Curriculum Conferences provide a very special opportunity for us to amalgamate and integrate our experiences as organizers and teachers with the essential capacity of the analyst: to understand people and their problems in depth. I believe that these Curriculum Conferences provided good training in this skill for all of us. I do not think we underestimated the importance of the numerous subjects which we discussed. Each of the participants in the Conferences could designate several that were of value to him or his institute: a sharpened comprehension of the importance of the gifted teacher; a better grasp of the candidate's predicaments upon entering the institute; the recognition of the necessity of taking u p the same subject matter at progressively higher levels, or of the justification of teaching by analogy. We are nevertheless certain that the most important result of these meetings was not the specific insights we obtained but rather the unfinished areas, which provided us with a sense of stimulation which will reverberate through our institutes. We did not arrive at any startling new discoveries about the meaning, the purpose, the philosophy of psychoanalytic education, and I must disappoint those who hope for an ultimate word of truth from our conferences. Instead I will conclude by turning to a humorous —and wise! —remark by Freud, which, although it refers specifically to the motivation of the student and thus to the main concern of psychoanalytic education, we may also apply to our own dues-paying selves. In a letter, written in July of 1938, Freud said: " . . . I like to

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put obstacles in the path of the candidate in order to test the seriousness of his intentions and increase the spirit of sacrifice. Psychoanalysis is like a woman who wants to be seduced but knows she will be underestimated. . . . " s

3

See E. L. Freud, 1960, p. 449.

23 Concepts and Theories of Psychoanalysis HEINZ KOHUT

and PHILIP Ε D. SEITZ

Relation of Method and

Theory

Psychoanalysis began with the famous case of Miss Anna O., who insisted that her doctor, the Viennese internist Josef Breuer, listen to what she had to say. Freud discerned the potential fruitfulness of this novel approach to treatment, and he based his own method on Anna O.'s invention — "chimney sweeping," as she had called her talks with Dr. Breuer. Psychoanalysis began, therefore, in a therapeutic setting. It was characterized from the beginning by a specific method of observing h u m a n behavior (i.e., the physician listens to the verbal expression of the patient's flow of thought, and attempts to comprehend empathically what the patient wishes to communicate about his psychic state) and by a specific mode of theory formation (i.e., the physician attempts to bring order into the data which he has obtained about the inner life of his patient). T h e science of psychoanalysis has developed far beyond the limitations of the therapeutic situation. That its principal method of observation was discovered in a therapeutic relationship and its predominant usefulness Reprinted by permission from Joseph M. Wepman and Ralph W. Heine Concepts of Personality (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company); copyright © 1963 by Aldine Publishing Company.

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still lies in its therapeutic application account for some of the specific assets as well as for some of the characteristic difficulties of the psychoanalytic method and theory. There can be no doubt that, in spite of the confining influence of its intimate relationship with the goals of therapy, psychoanalysis has become vastly more than a theory of psychopathology: the continuum that it postulates between health and disease has made it a general theory of personality. Psychoanalysis is a science based predominantly upon a method of clinical observation. It interprets empirical data, and thus its starting point is always observation of behavior and observation of people: of things people say, things people say they feel, and things people say they do not feel. The person to be observed, the patient, is asked to follow the basic rule of psychoanalysis: i.e., he is to disclose everything that occurs to him, and he must try not to suppress anything that is embarrassing to him, or leave out anything that he believes to be irrelevant. The analyst does more than simply listen to everything the patient says; his observations are m a d e from the standpoint of certain theoretical concepts with which he orients his mind toward the observed. Psychoanalysis is not a method of "pure" observation — if such a thing actually exists in science—but observation and theory are closely interwoven: observation forming the basis of theories, and theories influencing the direction and focus of observation. As an example of the relation between method and theory in psychoanalysis, let us consider the investigation of the psychological significance of nursing activities. "Pure" observation tells us little about the psychology of the infant; all we can see is that the baby nurses and that it then goes to sleep. Although this sequence of events has been watched by countless generations, no scientific psychological understanding was acquired. Psychological comprehension of the significance of the infant's oral strivings was greatly enhanced, however, by the ever-increasing understanding of certain

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states in adult life, which, while not directly applicable to earlier phases, has nevertheless given us valuable leads. Equipped with the knowledge derived from our observations of the intense reactions to object loss in the depressions of adults, of the intensity of oral wishes in addictions, or —in even more direct connection — of the exquisite sensitivity to rejection of those who have suffered intense early oral frustrations, we re-examine the nursing scene and can begin to make certain hypotheses. We are now able to grasp the intensity of the infant's oral strivings; we see the relative defenselessness of the infantile psyche when it is frustrated (its lack of buffering structure); we can comprehend dimly the special status of the object, which the baby does not yet experience as separate from himself; and we appreciate the importance of the fact that the baby has no recognition that there is a choice of objects or that they are replaceable. While it is true that some of these hypotheses may not seem to stand on very firm ground when contemplated in isolation, the solidity of their basis increases if we can show that they support each other by their internal consistency and cohesion as we form our tentative constructions of early psychological states, and if we can confirm these with the aid of empirical data obtained from the direct observation of children and from the childhood memories of adults. They are therefore open to correction or rejection as the evidence demands. Neither the most ingenious and empathic interpretations of adult psychological states, however, nor the most "pure" observation of children is sufficient in psychoanalysis. As we observe adult behavior, we discern the remnants of childhood experiences, and as we observe childhood behavior, we recognize the seeds for adult functions and experiences. The interplay of present and past, of direct observation and interpretation, is among the most characteristic features of psychoanalysis as a method and as a theory. In actual (clinical) practice, however, the theoretical

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knowledge of the experienced psychoanalyst has become so fully integrated into his total observational attitude that he is usually no longer aware of a dichotomy between theory and observation; and, although the psychoanalytic method of observation includes a background of theoretical concepts, the analyst's attitude, in his practice, is characterized by an open-endedness of expectation. To be able to listen with suspended judgment and to resist the urge to come to quick conclusions; to accept the possibility of the emergence of an unforeseen message in a communication that may seem clearly intelligible to everyone else: that is the essence of the psychoanalyst's attitude. His attention is not only directed toward the content and form of the patient's communications or to the slow emergence of his conflict patterns, but also is open to the recognition of his own reactions to the patient. Yet, neither his attention to the patient's associations nor his attention to his own reactions is focused sharply at first; premature attempts to arrange the data of observation into impeccably logical dynamic patterns interfere with the analytic observation. The scrutiny of an isolated section of psychological material (e.g., the interpretation of a single dream) is not a characteristic sample of the work of the psychoanalyst; the psychoanalytically oriented, dynamic psychiatrist is often expected, however, to deduce a dynamic formulation of psychopathological symptoms or of specific character patterns from a limited number of data. While circumstances thus force the analyst (when he functions as a dynamic psychiatrist) to make inferences about the arrangement of psychological forces on the basis of relatively inert and isolated sources of information (through a limited number of interviews, for example), in his major field of competence the analyst's strength lies in his capacity to postpone closures and to observe the living ebb and flow of the analysand's thoughts and feelings for prolonged periods until the closures are forced upon him.

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T h e analyst validates his concepts, formulations, and theories by applying them to a variety of clinical experiences; he matches them, so to speak, with large numbers of clinical observations, testing again and again whether they lead to comprehension. If the theory, the formulation, or the concept is helpful in the understanding of a large number of clinical observations of similar type —better still, if it can be intelligibly varied and then applied to related instances —then the analyst's impression of its validity grows; it is his premise, in other words, that the trustworthiness of a theory increases with each additional observation that it renders intelligible. T h e theories of the psychoanalyst should be viewed predominantly, therefore, as attempts to bring order into the nearly endless variety of phenomena he observes in his patients. Observation without implicit or explicit theory formation, without a hierarchy of the relative importance of the data, is unimaginable. How the analyst orders his data, on what he focuses his attention, and how he tries to understand the patient's communications are questions that take us to the fundamental concepts upon which both the method and theory of psychoanalysis are based. 1

1

[Kohut has continually expanded his understanding of the nature of psychoanalytic observations. The following discussion of Philip F. D. Seitz's paper, "Representations of Adaptive and Defense Mechanisms in the Concrete Imagery of Dreams," presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, January, 1967, and abstracted by J. S. Beigler in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1968), 18:94, relates to this broader theme. Heinz Kohut underlined the heuristic usefulness of the differentiation of the introspective, observing apparatus and the mental phenomena it observes. The process of self-observation is depicted in the dreams of many patients: in the neuroses, patient and analyst focus their attention more on structural conflicts, in "borderline" pathology more on tension regulation. The dreams of borderline cases which depict the analytic process express this preoccupation with psycho-

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The Concept of the Unconscious; The Limited Role of Consciousness T h e tenet of the essential unconsciousness of mental activities is the cornerstone of psychoanalytic theory; it exerts a decisive influence upon the observational attitude of the psychoanalyst. Although a vaguely formed notion about the existence of an unconscious mind has found wide acceptance and has achieved a shallow popularity, Freud's revolutionary theoretical innovation is not usually understood. Freud recognized that consciousness was not a necessary attribute of psychic activities; he postulated that it should be defined as the sensory organ of the mind. Consciousness, then, according to Freud (1900a, p . 615), is a sense organ for the perception of psychic contents and qualities. One might say that, just as it is the function of the eye to see the objects and events in the external world, so it is the economic problems and with tension-regulating mechanisms. Neither in the transference neuroses nor in the "borderline" cases do such dreams necessarily arise in compliance to suggestion. Their genuineness must be determined by the same criteria by which we test the validity of all analytic interpretations. Occasionally, a patient may correct or elaborate an analyst's previous interpretation in a surprising and convincing way through a new dream or a shift in behavior. In such instances a patient's exact description of a specific regulatory function may be very reliable. Still, we must be especially cautious when we interpret dreams as the pictorial renditions of specific mental processes or mental states. We must always consider the possibility that we may be projecting our own metapsychological theories on the patient. Keeping these precautions in mind, however, we may well ask ourselves whether the observation of dreams ever allows the discovery of new mental mechanisms, of mental processes not yet described? Have specific mental processes ever been first discovered in dreams? In this context, Dr. Kohut pointed to the fact that the great discoverers (such as Freud) appear to think more concretely than ordinary people, that their first insights are experienced in terms that are close to the type of dream imagery which Dr. Seitz reported, and that their power of abstraction and theory formation follows in a later, elaborative step.]

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function of consciousness to perceive endopsychic processes. Freud h a d to overcome an ingrained prejudice about the mind in order to define consciousness as merely a sensory organ and to recognize, not only that mental processes may occur outside of consciousness, but that consciousness is not at any time an essential quality of mental activities. Attention to endopsychic activities may bring them to consciousness; they take their course, however, whether observed by the "eye of consciousness" or not. T h e clinical evidence for the relevance and validity of these concepts is overwhelming; experimental support has recently been provided by Charles Fisher (1954), who confirmed Poetzl's (1917) discovery that the unconscious perception of tachistoscopically projected images can be proved through the examination of dreams that occur subsequent to the tachistoscopic exposure. 2

T h e psychoanalytic discovery that the domain of consciousness is limited and that psychic processes may, in essence, run their regular course outside of awareness led to the recognition of the motivational cohesiveness of unconscious psychic activities. This conception exerted a farreaching influence upon the observation of mental phe* Freud's concept of the relationship between consciousness and the contents and qualities of the mind can be clarified further by the use of an analogy: the psychic contents may be compared with objects and activities present in a landscape that lies in darkness. Consciousness may be conceived as analogous to an observer who has the use of a searchlight which can illuminate the landscape. The focusing of the searchlight (and the variable intensity of its light) would be analogous to what is called "attention cathexis"; the ensuing illumination would be analogous to the process by which psychic contents become conscious. To become aware of psychic contents by focusing attention cathexes on them is thus an active process. The analogy also permits the integration of the following relevant details: extensive activities in the landscape may by themselves enter into the focus of the searchlight and are thus noticed by the observer; and the processes that are already under observation may arouse specific expectations in the observer and may thus determine the direction toward which the observer turns the instrument of illumination.

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nomena. Through the acceptance and utilization of the concept of unconscious psychic determinism, a host of seemingly fortuitous and purposeless psychological occurrences had now become potentially meaningful data, and, thus, an area that previously had been open only to the intuitive grasp of the artist became accessible to the investigation of the scientist. Freud reflected about the motive of mankind's tendency to overestimate consciousness and to deny the Unconscious; he came to the conclusion that it is our inflated self-esteem, which refuses to acknowledge the possibility that we might not be undisputed master in the household of our own minds. Just as Copernicus wounded man's self-esteem with his discovery that man is not the center of the universe, and as Darwin wounded our pride still further by finding that man cannot boast of having been separately or uniquely created, so Freud inflicted yet another blow to mankind's selfesteem by the discovery that man's consciousness illuminates only a narrow and limited part of his own mental activities. 3

Having shed the prejudice of assigning to consciousness the position of all-inclusive sovereignty in psychic life, and having thus reduced it to the rank of an instrument of internal observation, we must not go too far and underrate its importance. Consciousness is not all we would like it to be; many psychological processes take place in our minds that we may not happen to observe or are not capable of observing directly. Consciousness is the only light, however, that penetrates into the inner life of m a n ; it illuminates enough of the surface of mental phenomena to permit convincing inferences about some important activities in the depths. Consciousness, as the instrument of psychological perception, is limited in its scope—yet it is all we possess. It occupies the position of a fixed point of reference in psychoanalytic 8

When used as nouns denoting the various topographic areas of mental functioning, the terms Conscious, Preconscious, and Unconscious are traditionally capitalized.

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theory; it is the firm basis from which we must set out and to which we must return when we undertake the expanding explorations of unknown psychological territory. "Give me a firm spot on which to stand and I will move the earth," Archimedes is reported to have said in order to illustrate the potentialities inherent in the action of levers. Psychoanalysis has no hope of being able to move the psychological universe—yet what progress it is able to make will be derived or extrapolated through the careful scrutiny of information about psychic phenomena that are accessible to consciousness; and conscious experience will remain the testing ground for the validity of new theoretical constructions. T h e essence of psychic life is dynamic, Freud stated. The investigation of the interplay of mental forces requires the perception of their psychological manifestations with the sense organ of consciousness.

Innate Predisposition

to Endopsychic

Conflict

Another important hypothesis that influences the way in which the analyst orders the data of psychological observation is Freud's assumption that m a n has an inherent propensity for the development of endopsychic conflict. The psyche is conceived of as a dynamic system with an innate tendency toward an organization of forces that oppose and balance each other. T h e central position of endopsychic conflict is a characteristic, but by no means specific feature of psychoanalytic psychology—there exist other (nonanalytic) approaches which also acknowledge the presence and importance of psychological conflict. What distinguishes psychoanalysis from other conflict psychologies, however, is the theory of an orderly and stable arrangement of groups of opposing forces which are potentially in conflict with each other. These more or less cohesive groups of forces are often referred to as being located in areas of the mind, and the

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diagrammatic representations of these localities are the psychoanalytic models of the mind. The first diagram of the arrangement of psychic forces was proposed by Freud around the turn of the century, during his most creative period; it usually goes by the name of the Topographic Model of the mind. T h e opposing areas (or systems) of the psyche are called the Unconscious and the Preconscious; the modes of functioning of the forces active in these psychic locations are referred to as Primary and Secondary Process. T h e primary processes are characteristic for the Unconscious, the secondary processes belong to the Preconscious. T h e sense organ of consciousness may illuminate the otherwise unconsciously proceeding activities in the Preconscious and render them conscious. T h e processes that take place in the Unconscious cannot, under normal circumstances, be reached directly by consciousness. 4

While we probably cannot experience or demonstrate the unalloyed primary process directly, we have become familiar with some of its most important qualities and characteristics, especially through the study of dreams and of certain neurotic symptoms. Its activities are infantile, prelogical, and unrestrained. It coalesces logically incompatible thought contents (condensation), shifts the intensity of its forces upon objects to which they do not logically belong (displacement), and it is intolerant of delay in the discharge of its tensions (it works with free, unbound energies). The main activity of the mature psyche follows the laws of the secondary process: it is adult, logical, and capable of tolerating delay. Its energies do not shift freely, but they remain sharply focused on wellcircumscribed objects and contents (it works with concentrated, bound energies).

4

The totality of the preconscious processes that have become conscious through the work (the focusing of attention) of the psychic sensory organ, consciousness, is sometimes referred to as a separate system, the Conscious.

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The Concept of

Transference

Only secondary processes can be observed directly. T h e properties of the primary process must be inferred from the study of the characteristic disturbances and distortions undergone by the secondary process when it is under the influence of the primary process. T h e influence of the primary process on the secondary process (the penetration of unconscious psychic contents and forces into preconscious thoughts, feelings, or wishes) was originally designated by the term "transference" by Freud (1900a). It is important to note that transference, in the original meaning of the term, referred essentially to an endopsychic, not an interpersonal process. An obsessive thought, for example, is a transference phenomenon: the content of the thought ("Have I turned off the gas in the kitchen?") conforms to the secondary process; the unrelenting insistence with which it intrudes, however, betrays the fact that it does not belong entirely to rational thinking, but that it stems partly from the deeper layers of the mind and that some of the forces maintaining it have the qualities of an untamed drive. In current practice (derived largely from Freud's own later, metapsychologically less precise usage), the term transference customarily refers to the patient's revival of feelings and attitudes from childhood in his relationship with the analyst during psychoanalytic treatment. In the present essay, however, the term transference designates a metapsychological concept within the framework of the topographic point of view, in accordance with Freud's original definition. It should be noted that the later, clinically oriented use of the term transference (the misinterpretation of the analyst by the analysand due to the intrusion of feelings and attitudes that are associated with important figures from the analysand's childhood) is not superseded by the emphasis on the original, metapsychological definition which the present writers advo-

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cate: transference toward the analyst is simply one specific manifestation of a more general psychological mechanism. As a matter of fact, Freud's discovery (1905c, p . 116) of transferences toward the analyst occurred relatively late, after he had recognized that dreams, slips of the tongue, and the symptoms of psychoneurosis are transference phenomena: i.e., they are amalgamations of primary and secondary processes which are formed as a result of the intrusion of unconscious contents into the Preconscious. Writing, for example, is an activity of the ego. If repressed masturbatory impulses from early childhood are reactivated, they may attach themselves (by transference) to the activity of writing, which consequently arouses guilt and becomes inhibited. The symptom (a hysterical writer's cramp, for example) contains an amalgamation of primary and secondary processes (masturbation—writing) and is called, therefore, the symptom of a transference neurosis. 5

6

In dreams, the transferences from the Unconscious to the Preconscious attach themselves to "day residues," i.e., to impressions of the preceding day which are in themselves either insignificant or of little practical importance. In Fisher's experiments, for example, the subjects tended to use the tachistoscopic pictures that had been flashed to them as day residues for their dreams. Why? Partly because the tachistoscopic images were isolated from the subject's life 5

For a more extensive discussion of the advantages accruing to psychoanalytic theory through an adherence to Freud's original, precise, metapsychological definition of transference, see Kohut (1959b, pp. 219-221). * The term ego is not synonymous with the term Preconscious. The area of the mind (or the set of functions) to which the term ego is applied includes, in addition to the Preconscious, a deeper layer which is inaccessible to consciousness. Foremost among the functions of the unconscious layers of the ego are the unconscious defenses. It follows from the preceding statement that the term id is not synonymous with the term Unconscious: the Unconscious is composed of the id and the unconscious layer of the ego (these distinctions are discussed further in a later section of this essay, The Structural Model of the Mind).

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experiences and thus without practical importance to them. Their very isolation (i.e., their lack of significant connections with other preconscious impressions) m a d e them especially susceptible to influences from the Unconscious and, therefore, available for transferences. For the same reason, the psychoanalyst readily becomes a transference object: he has comparatively little significance for the patient as a source of realistic gratification. Conversely, if the analyst were to become the patient's supporter, helper, or friend, his availability as a transference object would be diminished. T h e foregoing considerations are relevant to the clinical method of psychoanalysis and elucidate several features of the technical setting. T h e analyst is usually out of sight for the patient; he reveals little about his own personality, is generally sparing in how much he talks to the patient, and does not provide realistic gratifications of the patient's wishes as they become activated in the treatment (the "rule of abstinence"). T h e psychoanalytic setting is thus designed to facilitate, initially, what might be called the "day-residue function" of the analyst; it promotes the formation of transferences from the patient's Unconscious (usually pertaining to the patient's unresolved conflicts with the important figures of his early childhood) to the patient's preconscious images of the analyst. The analyst, in turn, as he observes the patient, keeps in mind that the patient's thoughts, feelings, and actions may be influenced via the mechanism of transference by the activities of another psychic system of which the patient himself remains unaware. Figure 1 illustrates the relationship of transference to the psychic systems: Under normal circumstances, the repression barrier effectively separates the repressed contents in the Unconscious from the Preconscious, and the activities in the Preconscious are therefore not influenced by those in the Unconscious. Under certain conditions, however, the repression barrier is

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"Eye" of Consciousness Preconscious

Transference

Repression Barrier

Unconscious

FIGURE 1

weakened (for example, during sleep) and permits the intrusion of some unconscious strivings into the Preconscious, where an amalgamation with suitable preconscious contents, i.e., the formation of transferences, takes place. If these intrusions are not excessive, they are tolerated by the Preconscious; if they become too extensive, however, the Preconscious mobilizes its forces and re-establishes the original impermeable barrier. This sequence (moderate intrusions, formation of transferences, intensification of the breakthrough, and re-establishment of firm repression) can be observed when the unconscious components in a dream transference become intensified to the point at which the dreamer experiences anxiety, awakens, and thus interrupts the dream and re-establishes full repression. The mode of operation and the genesis of the barrier which wards off the repressed portion of the psyche from contact with other psychic activities will be discussed later (see section on Psychic T r a u m a and the Repression of Infantile Drives and the discussion

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of the defense mechanisms in T h e Structural Model of the Mind). Hallucinatory Wish-Fulfillment; The Infantile Sexual and Aggressive Drives As set forth in the preceding section, the analyst's mind is receptive to the discovery of transferences from the first system, the Unconscious, to the second system, the Preconscious. Psychoanalytic conceptualizations and descriptions of unconscious mental processes are largely a result of extrapolations from consciously observed transference changes in the secondary process. In addition —to facilitate communication and understanding—psychoanalytic statements about the characteristics of unfamiliar, unconscious psychological processes have h a d to utilize descriptive terms and concepts from the familiar reference frame of consciousness. (See the preceding remarks on pages 344-345 about the role of conscious experience in psychoanalytic theory formation.) Psychoanalysts describe the qualities of unconscious processes, therefore, in terms of characteristics associated with psychic processes that are accessible to consciousness, by indicating either how the Unconscious differs from or how it is similar to consciously experienced mental contents. Certain qualities of the primary process (for example, its form, intensity, and speed) came to be conceptualized and described by pointing out how they differ from (familiar) qualities of the secondary process. The characteristic wishfulfilling nature of unconscious strivings, on the other hand, came to be described largely as a result of recognizing similarities with consciously observable phenomena, such as wishfulfilling daydreams. We can extrapolate, therefore (e.g., from observations of night dreams and psychoneurotic symptoms), that unconscious mental activity is similar to conscious daydreams in its striving to construct wish-fulfilling images of

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its desires. In contrast to our usual secondary-process functioning, however, which seeks the real, external objects of its desires through attempts at mastery of the environment by realistic means, unconscious strivings are confined to the creation of hallucinatory images (as in the wish-fulfilling hallucinations of certain psychoses) or to symbolic enactments of wish-fulfillments (as in hysterical attacks). Psychoanalytic conceptualizations regarding the nature of unconscious mental processes, mechanisms, and contents have been derived largely from the study and description of contrasts and similarities between unconscious and preconscious mental activities. More direct observations of mental functions in small children and in psychotic patients have provided important additional data—supporting, refining, and revising the indirect reconstructions of unconscious (primary) mental processes. T h e psychoanalytic concept that the dynamic processes in the id (the drives) are characterized by qualities of infantile sexuality and aggression was also formulated as a result of studying the contrasts and similarities between unconscious and preconscious mental activities. What the psychoanalyst understands by infantile sexuality and aggression, however, is not exactly the same as sexuality and aggression in the adult. Infantile drives have a characteristic intensity and urgency, and a pleasurable quality that is virtually unknown to the adult, whose dominant secondary-process functioning serves as a screen or buffer and usually protects him against the impact of unmodified drives. Only the height of sexual orgasm (and perhaps, under special circumstances, a paroxysm of maximal rage) can be said to be experienced with a minimum of buffering by the secondary process. The mature psyche is thus able to have intense sexual and aggressive experiences; this capacity, however, appears to be based upon the ability of the mature psyche to suspend temporarily some of its most highly developed functions. It is significant, there-

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fore, that the experience at the height of orgasm and the experience of a paroxysm of intense rage can hardly be described through the use of language, the most important instrument of the secondary process, and that even consciousness itself appears to be altered at such times. Freud recognized the meaningful equivalence between the processes in the Unconscious (the infantile psyche) and the sexual experiences of adults, and said that he did not want to change the term "sexuality" to characterize infantile drives and experiences because he had chosen it "a potion": i.e., he had used the term that referred to the best known of the various experiences of a similar kind. Freud found a great deal of evidence for the fact that every activity was originally sexual with regard to the intensity of its motivation and the quality of its experience: when the baby nurses, the intensity of its pleasure is similar to sexual sensations in adults; and walking, looking, talking, writing were begun at least partially as sexual activities. Seen from the standpoint of biology, and in harmony with the tenets of the theory of evolution, we would also stress the great survival value of the intense erotic pleasure that is associated with the infantile drives and activities: the more intensely and urgently pleasurable these activities are (the baby's sucking, for example), the more the infant is motivated to perform the survival-promoting functions. As a result of endogenous maturational tendencies (which, however, are decisively influenced by environmental circumstances) a segment of the Unconscious is transformed into the Preconscious. (As pointed out before, the terms id and ego are now used for the groups of psychic functions that constitute the polarities in this development.) T h e environmental circumstances further differentiating the Preconscious can be described as optimal frustrations, i.e., frustrations that prevent the immediate satisfaction of the pleasure-seeking infantile drives, yet are not of such severity (i.e., not

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traumatic) that they obstruct development. (This topic will be pursued further in the next section.) Every mature activity that developed from infantile drives can, under certain circumstances, return to its primitive form: either openly (in perversions) or covertly (in the psychoneuroses). In obsessional neurosis, for example, thinking itself, which was originally a highly pleasurable sexual and aggressive activity, may again take on the qualities and aims of infantile sexuality and aggression. In consequence of such regression, thinking becomes dangerous, and the compulsion neurotic defends against it by the use of magical repetitions, and by other means. When the (preconscious) ego is working properly, a neutralization of its activities has occurred (i.e., a progression from primary- to secondary-process functioning), and the infantile erotic and aggressive quality of its experience disappears.

Optimal Frustration and the Establishment of the Secondary Process Although the capacity to achieve the use of mature psychic functions must be considered a part of the innate potentialities of human psychological equipment, it is only through a long series of interactions with the environment that the archaic mode of mental functioning (the primary process) becomes gradually converted into the adult form of thinking (the secondary process). Since memories constitute the basic units of the secondary process, it is profitable to examine the psychological forerunners of the memory trace. To this end we turn to Freud's hypothesis (1900a, p p . 565566) about the establishment of the earliest psychological structures in the infant. It is impossible for us to define the infant's first experience of hunger in psychological terms. We can state only that physiological processes (later to be experienced as hunger)

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produce a tension to which the infant responds reflexly with a series of activities. The cry, which is foremost among the infant's reflex responses, alerts the mother; the baby receives its feeding, and the physiological tension state subsides. After this sequence (hunger tension —cry —mother —feeding —satiation) has taken place, the infant's psyche has undergone a change; some engram of the hunger-satiation sequence has been deposited; and, when the tension reasserts itself and reaches a certain intensity, the baby's hunger-drive-wishes turn toward the engram of the previous satisfaction to achieve a repetition of the experience of satiation. It is a moot question whether we should call this first attempt to reach satisfaction a hallucination; it is obvious, at any rate, that the turning toward the engram of previous satisfaction does nothing to decrease the hunger: the tension mounts, the reflex cry occurs, and the real feeding leads again to satiation. The baby now has had its first opportunity to distinguish the experience of the hallucination of a previous (real) satisfaction from the experience of a (real) satisfaction in the present. Innumerable repetitions of this sequence of events lead, little by little, to a lessening of the intensity with which the psyche turns toward the engram; instead of expecting satisfaction from the engram itself, the infant learns to consider the engram an intermediate station on the way toward satisfaction. As the excessive interest in the engram decreases, it is also experienced less vividly: it takes on a quality that is distinct from the experience of reality. A differentiation of psychic reality and external reality is thus acquired; hallucinations have become memories. T h e development of the memory function from hallucinations is enhanced by experiences of optimal frustration. Overindulgence results in less incentive to learn the distinction between fantasy and reality, since feeding occurs so quickly that it coalesces with the turning toward the fantasyimage. Severe frustrations (or inconsistency of maternal re-

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sponse), on the other hand, create a reality that supplies hardly more gratification than the fantasy-image; thus, again, there is less opportunity (and incentive) for the firm establishment of the differentiation. By contrast, optimal frustrations involve sufficient delay in satisfaction to induce tension-increase and disappointment in the attempt to obtain wish-fulfillment through fantasy; the real satisfaction occurs quickly enough, however, to prevent a despairing and disillusioned turning away from reality. Psychic Trauma and the Repression of Infantile

Drives

A certain portion of the infantile sexual and aggressive drives neither develops into adult sexuality or aggression nor becomes transformed into drive-distant preconscious secondary processes, it remains unchanged — walled off (repressed) in the Unconscious. Study of preconscious transference intrusions from the Unconscious reveals that the repressed drives have retained their original primitiveness and intensity. Having explained how primary processes are converted into secondary processes under the influence of experiences of optimal frustration, we must now account for the fact that a part of the primary processes does not participate in this development. As indicated in the preceding section, the ability of the infantile psyche to learn to distinguish reality from hallucination (and thus to transform hallucinations into memories) is hampered if the infant is either excessively indulged, or if it is exposed to frustrations of traumatic intensity. Traumatic frustrations of infantile needs ensue when the waiting period exceeds the tolerance of the infantile psyche or when the gratifications offered by the environment are unpredictable, e.g., when feedings are dispensed inconsistently. In either case, the infantile psyche turns away from reality and retains self-soothing gratification through fantasy. True overindul-

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357

gence is unlikely to be encountered during the early phase of psychological development; if it does occur it may stunt development (fixation) by failing to provide incentive for learning to grasp reality. More important, however, is the fact that overindulgence is not maintained forever by the environment, and that a sudden switch in maternal attitude from overindulgence to frustration is experienced as traumatic by the child's unprepared psyche. Traumatic experiences, like experiences of optimal frustration, lay down memory traces; but in the case of traumatic frustrations, the infantile drives and associated traumatic memories are walled off (primal repression) under the influence of primitive despair and anxiety. Since the psyche strives to prevent the recurrence of the former state of anxiety and despair, the repression is permanently retained, at the sacrifice of further differentiation of the repressed wishes. Traumatic frustration of drives thus produces a psychological enclave of primary-process functioning and psychic fixation upon direct wish-fulfillment, for example, by means of hallucinations. Unconscious contents that are sealed off from the preconscious ego are not exposed to the influence of new experiences and are therefore incapable of change (learning); instead, following the laws of the primary process and of the pleasure principle, endlessly repeated attempts occur to achieve immediate wish-fulfillment through hallucinations or through other similar means. A symbolically wish-fulfilling version of an infantile experience may be re-enacted over and over again throughout a lifetime by the same recurring hysterical symptom. Since the original infantile strivings and the context in which they arose remain unconscious, however, the wish can neither be gratified realistically nor relinquished. W h a t constitutes a childhood trauma can hardly be defined objectively; it is a psychological task that the child's psyche cannot integrate into the more differentiated precon-

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scious system either because of the intensity of the demand, or because of the immaturity of the psychological organization, or because of a transient sensitivity of the psyche at the time when the task is imposed on it, or by any combination of these factors. T r a u m a is thus an economic concept in psychoanalysis, referring principally not to the content of the experience but to its intensity. T r a u m a is overstimulation, whether from overgratifying or overfrustrating experiences; it involves not just what occurs externally but the dovetailing of external events and inner psychic organization. Although there are certain periods in childhood (most often corresponding with an as yet insecurely established new balance of psychological forces after a spurt of development) during which the psyche is especially susceptible to traumatization, we can safely say that the young child is exposed to traumata at all times. T h e time factor constitutes an especially important, and frequently neglected, consideration in the economic concept of trauma. Not only are the child's age and development stage often crucial in determining the severity of a psychological task, but it may be equally decisive whether the child is expected to perform the feat of a sudden major transition from primary- to secondary-process functioning, or whether he is permitted to acquire the new functions in a fractionated way over a longer period of time. Experiences that had not been integrated into the Preconscious during childhood are mobilized again during psychoanalytic treatment; but now, in their therapeutic reactivation, the patient has ample time for their gradual assimilation. T h e stepwise process, during which traumatic memories are faced again with infantile wishes are re-experienced and slowly relinquished, is called "working through." This process has been compared with the work that the psyche performs in mourning—except that the bereaved has to give up a love object of the present, whereas the patient

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359

learns that he must forego the hope of fulfilling unmodified infantile wishes and that he must relinquish the objects of the past. T h e interrelationship of theory and practice, and specifically the influence of the aforementioned psychoeconomic considerations on the therapeutic procedures of psychoanalysis, can be illuminated further by focusing on the method of free association. Free association is commonly described in negative terms, as a giving up of controls, a disregard of selfcriticism, and the like. Free association, however, involves more than relaxation; at the crucial junctures it summons the ability to tolerate the admission of unpleasant mental contents to consciousness, to be perceived and experienced. Free association, therefore, requires effort and perseverance in order to accomplish a gradual extension of the realm of the secondary process. It is not the aim of psychoanalysis, however, to achieve an ideally perfect psychological organization in which the Unconscious has become totally accessible and transformed. The defect in h u m a n psychological equipment to which Freud alluded on a number of occasions is not the existence of a repression barrier or of the defense mechanisms, but their relative inadequacy. Analysis therefore strives to establish the dominance of the secondary process only in those segments of the psyche where the defenses have proved ineffectual. When anamnestic data from childhood or evidence obtained from dreams point toward repressed material that has been contained effectively by socially acceptable and satisfactory defensive activities, no attempt is made to stir up such dormant conflicts during an analysis. If a violently hostile attitude toward a father figure has been superseded by devotion to a life task of promoting social justice for the aged, for example, there is no indication for attempting to undermine this ego-syntonic system of values unless neurotic inhibitions (due to a threatened breakthrough of the original hostility) interfere with this segment of psychic

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adjustment. Any walled-off content for which the defense mechanisms are securely anchored is thus left untouched. A perfectionistic attitude about uncovering the repressed is, at best, the sign of the amateur; at worst, it may betray the fanatic who, hiding some secret from himself, must forever wrest secrets from others. Vantage Points of Psychoanalytic Observation; The Genetic Point of View T h e intricate system of psychoanalytic concepts and formulations (often referred to as metapsychology) becomes more easily understandable if we isolate the various interrelated lines of approach which the analyst follows in ordering the psychological data. These basic observational positions of the psychoanalyst are known as the dynamic, the economic, the topographic and structural, and the genetic points of view. T h e fact that the analyst conceives of wishes, urges, and drives as expressions of psychological forces and that he sees psychological conflicts as clashes between these forces, is called the dynamic point of view. In addition, the analyst acknowledges that psychological forces have a certain strength: there are lukewarm wishes, for example, and there are burning desires. T h e fact that the analyst pays attention to the relative strength of the psychological forces he observes is referred to as the economic point of view. T h e recognition of a more or less stable grouping of psychological forces led to the concept of areas of the mind and to their diagrammatic rendition in the psychoanalytic models of the mind. Freud's early diagram, the topographic model, divided the psyche into two areas: the Unconscious and the Preconscious. The conceptual mode of approach to the data of observation that is based on the topographic diagram is called the topographic point of view. A growing

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number of observations, however, could not be fitted into the classical topographic model. It had to be revised in order to be consistent with newly gained insights about mental functioning, and it had to be expanded in order to accommodate the newly discovered areas of the psyche. T h e revised and expanded psychoanalytic diagram is the structural model; the mode of approach that is based on it is the structural point of view. T h e topographic point of view has already been discussed at length; some aspects of the structural point of view will be reviewed later. In the following, we shall discuss briefly the genetic point of view. This term refers to the fact that the analyst focuses his attention on the childhood of the individual whom he studies, with the expectation that he may discover a specific set of experiences that occurred at a specific time or during a specific period of childhood, following which a particular symptom, character trait, or behavioral tendency arose for the first time. Genetic explanations in therapeutic psychoanalysis refer, of course, most frequently to the origin of adult psychopathology and, thus, to those traumatic childhood situations in which a preceding nonpathological arrangement of psychological forces was replaced permanently by a new, pathological one. The potential discovery of the pathogenic experiences of childhood through the investigation of unconscious endopsychic material is a specific and characteristic objective of psychoanalysis. The modern offshoots of psychoanalysis (such as the various popular schools of dynamic psychiatry) restrict their investigations of endopsychic material to the comprehension of repetitive dynamic patterns which are then correlated with known historical data from childhood such as the specific family constellation, the personalities of the parents, deaths of parents or siblings. Their examination stops short of the ultimate goal of psychoanalysis: the therapeutic revival and recovery of the unconscious memories of traumatic experiences.

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A brief clinical vignette may clarify the difference between the understanding of dynamic patterns and the penetration into genetic material. A m a n described a recent job situation in which his work (which had been satisfactory previously) deteriorated after the appearance of a younger co-worker. It was found in the course of the analytic work that he had felt guilty about his jealousy toward the new worker, and that the slackening of his work had been motivated by a wish to withdraw from the competition. T h e same dynamic pattern could be established in relation to previous job situations. Similar conflicts had occurred in childhood with schoolmates and especially with his brothers. T h e pattern was repeated in his analysis. At first he did good work, with a steady flow of free associations; then came a setback and resistance. His associations alluded hesitatingly one day to another patient whom he had seen in the waiting room. T h e same dynamic formulation as before was interpreted, and the analytic work flowed again. On a later occasion intense resistance set in, followed by the reluctant disclosure of fantasies that the other patient might be ill. Memories of illnesses in a sibling then emerged. Finally, after many phases of intense resistance, dream material made possible the reconstruction (later supported by relevant memories) that an infant brother had died during a phase of the patient's early childhood when he had been intensely hostile to and jealous of this brother. The genetic elucidation of this pattern was now possible. Not only had he experienced a normal amount of hostility toward rivals prior to the fateful event (the sibling's death), but he had also gradually learned to recognize that there is a significant difference between the psychological reality of angry thoughts and wishes, on the one hand, and the external reality of angry and hurtful actions, on the other. The death of the brother (aided by auxiliary factors, such as the parents' withdrawal from the patient during the traumatic period) had shattered the ego's barely

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acquired differentiation of impulse, fantasy, and deed. Angry wishes and fantasies were regressively experienced as magically powerful, and the weak ego, traumatically flooded with anxiety, defended itself against the dangerous impulses by repression. Thereafter, hostile, jealous, and competitive strivings were excluded from the realm of the ego, preventing their further differentiation and integration and precluding the acquisition of eventual conscious control over them. The Structural Model of the Mind As indicated before, new observational data and new insights m a d e the classical topographic model inadequate, and necessitated (in the nineteen-twenties) the creation of a new diagram of the arrangement and interrelationships of psychological forces: the structural model of the mind. T h e new model contains a series of major revisions and expansions; best known among the innovations is undoubtedly the new nomenclature, the introduction of the terms id, ego, and superego, corresponding with a new division of psychic functions which conforms more accurately with the data of clinical observation than the simpler correlations of the topographic model. The very fact that Freud introduced a new terminology for the structural model bespeaks the magnitude of the conceptual changes, since Freud was usually disinclined to replace already established terms. Later we will turn our attention to a notable expansion in the conceptual scope of the structural point of view, which permits the meaningful inclusion of a whole new range of psychological phenomena into the framework of psychoanalytic theory. First, however, we must review some of the major modifications and corrections that transformed the topographic into the structural model: the discovery of unconscious defense mechanisms, the recognition of the role of aggression, and the attributions of the activities of the various

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constituents of endopsychic morality to a single structure (the superego) as the expression of our grasp of their genetic and dynamic cohesion. The investigation of new areas of psychopathology, particularly the obsessions and compulsions, led to the discovery that repression (i.e., the withdrawal of a fragile psyche, under the impact of trauma, from further participation in specific infantile wishes) was not the only mechanism by which the immature mental apparatus could maintain its organization under stress. Freud recognized that the psyche also employs other important means of keeping the dangerous archaic drives in check: chronic characterological attitudes (the so-called reaction-formations) serve to maintain and reinforce previously established repressions; magical modes of thought and action (the mechanism of undoing) are employed to ward off threats to a weakening repression; and ideas and affects are kept apart (the mechanism of isolation) by a superstitiously fearful psyche in order to render harmless impulses which might penetrate through the repressions. T h e discovery that a variety of defense mechanisms exists in the psyche contributed to the depth and subtlety of clinical understanding; of even greater importance, however, both clinically and theoretically, was the recognition that these various defense mechanisms directed against archaic infantile wishes and impulses were themselves not only archaic (i.e., part of the primary process) but also inaccessible to consciousness (i.e., belonging to the Unconscious). T h e revised conceptualization of the interrelationships of psychic forces, which takes these new discoveries into account, recognizes that the essential opposition is between an enclave of unmodified infantile strivings (the repressed id) and a system composed predominantly of mature, preconscious functions (the ego). T h e ego, however, applies archaic means (the unconscious defenses) to maintain the integrity of its territory of rationality. This particular structural relationship is anal-

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ogous to the use of magical threats by parents, educators, and religious authorities in order to foster the creation of superstitious beliefs in children, in the service of drive control and of other rational aims. Figure 2 presents the new conceptualization of the relationship between ego, id, Preconscious, and Unconscious.

"Eye" of Consciousness Preconscious!

Unconscious Defenses Repression Barrier

Unconscious

FIGURE

2

T h e area below the repression barrier is the id; the area above is the ego. T h e lined area is the Unconscious, the dotted area the Preconscious. The opposing arrows symbolize the structural conflict between repressed infantile drives and the defenses. Note that the main part of the defenses is unconscious. Only brief mention need be made about the increasingly significant position that aggression began to occupy in psychoanalytic theory. T h e clinical importance of aggressive strivings h a d been obvious, of course, from the beginning; the Oedipus complex, for example, the foremost clinical discovery of psychoanalysis, which was presented as early as

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1900, involves not only a libidinal but also an equally important aggressive component (cf. the little boy's death wishes toward his father). Unlike the later investigations of compulsion neurosis and depression, however, the early investigations of hysteria did not lead with equal clarity to the recognition that the vicissitudes of aggressive drives paralleled widely those of the libidinal drives. Like the libido, aggression is present in a repressed, unmodified, infantile form; its breakthrough is feared and defended against; it enters into transferences, and it lends itself to maturing influences and to useful integration with the higher functions of the psyche. It was on the basis of these new observations that the new dualdrive theory was incorporated into the structural model: the id was conceived of as containing not only infantile libidinal but also infantile aggressive tensions which strive for discharge and are kept repressed. We turn now to the concept of the superego, the new conceptualization of endopsychic moral forces. T h e presence of endopsychic moral forces had been acknowledged from the early days of psychoanalysis, and it was recognized that they contributed decisively to the motivation for and the maintenance of repressions. The widening scope of clinical observations led, step by step, to the discovery that the moral forces not only fulfill a variety of related functions, but also constitute a cohesive genetic and functional unit which demanded their conceptualization as a distinct structure of the psyche, the superego. T h e study of hysteria had already allowed the assumption that moral influences, like the drives, could be unconscious. This assumption became well nigh a certainty when Freud discovered that an unconscious sense of guilt could induce people to commit crimes in order to provoke punishment. The decisive studies, however, were instigated by the discovery that, in certain depressions, the moral forces (although in a malignant state of regression) have gained a circumscribed position of tyrannical power

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over the rest of the personality and are in the process of subjugating and destroying it. Freud extended and deepened his study of the various components of endopsychic morality (the censoring and punitive forces, the standards of the ego ideal, the approving and loving powers) and ultimately came to the conclusion that the essential cohesiveness of these variegated functions resulted from the fact that they had once been united, outside the personality, in the parental authority: that the parent authority h a d been the embodiment of the censor and punisher who was feared by the child, the admired ideal and prototype who could make the child feel small and inferior, the source of love and approval when the commands had been obeyed, and the reservoir of shared pride and pleasure when the child lived up to the parental example. Because Freud recognized the functional and genetic cohesion of the various aspects of the internal moral forces, he conceived of them as a distinct psychological structure. Even the name he chose, the superego, reflected the fact that approval and disapproval, and standards and ideals are experienced as if located above the ego: a residual from the time when the child was small and looked u p to the approving or disapproving admired figures. In addition to the fact that the structural point of view introduced a number of important changes into psychoanalytic theory (e.g., revision of the theory of repression, of the theory of drives, and of the theory of endopsychic morality), we believe that it also opens the door for a significant expansion of the conceptual scope of psychoanalysis: it allows the integration of the dynamic-economic-genetic understanding of a variety of nonpathological functions with those essential classical findings and formulations of psychoanalysis which had been derived from the study of dreams and of psychopathology. In this context we would like to focus especially on the fact that, as alluded to by Freud in his diagrammatic rendi-

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tion of the structural model of the psyche (1921, p . 24) but not sufficiently elaborated conceptually by him, the barrier of defenses separates only a small part of the infantile psychological depth from the areas of mature psychic functioning, while the deep, unconscious activities in the remainder of the diagram are in broad uninterrupted contact with the preconscious layers of the surface. Kohut (1961) has referred to the dichotomized segment of the psyche as the area of transferences, and to the uninterrupted segment as the area of progressive neutralization. Figure 3 presents the two segments of the psyche in a schematic fashion. T h e actual relationships would be ren-

Area of Progressive Neutralization

Area of Transference

EGO

Barrier of Defenses Repression Barrier

ID

FIGURE

3

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dered more accurately if the barrier of defenses were m a d e to shade into the nondichotomized segment of the psyche. This gradual merging of the defense barrier into the neutralizing matrix of the psyche is hinted at in the diagram, but is not fully carried out. The right side of the diagram represents the area of transferences; here infantile impulses that have met with frustration of traumatic intensity exert their transference influence across the barrier of defenses and produce compromise formations (between primary and secondary processes) with the preconscious contents of the ego. The left side of the diagram represents the area of progressive neutralization, where the infantile impulses that have encountered optimal frustration are transformed gradually into neutralized mental activities. Although the area of transferences constitutes only a small portion of the structural diagram, its significance remains undiminished since it is there that we find the activities and phenomena that are the result of structural conflicts and transference: dream formation, the symptoms of the transference neuroses, psychic formations such as slips of the tongue, errors, and the like—which Freud referred to as the psychopathology of everyday life —and, especially, the transferences to the analyst in the course of psychoanalytic treatment. As we have seen, the structural model of the mind depicts the bulk of the psychological organization as a continuum from the depths to the surface. T h e neutralizing psychological structure which constitutes the nondichotomized portion of the psyche (the area of progressive neutralization) was formed by the internalization of innumerable experiences of optimal frustration. The barrier of defenses, on the other hand, which walls off an unmodified residue of infantile strivings, is the result of the internalization of frustrating experiences and prohibitions of traumatic intensity. T h e differences between childhood experiences of trau-

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matic and of optimal frustration are differences in degree. It is the difference between one mother's harsh "N-OI" and another mother's kindly "no." It is the difference between a frightening kind of prohibition, on the one hand, and an educational experience, on the other. It is the difference between one father's handling a child's temper tantrum by an equally hostile countertantrum and another father's picking up the child and calming him —firm but nonaggressive, and loving but not seductive. It is the difference between an uncompromising prohibition, which stresses only what the child must not have or cannot do, and the offering of acceptable substitutes for the forbidden object or activity. Replicas of the experiences of traumatic frustration and of optimal frustration (identifications) are established in the mind via the mechanism of introjection. T h e child incorporates permanently into his own psychic organization the restraining attitudes and behavior of the childhood objects who curbed his wishes, demands, needs, and strivings. T h e child's drives are opposed originally by the prohibitions of the parents. If these prohibitions are of nontraumatic intensity, the child incorporates the parents' drive-restraining attitudes in the form of innumerable benign memory traces. In this way the matrix of the nondichotomized portion of the psychological structure is created, which transforms the archaic, infantile drives into aim-inhibited activities. As a result of having introjected many experiences of optimal frustration in which his infantile drives were handled by a calming, soothing, loving attitude rather than by counteraggression on the part of his parents, the child himself later acts in the same way toward the drive demands that arise in him. Optimally frustrating experiences lead, therefore, to the formation of a drive-restraining (neutralizing) structure which itself is composed of neutralized memory traces and works with the aid of neutralized endopsychic forces. Crude infantile aggressive impulses, for example, can be transformed into nonhostile

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purposive activities through internalized drive-restraining attitudes which themselves have lost their aggressive or sexual quality. Individuals undoubtedly differ in their constitutional potentialities for the development of optimally neutralizing, drive-restraining structures. T h e most important source of a well-functioning psychological structure, however, is the personality of the parents, specifically their ability to respond to the child's drive demands with nonhostile firmness and nonseductive affection. Psychoanalysis also takes into account the existence of constitutional variations in the readiness of the child's psyche to be traumatized and to ward off conflictual drive demands through the establishment of repressions and of massive defenses. Even the most mature parents cannot (and need not) prevent the establishment of repressions and of other defenses, which are, after all, economical means of dealing with tensions at a time when the more subtle steps toward psychological growth cannot yet be taken. If a child is exposed chronically to immature, hostile, or seductive parental reactions toward his demands, then the resulting intense anxiety or overstimulation leads to an impoverishment of the growing psyche, since too much of his drive equipment is repressed and thus cannot participate in psychic development. In addition, the intensity of the unmodified infantile drives and the brittleness of the defenses are the antecedents of later psychological imbalance, and of the sudden breakthrough of repressed material that leads to neurotic illness. T h e foregoing discussion has not taken up all of the major changes in psychoanalytic theory brought about by the structural point of view; and of those that were reviewed, only the highlights could be depicted. Completeness, however, is neither possible nor even desirable in a brief survey of a complex field. T h e aim of this presentation was, rather, to attempt to provide a better comprehension of the meaning of

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the theoretical formulations of psychoanalysis, a sense of the continual development and expansion of psychoanalytic theory, and an appreciation of the interrelatedness of theoretical formulation and (clinical) observation. Consideration of the structural point of view shows how earlier theoretical formulations were revised under the influence of new clinical findings; it also demonstrates with particular clarity the expansion in the scope of psychoanalytic theory, in particular its increasing ability to define and explain the most mature and highly developed psychic activities in genetic-dynamiceconomic terms, and to integrate these new insights with the older formulations. T h e formulations of the structural point of view exerted a considerable influence on the theoretic principles of childrearing practices. It hardly needs to be stressed that the structural point of view also modified the theory of psychoanalytic technique and the conduct of therapeutic psychoanalysis. The fact that during psychoanalysis one part of the patient's psyche observes and comprehends while the other part permits regression and transferences (what Sterba [1934] later aptly called the "therapeutic split in the ego") had probably been understood for a long time. The deeper comprehension of the meaningful relationship with the analyst of the observing part of the psyche (i.e., of the patient's capacity to form and maintain a reliable relationship of cooperation which rests on the foundations of childhood experience, yet is not transference), however, could only be attained through the formulations and insights of the structural point of view. Recognition of the advances in theoretical understanding that are embodied in the structural diagram does not prevent the acknowledgment that it contains important areas that await further exploration and reformulation. What, for example, is the nature of the psychic contents of the id? Are its primitive wish-strivings attached to memories and fantasies; and, if so, is there, beneath the barrier of defenses, a

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further differential layering between id contents of greater and lesser primitiveness? Are there formal distinctions between the archaic psychic processes in the unconscious part of the ego and those in the id? What are the differences between the early identifications in the deepest layers of the psyche and those that are deposited later, nearer the surface? These and other topics await detailed exploration, and there is little doubt that the structural diagram will be modified in due course as a result of further clinical research. T h e development of psychoanalysis has, in fact, not ceased since the introduction of the structural model. The newer formulations seem to point toward an increasing preoccupation of analysts with the functions of the ego. Analysts (cf. H a r t m a n n , 1939) now emphasize that ego functions mature in a predetermined fashion, which is to some extent independent of environmental influences (primary autonomy), and also that ego functions may ultimately free themselves from the nexus of endopsychic conflicts and thus, again, become independent (secondary autonomy). It is neither possible nor desirable to present an orderly survey of the most recently formulated theories of a developing science such as psychoanalysis. The modern theories have been mentioned primarily to prevent the possible misapprehension that psychoanalysts consider the theories of the structural point of view the final word of wisdom. T r u e , psychoanalysis, like any other science, does not discard well7

7

[John E. Gedo and Arnold Goldberg, at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society in March, 1969, presented a paper, "Models of the Mind in Psychoanalysis." An abstract by J. S. Handler of the proceedings was published in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1970), 20:77-78, including the following remarks by Kohut. Psychoanalytic theory often swings from the study of isolated mechanisms to broad generalizations which lose contact with empirical material —the source of our knowledge. It is to the authors' credit that, in constructing a supraordinate model of mental functioning out of the building blocks of the subordinate models, they have sharpened our

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established theories lightly; a degree of conservatism is necessary to prevent theoretical and conceptual chaos. Yet, if we take a broad view we can safely say that, while the theory of psychoanalysis influences the analyst's mode of observation and the evaluation of his data, it remains itself open to change by the impact of new experiences.

appreciation of the functions of the subordinate models within the framework of the total configuration. While the reflex-arc model, the selfobject model, and the structural model are diagrammatic renditions of clearly differentiated basic modes of psychic functioning, the step between the structural and the topographical models is comparatively small. The decision (Kohut and Seitz, 1963) to place an integrated topographic-structural model above the pure structural one in the developmental scale appears to imply that the capacity to have guilt feelings diminishes as the psychic apparatus matures. Such an assumption, coupled with a tendency to regard maturational sequences as a movement toward ideal maturity, could lead to the fallacy of a (paraphrasing Hartmann) "maturational morality"—an error completely avoided in Gedo's and Goldberg's work through their appropriate rejection of evaluative attitudes.]

24 The Position of Fantasy in Psychoanalytic Psychology CHAIRMAN'S INTRODUCTORY REMARKS TO T H E SYMPOSIUM ON FANTASY

A fact which h a d been known for a long time has in recent years (through the publication of Freud's correspondence with Wilhelm Fliess) been impressed afresh with great poignancy on the student of the history of psychoanalysis. It is contained in the chapter of the heroic tale of Freud's life when from the depths of what seemed a great defeat —the recognition that the seduction stories of the hysterical patients were "false" (Freud, 1887-1902) —Freud arrived at the important and basic insight that these "false" stories were "real" fantasies emanating from the nucleus of the unconscious, the Oedipus complex (Freud, 1925a). This discovery was of the greatest significance; it opened the road psychoanalysis had to follow by establishing the far-reaching influence of the inner life of man and, in particular, the central position of fantasy (especially of unconscious fantasy) for psychological development and motivation. From the interaction of the child and his environment (or to be more exact, of the child's drives and rudimentary ego functions, on the one hand, and the environment, on the other) arises the area of rich inner The Symposium on Fantasy was held at the Meeting of the International Psycho-Analytic Association, Stockholm, 1963. These Introductory Remarks were first published in French in the Revue Franqaise de Psychanalyse (1964), 28:471-472.

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elaboration of experience that has become the central focus of psychoanalytic inquiry. The fundamental position of fantasy in the framework of psychoanalytic psychology was recently brought home to me during a friendly argument with an expert in a different discipline who, having heard of the Symposium on Fantasy, challenged the relevancy of such psychoanalytic preoccupations and argued that the discovery of the mechanism of "imprinting" by the ethologists (Lorenz, 1952) had finally put the vague speculations and reconstructions of psychoanalysis on a firm scientific basis. Psychoanalysts, he thought, should be less preoccupied with the inner life of m a n and focus their attention more on man's external behavior. In replying to these arguments, it became increasingly clear to me how far from the truth this statement was. Although additional factors might be mentioned, it is primarily the h u m a n propensity for the extensive inner elaboration of experience that necessitated the creation of the complex conceptual framework of psychoanalytic metapsychology. As has long been established in psychoanalysis, a man's homosexuality does not usually stem from the fact that he was surrounded by men in his childhood. His homosexuality arises much more frequently from the elaboration of the experience of his relation to the mother (Sadger, 1909; Ferenczi, 1914), from a search for his grandiose infantile self, and from the re-enactment of a wish-fulfilling narcissistic fantasy through the love for an idealized self-image of the past. How far is such a conception from a simple theory of "imprinting." 1

T h e topic of this symposium occupies a broad and central area in the field of psychoanalysis, and we are therefore confronted with the task of defining and circumscribing fan1

For an outstanding modern discussion of the complex interrelationship of the "facts" of the child's external environment and the various levels of their inner elaboration see Kris (1956).

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tasy and of isolating it from other psychological phenomena — else we will be running the risk of including almost the whole subject matter of psychoanalysis within the focus of our attention today. Of still greater importance is the fact that the broadness and the central location of our topic render it inevitable that it impinges, indeed, on many aspects of psychoanalytic theory. The total background of our theoretical predilections, or the "school" of psychoanalysis to which we belong, will therefore strongly influence not only where we will wish to establish the limits of the concept "fantasy," but also how we will understand the nature of the psychological processes we are subsuming under this term. This fact, however, must neither be played down nor regretted, but should be welcomed as providing the opportunity for an important exercise in communication. We must learn to temporarily suspend our critical functions in order to grasp the essence of the total outlook of each presentation so that we can judge the validity, the logic and internal consistency, and the productiveness of the insights that will be offered to us. We must find the optimal position between freedom in thought-experimentation and acceptance of new ideas, on the one h a n d , and logical stringency in assessment and judgment, on the other. Neither must we allow ourselves to be impoverished by renouncing the former, nor must we drift toward a conceptual chaos by neglecting the latter. For myself, I can report that during the study of the papers of which this symposium is composed, and with the growing understanding of their content and of the position of the participants, I felt a firm optimism about our science and its enduring vitality. Despite our differences, there is a core of understanding among us which is based oh two facts: we all employ the most fruitful existing method of observation of the h u m a n psyche, and our theories are formulated in accordance with those fundamental psychoanalytic tenets which are derived directly from this method of observation.

25 Some Problems of a Metapsychological Formulation of Fantasy CHAIRMAN'S CONCLUDING REMARKS TO T H E SYMPOSIUM O N FANTASY

Although the searching and illuminating contributions to the Symposium on Fantasy spoke for themselves, there may yet be some value in a final attempt to survey as objectively as possible the various views that were presented to us. T h a t each of the authors upheld his own line of thought is as it ought to be: a manifestation of t h e fact that the healthy narcissism of the creator has been transferred to the product. When the work has been finished, however, and especially after it has been communicated, there is need for a diminution of the narcissistic investment and for a corresponding increase in objective judgment. If this shift does not occur — whether in individuals or in whole schools of thought—we are confronted, at best, with what Freud (1930) referred to as the "narcissism of small differences," at worst, with the pursuit of an overvalued or dominant scientific idea or theory. Here indeed lies a danger for psychoanalysis, as anyone acquainted with its history knows. Giving due credit to the contributions made by legitimate scientific controversy (as well as resisFirst published in the International 45:199-202.

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(1964),

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tances and unconscious ambivalence) to the schisms and school formations that have plagued psychoanalysis from early on, we must not underestimate in this context the harmful effect of the narcissistic overvaluation of otherwise well-founded and relevant ideas and theories. A single set of theories which has become identified as the spiritual property of a specific author (and is loyally defended by his pupils) is explicitly or implicitly presented as "the" principal explanation for the entire spectrum of normal and abnormal psychological states. It is obvious that factors that exert their influence during early stages of psychological development can be employed most readily for such universal explanations, which then tend to supplant not only the detailed investigation of the nexus of genetic interactions but also that of the vicissitudes of the interplay of present and past in the psychic manifestations of later stages of development. Nowhere has this unpropitious practice been more pointedly illustrated than by Freud in his critique of Rank's therapeutic endeavors, which are based on an overvaluation of the consequences of the t r a u m a of separation from the mother. "We have not heard much about what the implementation of Rank's plan has done for cases of sickness. Probably not more than if the fire-brigade, called to deal with a house that had been set on fire by an overturned oil-lamp, contented themselves with removing the lamp from the room in which the blaze had started" (1937, p p . 216-217). T h e interrelated lines of inquiry to be pursued in attempting to survey the problems encountered in this symposium cannot be neatly separated; they may, however, perhaps be enumerated schematically as follows: an evaluation of the relation of the investigator's views on fantasy with his preferences for specific theoretical positions; an assessment of the views concerning the role of the ego in the formation of fantasies; and a scrutiny of the particular problems that are posed by the examination of continua.

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T h e guiding influence of the speakers' basic theoretical positions was implied by Rosen's statement that a particular conception of the model of mind leads to a particular outlook on the topic of fantasy. T o be more specific, we might add that it is our conception of the ego that determines the role we assign to it in the formation of fantasies. If, with Sandler, we see the ego as the seat of all higher organization, we have chosen the side of clarity and simplicity. Yet we may wonder, with Segal, whether the gain is not outweighed by a loss in the depth and variety of the subsidiary conceptualizations. We might posit the existence of a hierarchy of primary processes and direct our attention not only to those sectors of psychological functioning where the primitive and the mature are clearly separated, but also to those where they form a continuum. The repressed sexual theories, for example, of which Rosen spoke, would then belong within the dichotomized sector of the psyche; some of the psychological structures, on the other hand, to which Lagache referred, would belong to the sector where the transformation of primary into secondary-process functioning is gradual and continuous. One of the inquiries suggested this afternoon concerned the "nature" of unconscious fantasy. It is not without significance that this question arose most clearly in the contribution of our French colleagues, but, interesting though an investigation of the influence of the cultural climate on specific directions of thought in psychoanalysis might be, we must not go too far afield. Suffice it to say that it was Lagache who addressed himself most explicitly to this question, and that Benassy's psychophysiological conceptualization raises the problem by implication. I cannot pursue these problems beyond the intriguing and often brilliant suggestions that have already been m a d e . A brief inquiry into the meaning of this question in the context of psychoanalytic theory, however, will not, I hope, be out of place.

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If we follow Sandler and direct our attention to the relation of consciousness, as an organ of internal perception, to fantasy, we can state that our conception of preconscious fantasy undoubtedly rests on the postulate of what the philosopher of science Reichenbach (1951, p p . 180-183) calls a "normal system." We assume, in other words, that the preconscious fantasy is like the conscious one, even during periods when it is not being observed. Such an assumption is inherent in the common-sense outlook on reality and is prevalent in the initial position of most sciences toward their field of inquiry. With regard to the unconscious fantasy, however, our attitude is not equally unequivocal, as is disclosed, for example, by an examination of Segal's and Benassy's contrasting concepts of early unconscious fantasy. In the service of simplicity and clarity we could, of course, postulate a "normal system" for the unconscious fantasy too, adding only the appropriate considerations concerning nonaccessibility because of repression or defenses. I believe, however, that it was implicitly the prevailing opinion of the speakers (except, perhaps, of Segal) that, with regard to the Unconscious, the assumption of a "normal system" is not warranted. This attitude is analogous to that taken in nuclear physics, where it has been recognized that the very means of observation (the ray of light, or the electronic beam) modifies the field (Reichenbach, 1951, p p . 181-182). Stated briefly, then, I question the correctness of the assumption that the observed fantasy products from the Unconscious (whether accessible directly in regressive states, or discovered and delineated through the scrutiny of derivatives) are identical with the unobserved fantasies; and I seem inclined to surmise that they change in the process of becoming observable. T h e assessment of the range of the observing sense organ consciousness constitutes still another aspect of the problems posed by the unconscious fantasy. Lagache, and also Sandler, as well as Benassy and Diatkine, have drawn our attention to

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the preponderance of quantity over content in the unconscious fantasy. Could it be that the unmodified unconscious fantasy, with its exceptional preponderance of quantity is beyond the compass of the sensory organ consciousness as are the ultraviolet rays to the eye? Freud's observations on altered states of consciousness are compatible with this possibility. "The loss of consciousness, the 'absence,' in a hysterical attack is derived from the fleeting but unmistakable lapse of consciousness which is observable at the climax of every intense sexual satisfaction, including auto-erotic ones" (1908c, p. 233; see also Kohut and Seitz, 1963, esp. p p . 352-353). Since most sciences confront the uncertainties that arise from the influence of the means of observation on the observed, and from the limitation of sensory perception, they attempt to formulate general statements about their subject matter in terms that are at a distance from the experienced observation. These problems have been searchingly discussed by H a r t m a n n (1927), who emphasizes the need of maintaining an appropriate distance between observed experience and theoretical formulation (see p p . 3-4 and 18. See also Hertm a n n et al., 1946, p p . 16-17). T h e ideal of the physical sciences is the representation of reality in measurable quantities and through the mathematical relationship of the quantifiable units. Since analogous procedures cannot be undertaken in comprehending psychology without leading to insignificance and sterility, we must try to perfect our own system of symbolic notations, namely, what Freud called the "witch of our science," metapsychology. This is what all the contributors to our panel have done —not excluding Ben assy, who emphasized, in metapsychological terms, the opinion that the close relationship between consciousness and secondary processes (particularly language) made it preferable to formulate primitive fantasy activity in psychophysiological terms. (For additional remarks concerning the conceptualization of archaic psychological states, see Kohut, 1959b, p p . 214-217.)

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Almost all the speakers examined the role of the ego in fantasy production and thus became involved in the age-old dilemma of the assessment of continua, the choice between an emphasis on the essential homogeneity of the field (by focusing on the intermediate areas), or on the differences between the various areas (by turning attention to the end points). Freud was aware of the conceptual dangers inherent in the evaluation of continua, and on one occasion he refuted their abuse (for the purpose of obfuscating the difference between conscious and unconscious) in the following joking but cogent manner. He stated that he had no objection to the acceptance of nuances of consciousness in the same way as one may speak of innumerable gradations of light from full illumination toward darkness. To reject the unconscious, however, because there are nuances of consciousness, makes no better sense than to conclude, on the basis of the fact that there are various degrees of illumination, that darkness does not exist and that there is therefore no need to turn on the light (1923, p . 16n). If we wish to demonstrate the seeds of the mature psychological functions in the primitive state, or the remnants of the primitive in the developed, we will stress the uninterrupted continuity of development. Conversely, when we examine the dream, the symptoms of psychoneuroses, or those fantasy formations that are amalgamations of unconscious derivatives with ego-syntonic thought, then we emphasize the discontinuity of primary and secondary processes and view the product as the resultant of influences from two different areas of psychic functioning. Freud employed both approaches (1923, see e.g., p . 24) and incorporated them into his conceptualization of the structural model of the mind (Kohut and Seitz, 1963, pp. 363-365). T h e contrast between such opinions as Sandler's and Lagache's is perhaps illuminated by the assumption that they have focused on differ-

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ent sectors of the psychological model: Sandler on the sector where there is a sharp separation between primary and secondary processes; Lagache on the area of gradual transition from the primitive to the mature. Lagache refers clearly to the cohesiveness of the primitive and the mature when he says, "if . . . we consider sublimation through action, we shall then note that [it is] constantly activated by narcissistic, aggressive, or libidinal intentions." All members of the symposium appear to have come to a crucial point as they followed the phenomena (and the concept) of fantasy into the structural depth. At this juncture, each felt compelled to construct an internally consistent, metapsychological formulation. T o proceed thus is an essential endeavor of the h u m a n mind: the expression, not only of the wish to contribute to scientific communication, but primarily of the integrative strivings of the ego. There is Segal's evidence for the overriding influence of archaic fantasy on normal and abnormal development; Benassy's advocacy of the validity of a psychophysiological conceptualization of primitive fantasy; Sandler's close tie to the demands of clinical data and his conceptual reliance on the contrast between the primary and secondary process; and Lagache's emphasis on the status nascendi, the focal significance of the recathexis of the unconscious memory. Each one of the contributions was valuable by itself, and there is much that can be learned from them. There may yet be no more truthful way of concluding this symposium than by stating the conviction that it was the totality of the different approaches that was the best achievement of this meeting. We may surely, and with good conscience, leave many questions unanswered, drawing upon one of the virtues of a good analyst: his capacity to postpone closures.

26 Franz Alexander: In Memoriam

Members of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, Ladies and Gentlemen: We all know of the death of Franz Alexander more than two weeks ago, and we have been able to think about and adjust to the passing of this strong figure who occupied a position of pre-eminence in our field for so long a time. It is fitting that colleagues whose knowledge of Franz Alexander is based on decades of friendship and collaboration should talk to us about him today: Tom French and Helen McLean will speak to us about his work and about his life and personality. Yet it may also be proper that, as a representative of a younger group of analysts, I should say a few words in his memory, even though the distance that often separates succeeding generations is not favorable to the acquisition of intimate knowledge. But then, there are advantages in an overview from afar which makes the main features of the personality stand out. His was a brilliant intellect, impatient with details and striving for the clarification of large issues; there was directness and straightforwardness without ambiguity; and forcefulness, vigor, youthfulness. Of all these qualities, the last was the most characteristic one: despite his age and the position of authority he occupied for such a long time, we tend to think of him as a young m a n . This notion is Addressed to a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, March, 1964.

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not the outgrowth of a personal idiosyncrasy—it is shared widely. But on what is it based? On our recognition of the outstanding quality of his early contributions to our science? On our perception of a specific attribute of his mind and personality — an impatient striving typical of youth—which characterized Alexander's search for new vistas and experiences even at an advanced age? It is given to no m a n to live a perfect life, and he is blessed, indeed, who can achieve perfection in any one of the phases of life: be it a perfect youth with its eager encounter with the world; a perfect maturity of impatiently vigorous action gradually consolidating into creativity; or a perfect old age that blends realism, wisdom, and retrospective satisfaction with past achievement. With Franz Alexander, young manhood must have been a period of perfection, a period when inner endowment, a peak of forcefulness, and the external challenge must have been uniquely in harmony and balance. I do not believe that the experience of his childhood self endowed him with an accepting emotional closeness to, or an affectionate sympathy with the freshness and simplicity of the first painful and blissful perceptions of reality in childhood. And he never quite wanted and accepted that ultimate stage of life that can be fulfillment, retrospect, and final consolidation. Even in his later years he retained a striving toward a future not yet obtained. And this is, I think, the reason the news of his death struck us as an unanticipated blow: not like the news of the death of the septuagenarian that he was, but as if he had been taken prematurely and unexpectedly. Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly have the occasion to hear and to meditate about the details of Franz Alexander's life and work, but let us now for one moment think of him in his h u m a n essence: as that undaunted vigorous fighter, that paradigm of directness and resolution, that eternally young m a n . Please rise in memory of Franz Alexanderl

27

Values and

Objectives

Permit me, as I take office as President of the Association, to speak to you about the future; not only about the coming year, which is, of course, of immediate and intimate concern, but about the long-term goals and directions of psychoanalysis, and about the role of our Association in this future. Dwelling on generalities can be a flight from the tasks at hand; yet, a sense of direction and a concern with a cohesive set of values are indispensable if we wish psychoanalysts to remain more than a group of skilled technicians. Goals and values make people strong; it would even appear that they contribute decisively to biological survival. Their absence — manifest either as disillusionment and sarcasm or through the espousal of an uninspired technology—tends to usher in extinction, whether the end comes dramatically or via a process of silent diffusion. What are our values and how are they related to and reflected in the functions of our Association? Clearly, our organization must take into account the practical objectives of the profession, the requirements of the education of future generations of psychoanalysts, and the general enhancement of the science of psychoanalysis. Each of these objectives and any of their subsidiary aims may at times require our enerIncoming Presidential Address to Members of the Annual Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, Los Angeles, 1964. First published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1964), 12:842-845.

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getic support, and no hierarchy of values must induce us to look with contempt on the pursuit of smaller goals if they are in the service of our long-term objectives. I hold this statement to be true not only, where indeed it goes without saying, with regard to such an absorbing and important part-objective of the Association (embodied in the Board on Professional Standards) as psychoanalytic education, but also where it relates to the mundane tasks in our relation to society, such as matters of taxation, concern for the standing of the psychoanalytic profession in the community, and its professional relation to other branches of science, and various other matters that are carried out by many a hard-working, devoted committee of our Executive Council. Despite the importance of these objectives, I nevertheless consider the maintenance and the enhancement of psychoanalysis as a science the paramount concern of psychoanalysts and thus of the Association. This statement needs clarification. What I have in mind is not a contrast between practical professional objectives and idealistic scientific aims, or a comparison between the requirements of undergraduate training and the conditions that enhance postgraduate scientific pursuits. And when I speak about our concern for the science of psychoanalysis, I am not confusing the essence of science (the rigorous searching for the truth) with the adherence to specific methodologies. The methods must be adapted to the field under observation; and I do not wish to imply that we must necessarily strive for a rapprochement with those traditional scientific methodologies (e.g., quantification and experimentation) that have proved of value in the physical and biological sciences. I come closer to my meaning without yet quite reaching it when I turn to various scientific enterprises in which our Association is engaged at the present time: the searching examination of various educational problems by the committees of COPE; the scrutiny, by the Committee on Social

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Problems, of critical periods of child development and their relationship to the possible establishment of guidelines for the prevention of mental illness; the important and demanding work of the Committee on Indexing and Classification of Psychoanalytic Literature; or the investigation of the collected data on various aspects of psychoanalytic therapeutic activities carried out by the Committee for the Study of the Central Fact-Gathering Data. Studies such as these should be undertaken increasingly by the Association, and the need might arise for coordinating and planning such enterprises through the establishment of a top-level Scientific Planning Committee. Although the central focus of psychoanalytic fact-finding must be the "psychoanalytic situation" and new insights and discoveries will continue to depend on the intellectual and emotional effort of the analyst in his office and in his study, there are indeed some tasks within the science of psychoanalysis that are beyond the power of individual analysts and even of individual institutes and societies. Let me just suggest, as an example, that we might some day consider the comprehensive and systematic gathering of clinical and theoretical psychoanalytic information into a planned and cohesive set of volumes analogous to the famous Handbücher of German medical specialties. Professional, educational, and investigative pursuits, however, must all be integrated with, influenced by, and subordinated to our dominant concern for the science of psychoanalysis, and even our role as therapists when viewed within the broadest perspective should not be regarded as supreme. True, analysts make a valuable contribution to society through the treatment of individual patients, especially in view of the psychological benefits obtained by the children of those we are able to help. Our social contribution through the direct results of psychoanalytic treatment, however, is limited: each analyst can treat only a few patients; not all of psychopathology is accessible to psychoanalysis; few people

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have the emotional and intellectual equipment to become analysts; and fewer still are able to function effectively as analysts throughout their professional life span. Psychoanalysis is therefore first and foremost a unique instrument for the gathering of an important segment of psychological knowledge; and the major obligation psychoanalysts have to society lies in the use of their scientific and therapeutic instrument for the gathering of data about h u m a n motivations and for the ever-deepening understanding of h u m a n behavior. An awareness of this hierarchy of values, to which I believe most analysts subscribe implicitly, would help us not only as a guide in making the many subsidiary decisions we are faced with in our day-to-day activities; it would also help to ameliorate what may well be our worst disease, an excessive tendency toward dissension. I am not advocating a lessening of our individual or collective struggles concerning our convictions. Controversy (like endopsychic conflict) belongs to the essence of the h u m a n condition; and we are not striving for a bland life of "adapting" and "getting along." But an acceptance of the necessity of conflict and a readiness for attitudes of mutual disrespect and contempt among colleagues are not the same thing. If you agree with me that this illness does indeed exist, it confronts us with an as yet unsolved puzzle. It reflects perhaps the fact that we have not yet been able to push our explorations of the infantile roots of narcissism as far as those of infantile object-directed libidinal and aggressive attitudes. This failure may in turn account for the fact that the psychoanalytic understanding of group behavior has lagged behind the psychoanalytic insights concerning motivations for individual behavior. T h e detailed scrutiny of the influence of the infantile narcissistic fantasy may well become as important for the understanding of group psychopathology as is the examination of the infantile object-directed fantasy in the psychopathology of the individual. Thus, the large field of social behavior which so far

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has been studied mainly through the interpersonal and transactional approaches of social psychology (which of necessity exclude a full appreciation of the role of narcissism), appears to me to await careful psychoanalytic exploration. Be that as it may, I am convinced that we must acknowledge our common aim of deepening man's understanding of himself, and that this recognized goal will increase friendliness, mutual respect, and cohesiveness in our profession. Allow me to end these reflections with a personal statement. I think we are lucky to be psychoanalysts. I say this not because as analysts we belong to a group that at times commands a certain ambivalent prestige in society, and not only because the conducting of psychoanalytic therapy is often absorbing and emotionally rewarding. It is rather because in this finite life we are able to participate in the work of one of the few geniuses of mankind, a participation which in our field appears to me to be more intimate and profound than in most other sciences. We are not "disciples" of Freud, as many an inimical statement will have it; psychoanalysis should have nothing of a religion. Yet, although for some analysts an early enthusiasm appears to give way to restlessness and uncertainty, for many of us —and perhaps in a subtle way for us all—the magic and freshness of the first encounter with Freud's work and with the broad intellectual vistas it opened to us have never quite subsided. I am convinced that our scientific work—perhaps because it potentially includes an ever-deepening insight into our own mind — gives us a satisfaction few other sciences can equal. T o most of us it has remained an inexhaustible source of intellectual and emotional stimulation.

28 Autonomy

and

Integration

I shall speak to you about a few topics which, at the end of a long period of work for the Association, appear to me to be of foremost importance to us: the concern with organizational reform, with the problem of lay analysis, and with the Association's responsibilities in the field of research. Although it will not be possible for me to avoid giving expression to some personal views, it is not my intention here to uphold partisan positions concerning these issues. Instead, I shall try to evaluate them in their relation to the question of the separation or integration of the principal functions of our organization. These functions are: safeguarding the professional and social interests of the practicing analyst, transmitting knowledge and skill to the next generation, and promoting the acquisition of new knowledge. T h e first topic currently in the focus of attention is organizational reform. There can be no doubt that it is appropriate for us to scrutinize our organization to determine whether such interrelated defects as the tendency toward strife and inefficiency could be mitigated by a rearrangement of our institutions. We must not underrate the serious though relatively short-lived effects of disruptive strife and inefficiency; but these defects may also be viewed as the price paid for the growth-promoting stimulation that comes from Outgoing President's Address to Members at the Annual Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, New York, 1965. First published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1965), 13:851-856.

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the dialectical interaction of the different functions of organized psychoanalysis through their organizational representatives. Our Association is unique among seemingly analogous professional groups in giving shelter under one roof to the professional, educational, and scientific objectives of its membership. Our integration of these diverse functions is no accident; it is the appropriate manifestation of a science (once rather awkwardly called a movement) whose professional activity (a specific mode of psychotherapy) has, metapsychologically, the same objective as its education and research: an enlargement of the realm of awareness, a widening of the scope of the ego. The concrete embodiment of this principle is the analytic situation itself. T h a t it occupies the supreme position among our professional activities as therapists, that (as training analysis) it plays a fundamental role in our educational system, and that it is also our main tool of research, all these constitute a powerful link between the three otherwise divergent functions of psychoanalysis. There are other considerations prompting us, despite many palpable drawbacks, to maintain this traditional cohesion. Few of us would like to belong to a narrow organization which pursues only the professional and social aims of its membership. Psychoanalytic education would ultimately tend to deteriorate if it devoted itself to its own educational and scientific goals without the currently existing deep intermeshing with broader professional and social aims, and, especially, without the openness to influence by those whose interests have remained in the central areas of psychoanalytic study and research. Finally, even the core of analytic research itself would not long benefit from isolation. Although, in the hierarchy of values held by many of us, psychoanalytic research remains supreme and its consideration often guides and influences professional and educational decisions, even

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here, the results of isolation would in the end become deleterious. Only very few can persevere without the stimulation and support of the group. If our professional and educational institutions should increasingly concentrate their support on investigations carried out with nonanalytic methods (such as research about the results of psychoanalytic therapy or concerning the various problems of psychoanalytic pedagogy) or which apply analytic insights and methods to peripheral areas (such as to brief psychotherapy or mental hygiene or community problems), then the analytic investigator will become more and more isolated, the prestige still attached to the search for deeper analytic insights into the mind will be undermined, and the most promising among the younger generation will be led away from it. Next, let us consider the problem of lay analysis. This inexhaustible topic can be approached from many sides: as a moral issue of justice toward people who have indeed contributed greatly to our field, as a practical question concerning the best available manpower for psychoanalysis, and as a philosophical problem regarding what constitutes the essence of psychoanalysis. As seen in terms of the three principal functions of our Association, however, the problem can be posed in the form of three different sets of questions: Should the Association bestow active membership upon nonphysicians or should they be given special membership or be excluded? Should the Association authorize the full training of nonphysicians or should they be given restricted training only or no training at all? And finally, should the Association include nonphysicians as equals in its scientific activities or should they be admitted as guests only or excluded altogether? There is little doubt that the integration in one organization of the professional, educational, and scientific concerns of analysis has had a narrowing and obscuring effect on our capacity to examine these questions judiciously and to respond to them objectively. The mere fact that the problem

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of lay analysis arises in the context of organizational-political controversy has the effect of lowering the level of our interchange. We are asked from both sides to take a stand for or against lay analysis, as if this were a simple alternative allowing of no nuances of opinion, and as if qualifications were tantamount to lack of courage. The lowering of the level of debate during political argument is, of course, not restricted to our organization; but since sincerity and clarity are the essence of our professional lives, the very core of our system of values is threatened when our polemics take on the black and white of political propaganda and we begin to expect in each other the presence of hidden ulterior motives instead of straightforwardness and honesty. I do not wish to interfere with the healing of the rift that recently split those who were in favor of establishing a forum on psychoanalytic child psychology from those who were opposed to it. Perhaps I can best contribute to a reconciliation by speaking of those who considered the issue as one involving substantially the question of lay analysis and, following their convictions, voted to defeat it. It is my hope that this group, too, feels regret that a significant scientific activity will now be taking place outside of our organization. The forum on child psychology might have been the first of several organizational enterprises in which analysts could, under the aegis of the scientific branch of our organization, meet with representatives of other disciplines in stably organized association; now we can no longer proceed further in this direction. I submit that the controversy over the issue of the introduction of the forum (and, by implication, of other stable interdisciplinary scientific sections) must be regarded as a price we are paying for the advantages of pursuing professional and scientific pursuits within the confines of the same organization. There would hardly have been strong opposition to setting u p any interdisciplinary scientific forum that includes nonphysicians if our scientific meetings were

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held by a separate scientific organization. Yet, it is legitimate to ask whether in the long run professional considerations must of necessity remain prejudicial to fruitful scientific developments, even under the roof of one organization. Whatever the answer to this question, and steep as the price might be that we are paying for the organizational integration of functions, an openly faced conflict is better than its avoidance by whatever means and to whatever short-term advantage. Is psychoanalysis in essence a profession of healers, of physicians of the mind, with branches of its knowledge spreading into other fields? Or is its primary goal the exploration of the depth of all human behavior, while the application of its findings to the healing process is only secondary? The problem of lay analysis is not an easy one to solve, and the ultimate outcome of the conflict will depend not only on our present decisions and actions, which are determined by ideals planted deep in our personalities and sociocultural values reaching far into history, but also on powerful developmental factors which are changing the face of all sciences and professions. We do not even know whether the issue of lay analysis in the form in which we are facing it will turn out to have been a crucial one. I rather think not, since the historical and cultural forces that mold our future as a science and profession are stronger than our decisions. The practice of conventional medicine and psychiatry appears to be growing less challenging, its prestige seems to be declining, and the future in these fields will belong to the basic researcher. On the other hand, there are good reasons to believe that psychoanalysis —not only as a basic science of the mind, but also as a form of therapy —has hardly taken its first steps and that it has a great future. Whether this prediction is correct probably depends on whether now unforeseeable developments in the biological approaches to behavior might make unnecessary the arduous and resistance-provoking psy-

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choanalytic investigation of inner experience. From a less sweeping point of view, I believe that the problem of lay analysis — and especially the mode in which we address ourselves to it —has great significance, perhaps in the sense in which Freud spoke when he compared certain decisive moments of therapeutic analysis with the crucial engagements during military operations that take place around strategically important spots, but do not necessarily aim at the capture of a national shrine. Let me finally again express my view that the Association should play an active role in support of psychoanalytic study and research, a role which should be at least equal in importance to that regarding its professional and educational aims. Psychoanalytic research (and with it, genuine psychoanalytic therapy and education) must maintain itself against seductions and attacks from two opposite directions. We are urged by one group (which extends from the sentimentalizing protagonists of cure-through-love to the scientifically soundly based social psychologists) to abandon our own specific aim of achieving both new understanding and the possibility of improved psychic regulation via the access to the unconscious that is obtained through the scrutiny of inner experience. We are asked to employ instead the observation of interpersonal behavior or interactions and, in consequence, to achieve psychological improvement by the therapist's active introduction of forms of behavior that differ from the expected interpersonal patterns. On the other hand, we are told by a group (composed predominantly of academic psychologists) that we must not depend on the unique fact that the initial observations in our science are made by an instrument that is nearly identical with the observed, and that we should therefore abandon our aim of achieving scientifically orderly and exact comprehension patterns of the complex nexus of psychiatric data, and with it the possibility of increasing

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psychic mastery through insight. We are asked instead to fall in line with the modern refinements (factor analysis, probability) of the traditional cause-and-effect approach, and to express our explanatory formulations not in the language of psychoanalytic metapsychology, a system of symbolic notations relevant to the nature of our subject, but with the aid of systems of quantification, which are often irrelevant. Analysts do not fail to appreciate the appropriateness of the interactional viewpoint for the broad investigation of the surface of the social field, and the justification for the isolation of circumscribed quantifiable variables for the statistical formulation of a narrow segment of adaptational problems. Analysts do assert, however, that their own method is making contributions to the understanding of man's motivations, conflicts, and actions on a psychological level to which other methods have no access, and that it is therefore their predominant social obligation to devote their major energies to psychoanalytic explorations and to the development of their own methods. The Association's present activities in this area are indeed impressive: the scientific meetings, the Journal, the Discussion Groups, the research and study committees, and the Committee on Postgraduate Development. In addition to these traditional instrumentalities, which are predominantly concerned with keeping open the channels of scientific discourse, I think the Association might lend even more active support to psychoanalytic research. It could assign the responsibility for coordination of study and research committees to a supraordinate body concerned with scientific development, whose principal task would be the investigation of the theoretical and practical means of furthering psychoanalysis as a science. Study projects conceived by members, societies, or institutes might be discussed with such a body; cooperation of specially qualified members from various locations could be secured; and, last but not least, the Association might become concerned with the financing of

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psychoanalytic research. Grants can, of course, be obtained now by individual psychoanalysts and by locally or nationally organized research teams. In general, however, it is my impression that while grants are available for nonanalytic research about psychoanalytic activities and for research involving the application of psychoanalytic principles, financial support for psychoanalytic research proper is hard indeed to obtain. We must not underestimate the deleterious effect these circumstances have on analytic research in the core areas of psychoanalysis, especially on the younger generation of analysts. Grants tend to exert a subtle pull, and projects may well be set up with an eye toward the possibility of obtaining financial support. To my mind, it would be splendid for a committee on scientific development to consider the possibility of setting up a Foundation for Psychoanalytic Research which would collect and distribute funds, not only for the peripheral areas of psychoanalytic research, important as they are, but also for psychoanalytic research proper. Such financial support, while often not in itself decisive, might at times become of critical importance to a researcher as a token of public trust and group approval. It is through the backing of individual investigators, however, that continued research in the core areas of psychoanalysis must be supported. Let me close by summarizing the substance of my organizational views. Specific professional, educational, and scientific goals tend to be pursued by analysts with specific inclinations and talents. This spontaneous trend toward specialization has many advantages, a fact which has found recognition in the form of the liberal organizational autonomy granted to the special institutions responsible for carrying out the various specific functions of organized psychoanalysis. Unchecked specialization, however, always has the shortcoming of tending toward one-sidedness and narrowness of focus; and its drawbacks are even greater in our field. If the

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educator does not maintain intimate contact with therapy and research, he will become surface-minded and unable to impart the core values of psychoanalysis to his students; if the practitioner should entirely concentrate on his therapeutic and professional pursuits, his work will tend to become stereotyped and end up being inspirational and based on the effects of suggestion; and if the psychoanalytic researcher should increasingly detach himself from educational and therapeutic goals, he will tend toward preoccupation with the niceties of psychological mechanisms and structures and lose touch with the breadth and depth of h u m a n experience on which ultimately all of psychoanalysis must be based. Only the integration of the divergent functions of psychoanalysis through the close cooperation of analysts will in the long run protect the essence of our science in all its branches. In order to achieve this goal, we will have to mobilize the best of the h u m a n qualities we can muster: tolerance for diversity of opinion, mutual respect despite differences, and the creative ability to achieve workable compromises.

29 "Correlation of a Childhood and Adult Neurosis: Based on the Adult Analysis of a Reported Childhood Case" by Samuel Ritvo DISCUSSION

Allow me to make a brief comparison between the genetic influences on intellectual activities in two different phases of early development (the anal phase and the early part of latency), in amplification of remarks I m a d e yesterday during the sectional discussions. Since traumata suffered in the anal phase are often followed by traumata in early latency, we may find that the ultimate disturbances may stem from both phases. It might nevertheless be useful to try to distinguish them, even if somewhat schematically. Briefly, the disturbances following premature intellectual demands during the anal period (when, for example, a child is forced to learn how to read and write during the period of Presented at the Congress of the International Psycho-Analytic Association, Amsterdam, July, 1965. Ritvo's paper was published in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysis (1966), 47:130-131. (Ritvo's patient was the Frankie described by Berta Bornstein in "The Analysis of a Phobic Child" [1949], The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 3/4:181-226. New York: International Universities Press.)

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toilet training) are well known. Freud (1913a) and, more recently, Greenacre (1955) have talked about them. T h e child's ego should at this period devote itself to the task of sphincter mastery. If at the same time it is faced with the mastery of reading, writing, and mathematics, these intellectual ego functions will from then on be uncomfortably close to anal skills and to the conflict between mother and child. A stimulation of these conflict areas later in life may lead to an invasion of anality upon intellectual activities and to their neurotic inhibitions. T h e situation is different in early latency. Here, the intellectual activity of the ego is phase-specific: the child goes to school where, to say it in a light-hearted way, it is ready to learn everything—except psychology. We know, however, that early latency plays a specific crucial role in the prehistory of obsessional neurosis: it is at this time that the libido returns to anality and that, after a brief period of anal fantasies, the rigid anti-anal features of the presenting personality are set up. Thus, the phase-specific intellectual activity that should be employed in the exploration of the external world tends to be harnessed in the service of the ego's defense against the anal fantasy. Furthermore, if at this time the child is analyzed, his ego (which should temporarily be relatively done with drive conflicts) must use its resources to look at the drive conflicts it had been unable to resolve spontaneously. In contrast to the disturbance during the anal phase, a tendency might now be set up to handle future conflicts by internalization, since this phase of ego development is characterized by an autonomous spurt of intellectual activity. These factors may have contributed to the choice of Frankie's symptoms (in the field of thought) in his later neurosis. I would also like to suggest that it may be fruitful to study parental attitudes toward children in early latency who develop into adults who use intellectualization extensively. Could it be that what characterizes such parents is not their

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intelligence or their stressing of intellectual achievement, but a phase-inappropriate directing of the child's intellect upon himself, upon his behavior, conflicts, and feelings, instead of upon the comprehension of external reality? In view of the fact that anal traumata of the first kind and early latency disturbances of the second kind will often have their injurious effect on the same child (this was undoubtedly the case with Frankie), the resulting mixtures of inhibited intellectual function and overintellectualization are frequent. More or less pure forms may also occur, and, e.g., in cases where an analysis must be conducted in early latency, such a timing may determine the choice of later symptomatology if the childhood analysis had to remain incomplete and if later tasks lead to a renewed breakdown of the ego and thus to adult neurotic disturbance.

30 "Termination of Training Analysis" by Luisa G. de A Ivarez de Toledo, Leon Grinberg, and Marie Langer DISCUSSION

It is indeed appropriate that the subjects discussed at this first Pan-American Congress for Psychoanalysis are well known and thus provide the participants with a firm empirical basis, facilitating the attempt to reach mutual understanding across the barriers of language and differences in theoretical and clinical approach. For the same reason, it is to be welcomed that Drs. Alvarez de Toledo, Grinberg, and Langer have narrowed the focus of their inquiry to an even more circumscribed concrete topic: the termination of training analysis. It must be our principal objective in this meeting to open a road toward meaningful communication. With this end in mind I will not present a broad sketch of the comparison between our general psychoanalytic viewpoints as they emerge from our outlook on the topic under discussion. Let me initially state my impressions directly and with a minimum of qualifications. I noted that (1) the authors' First published in Psychoanalysis in the Americas (1966), ed. R. E. Litman. New York: International Universities Press, pp. 193-204.

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attention is directed more to the dynamics of nonspecific regression than to the specific forms of character structure or of psychopathology frequently encountered among candidates (or even to some that are found only occasionally); (2) the concentration on deep regressive constellations of forces seems to outbalance the interest in the psychoeconomic changes effected during the course of the training analysis; and (3) the scrutiny of id content and of genetic material (in the broadest sense) outweighs an examination of the forces at the disposal of the ego and of the adaptive resources in the candidate's personality. Because the preceding comparison covers many subtle questions of emphasis, it must now be discussed in greater detail. Nonspecific Regression and Specific Dynamic Constellations Much of the paper under discussion appears to be concerned more with the analysand's nonspecific regression to an archaic oral object-relation and with the vicissitudes of his re-emergence from it, and less with specific dynamic constellations and the specific therapeutic tasks they impose. In order to counteract the possible misunderstanding that the authors are being reproached for having disregarded the essentials, permit me the use of an analogy. Investigations of infectious illnesses may focus either on specific microorganisms and their interactions with the body or on universal organismic reactions and "host resistance," i.e., on the general mode of response to the intrusion of any noxious bacteria or viruses. The authors' approach corresponds more to a study of the second than the first kind since their attention is directed toward universal psychic reaction patterns, in particular those concerning the h u m a n propensity to react with depression and anxiety. This general approach is justi-

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fled, and it is proper for the psychoanalyst to investigate factors that may determine variations in the readiness toward the development of depression and anxiety (Greenacre, for example, has m a d e important contributions to our knowledge in this field). Just as there are nonspecific measures that increase resistance to infection, so may there be methods that diminish the propensity for anxiety and depression. Perhaps the exposure to nonspecific regression and the gradual emergence from it can be looked upon as a psychoanalytic training for the psyche in dealing with depression and anxiety, similar to Rank's outlook on psychoanalytic therapy as an experience in mastering separation anxiety. In general, one feels inclined to assume that the experience of nonspecific regression in analysis and a properly managed re-emergence from it may be beneficial for the future psychoanalyst. Still, at the present stage of our knowledge and understanding, dealing with more specific psychological constellations must not be neglected. To be sure, all our candidates are apt to react with depression and anxiety, and thus their termination phases have certain elements in common. Yet, since there are various personality types among them, there are characteristic and specific differences in the way in which they react to the ending of their training analysis. As I will try to show later in greater detail, the candidate's ego does not simply face the task of achieving an ultimate victory in its battle with infantile demands and the infantile perceptions of its objects during the final stages of analysis; the candidate's ego must also achieve at least the rudiments of a transformation of the formerly narrowly focused and self-directed introspective attention and insight into a broader field of psychological perception and understanding. These steps involve more than a final break with the past: they must put the past to use for a specific new, and higher, integration, if the future analyst is to enjoy his life work as a creative and fulfilling activity. T h e candidate's ego

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is thus taxed in a very specific way during the terminal phase of the analysis and is prone to react to the demands of a new integration in terms of its own specific history with regard to early achievements and failures. Had the child's ego been given insufficient opportunities for the achievement of new integrations — no "Easel in the Nursery School"! (Kris, 1955) — or had it been prematurely burdened with the task of establishing higher integrations before the demands of the drives upon which the new achievement was to be based had been settled—e.g., was the child forced to learn to read and write before toilet training was firmly established? Thus, in some — perhaps most —instances, the beginning of supervised work during the final stages of analysis will provide the candidate with the opportunity for channeling his psychological attention toward his patients; in others, however, the candidate's ego is so burdened with the task of giving up the transference object that the beginning of a supervised analysis would be detrimental. Similar considerations concern questions about the contact between training analyst and candidate after termination. I return to some of these issues later; I mention them here only to illustrate that variations in the personalities of our candidates influence the problems encountered during the termination of the training analysis. Psychoeconomic

Considerations

T h e psychoeconomic aspects of clinical phenomena cannot be neatly separated from the dynamic. If in a dynamic analysis of behavioral data (of the clinical events) the emphasis is placed on the persisting influence of archaic libidinal and aggressive constellations and on the vicissitudes of the psychological experience of the relation to an archaic object, then there is likely to be—pari passu with the degree to which archaic regressive constellations are emphasized —a comparative disregard for psychoeconomic descriptions of the clinical phenomena and of the dynamic constellations.

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It is clearly of crucial importance to distinguish between persecutory anxiety in the genetic and in the clinical sense. The term may refer to the healthy residue of a former infantile state that makes a person properly cautious and alert; it may refer to a grave clinical condition or to the temporary recathexis of a regressive ego-state during psychoanalysis. In each instance, the degree of involvement of the total ego organization makes the decisive difference. There are continua, not only between persecutory anxiety and caution, but also, for example, between overwhelming depression and "signal" fear of loss; between feelings of omnipotence and healthy self-esteem; between archaic projection-introjection and empathy; between a sadistic tearing apart and a psychoanalytic investigation carried out with tact, sympathy, and respect. It is one of the great contributions of psychoanalysis to have discovered that all the points in each of these continua have something in common. Yet, as coal and diamonds are chemically equivalent but vastly different in physical characteristics and value, so, from the psychoeconomic point of view, are the end points of psychological continua psychodynamically alike, yet different with regard to ego dominance. It is my impression that an analyst's emphasis on archaic constellations will tend to influence the actual analytic procedure he employs. I would surmise that his analyses will be conducted on more regressive and more traumatic levels than the (average) analyses with which I am familiar. I must underline here that I have no first-hand knowledge of the actual techniques employed or of the intensity of the regressive experience the analysand has to face. In addition, it must also be stated that analyses may be conducted not only on levels that are too traumatic, but also on levels that are emotionally too shallow. Fenichel (1941), for example, speaks of the Scylla and Charybdis of overemotionality and emotional shallowness in psychoanalysis. I have gained the im-

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pression that, along with the emphasis on the experience of an archaic object, there is a tendency (not only during therapy but also in scientific communication) to speak about psychological constellations in the all-or-none language of the primary process and that there is little reference to the modulating influence of the ego, which appears to be kept in abeyance, perhaps in a state that is distantly akin to the ego's apparent passivity in hypnosis. It appears to me that less attention is paid to the psychoeconomic results of the working-through processes than to the dynamic content itself. And yet, according to Strachey's (1934) accurate description in his well-known paper on the effects of interpretations, psychoanalysis produces substantial changes in the personality only very gradually. "There is, however, one characteristic which all of these various operations have in common," Strachey said, referring to the psychological changes in response to interpretations, "they are essentially upon a small scale." And he continues: " . . . alterations in a patient under analysis appear almost always to be extremely gradual: we are inclined to suspect sudden and large changes as an indication that suggestive rather than psychoanalytic processes are at work" (1934, p . 144). T h e various forms of the working-through process and the various obstacles it encounters deserve close attention. Drs. Alvarez de Toledo, Grinberg, and Langer make a number of valuable observations with regard to this problem when discussing the "pseudonormality" of certain candidates (see Gitelson, 1954). It may, indeed, be one of the pitfalls of some training analyses that there is premature performance in a surface area of secondary autonomy without the acquisition of new psychological structure through the resolution of structural conflict, i.e., prior to an expansion of the realm of the ego. Such incompleteness of the working-through process may in part be due to the ambition the training analyst harbors for his candidate or to the social pressures created on

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candidate and training analyst by the training institute. Pressure toward symptomatic change is a great enemy of structural change; and, conversely, the most favorable environment for the achievement of a true analytic result is, paradoxically, an atmosphere that is tolerant of the persistence of a modicum of symptomatology and of transference confusion. Ego Dominance

and

Adaptation

Early in their paper, the authors state that they do not wish to investigate "the institutional aspects of the formal termination [of training analyses], but the real therapeutic termination." We must first ask ourselves to what extent it is possible, in evaluating the termination of training analyses, to disregard the social matrix ("the institutional aspects") in which the training analysis is carried out or, conversely, to what extent it is possible to define a proper termination by the application of intrinsic analytic criteria (i.e., as a "real therapeutic termination"). Much will again depend on our total theoretical outlook. There is no question that any single-axis approach to the analytic task will provide us with comparatively simple theoretical criteria of termination (notwithstanding the fact that the clinical variants may yet be quite complex). Thus, if we see the task of psychoanalysis in the Rankian mode as a working-through and ultimate mastery of separation anxiety, then the intrinsic criteria for termination will relate to the achievement of the capacity for psychosocial independence; if we see the task of psychoanalysis against a background of oral fixation, oral-drive dominance, and an archaic oral object, then the intrinsic criteria for termination will relate to the ego's achievement of mastery over the oral-drive demands, however complex and variegated the description of this achievement might be. It is significant, however, that Freud (1904) by contrast, restricted himself to nonmetapsychologi-

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cal definitions of mental health (the "ability to lead an active life" and the "capacity for enjoyment") and of termination (1937) ("when analyst and patient cease to meet"). Freud's ingenious statement about mental health and his humorous tautology about termination are, to my mind, an acknowledgment of the fact that, strictly speaking, we are leaving the confines of a science and are entering into the realm of values and preferences when we deal with the criteria of health and termination. Yet, it behooves us to avoid extreme positions concerning these problems and not to abandon too quickly, on the basis of abstract considerations, the theoretical and clinical approaches with which we are familiar. It is true that the readiness for termination (and mental health in general) must in essence be evaluated through an assessment of the functions within the autonomous sphere of the ego, with specific regard to facts concerning the social situation and adaptation. In general, it may therefore be said that the readiness for the termination of a training analysis should be assessed against a background of the future demands that the emotional and intellectual task of analyzing (during training and after) will make on the student-analysand. Still, as analysts, 1

' [The theme of termination subsequently receives extensive consideration in Kohut's writings (1977b). His discussion of Paul Dewald's paper, "Forced Termination of Psychoanalysis," at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society in May, 1963, abstracted by J. Kavka in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1964), 14:232-233, is of interest in the present context: Kohut acknowledged that forced termination usually produced effects that are specific for each patient in his past; he addressed himself, however, to nonspecific effects which may occur with any patient. Freud described such a nonspecific effect in the Wolf Man; under the impact of termination, a line of cleavage establishes itself within the psychopathological structures: one part becomes more accessible, while another recedes completely. Kohut differentiated three effects of forced termination, depending on the stage of the transference. If the termination takes place before a broad communication is established between

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we will not scrutinize the autonomous and adaptive functions in isolation, but will study and assess them in their interplay with the functions of all areas of the psyche; the modern psychoanalyst must integrate his basic knowledge of the conflict areas of the psyche with the study of the autonomous functions of the ego vis-a-vis their several (and, in particular, their professional) tasks. In the course of training analysis, the analyst will not only be observing conflicts and conflict solutions, but will also be studying the newly won territory of the ego with regard to the liberation of the functions the student will employ in his professional life work. The assessment of the readiness for the termination of a training analysis against a value-axis of an oral triad (envy-theft, identification-idealization, and guiltmourning), as it is undertaken by Drs. Alvarez de Toledo, Grinberg, and Langer, is thus undoubtedly fully justified in the case of a candidate who has been suffering from clinical depressions or whose character has been determined par excellence by oral fixation. Yet, while many of our candidates may fit into these categories, we must not forget that we are dealing with a specific constellation of psychopathology or with a specific character type. Certainly, if a candidate is suffering from any form of psychopathology, the usual clinical criteria for the amelioration of symptoms and characterological deformity will have to be employed, although the special persistent childhood demands and new expectations directed toward the analyst, no damage is done; the patient can go elsewhere. Similarly, no great harm will come from termination if the communication between past and present has been established for a long time during the analysis and the ego has become familiar with it; the patient may either accept the incomplete therapeutic result or continue elsewhere. The most traumatic effect of forced termination occurs in those instances (especially when there had been early love disappointments) where the communication between past and present wishes has just recently been established. Here the event demonstrates to the patient, during a phase of greatest vulnerability, that the present is like the past, and, despite the verbal efforts of the analyst, he will not risk involvement again.]

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analytic emphasis should never be on behavioral changes per se, but only insofar as they are indicators for the achievement of a basic structural change in the personality. I suggest, in addition, that the training analyst will not only scrutinize the presenting areas of psychopathology in the aforementioned context, but that he will also tend to evaluate the readiness for termination by a scrutiny of the ego's state vis-a-vis some of the specific instinctual urges of childhood that form a specific source of fuel for psychoanalytic work. I will mention here only the well-known fact that the urges toward voyeurism and infantile curiosity, which are important genetic antecedents of the interest in psychological work, will have to be well neutralized and solidly subordinated to the purposes of the analyst's ego if they are not to interfere with the analyst's work. The need to assess the analysand's autonomous ego functions in the sphere of his professional activities frequently confronts the training analyst with certain questions when, during the end phase of the training analysis, the candidate has begun to receive theoretical instruction and is beginning clinical work under supervision. Under these circumstances, it is not only the candidate's supervisor, but also the analyst who must often try to decide whether the fledgling steps of the candidate's professional functioning are impeded by neurotic inhibitions or by limitations of the span of the autonomous ego. Are a candidate's shortcomings in empathic understanding due to a persisting intrusion of infantile sexual curiosity, or are they explained by the intrinsic complexity of unfamiliar psychological material? Are his tactless interpretations due to the newness of the task, or is he turning "passive" into "active," traumatizing his patient as he had felt traumatized during his own analysis? For a discussion of these problems during supervision, within a transactional framework, see Fleming and Benedek (1964). There is no doubt, therefore, that it is important as a

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measure of the candidate's readiness for termination to estimate the degree to which mastery over the drives has been achieved and to which autonomous functions in the professional field are establishing themselves. In addition to and integrated with the more traditional psychoanalytic approach, however, we must not neglect the task of contemplating another aspect of the autonomous functions and qualities of the future analyst's ego. A psychoanalyst must not only be able to continue self-scrutiny in depth throughout his life (Kramer, 1959), but he must extend his psychological interest to others, must perceive and understand psychological data obtained from others, and must be able to communicate insights to them. Unlike the ordinary patient, the future psychoanalyst cannot afford the luxury of a wave of postanalytic repressions: he must transcend his personal analytic experience and transform it into a scientific and clinical attitude. Freud described his famous self-analysis as a veering back and forth between alternating phases of insight concerning himself and of comprehensions concerning his patients. "We see . . . , " said Ernst Kris in his introduction to Freud's Letters to Wilhelm Fliess (Freud, 1887-1902), "how he [Freud] went on to use the insights gained in his self-analysis in the analysis of his patients: and how in turn he applied what he learned from his patients to further his understanding of his own prehistory" (p. 32). Since our candidates are not endowed with Freud's psychological genius, they cannot progress in their training analyses in a similar way: defensive intellectualization would prevent them from truly experiencing their infantile wishes and conflicts. Yet, we should beware lest we replace one defense mechanism (intellectualization) with another (isolation). T h e statement that the candidate's analysis should be considered a therapeutic one (like any other patient's) is only half a truth. It is true insofar as it is meant to oppose defensive normality or defensive intellectualization.

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It is not true, however, insofar as it disregards the fact that it is the candidate's intention to spend a lifetime in the pursuit of psychological investigations. Granting exceptions, I do not believe that we should, in principle, look upon the professional choice to become an analyst as a symptom. The professional activity is a sublimation, or —to be more exact —it is an attempted sublimation. It is therefore unquestionably the task of the training analysis to free the candidate's psychological interest as much as possible from the intrusions of unneutralized infantile drives, and thus the major focus of interest and attention will, during the major part of the training analysis, be directed at the potentially disturbing infantile material. Analysts generally have, during their hours of therapeutic activity, little occasion to observe the sublimatory activities of their patients in depth and in psychoanalytic detail, and it is my impression that an intensive and prolonged focusing on such activities during the early and middle phases of therapeutic analysis is usually in the service of defense; that is, from the patient's side it forms part of those defensive maneuvers that are commonly referred to as flight into health, whereas from the analyst's side it may betray a tendency to replace the endeavor to achieve ego expansion through interpretations by attempting to produce ego changes through educational and suggestive means. During the early part of the terminal phases of analyses, however, when patients are faced in earnest with having to resign themselves to the nonfulfillment of their transference wishes, we often encounter various creative or sublimatory activities, frequently a return to similar endeavors during latency and adolescence. Analysts usually learn very little about the deeper dynamics of those activities from the direct analytic observation of the material that surrounds their temporary emergence during the end phase of the analysis. Clearly, by a scrutiny of these frequently striking sublimatory activities in

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the light of the knowledge the analyst has acquired about his patient during the earlier stages of the analysis, a good many genetic connections can indeed be made and could be communicated as "interpretations" to the analysand at this point. Such interpretations are to my mind, however, a technical error; they are either mistakes or the result of hostile-competitive attitudes or of other countertransferences of the analyst. T r u e , these sublimatory activities are fed by the same drives from which the manifestations of the transference sprang in the earlier phases of the analysis. But they are no longer transferences. The unconscious does not address the analyst through these sublimatory activities, and the analyst should not, therefore, interfere with them by interpretations that are directed at the unconscious motivations underlying them. With slight modifications, the foregoing considerations also apply to the training analysis. When the infantile material has been adequately worked through in the transference during the major part of the analysis, a phase corresponding to the aforementioned emergence of sublimatory activities occurs in the training analysis in a specific form: the candidate will begin to channel into psychoanalysis as a scientific and professional activity some of the energies that had been wholly concentrated on his own psychological processes during the major part of the training analysis. Intrusions from incompletely explored infantile sources will continue to disturb the sublimatory activity and must, of course, be analyzed to the very end of the training analysis. Since no training analysis can ever approach completeness, and since after termination of the training analysis these disturbances will have to be dealt with by the candidate, the self-analytic functions of the student must be observed and their autonomy must be evaluated. During this phase, there is also a chance for the removal of endopsychic obstacles that stand in the way of continuing self-analysis, as, for example,

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through the demonstration of persistent infantile reliance on the training analyst as the sole interpreter of neurotic disturbances. In addition, during the terminal phase, candidate and analyst will often share their knowledge of the psychological forces that are now employed by the candidate's professional activity and may communicate this knowledge to each other in the form of broad, summarizing reconstructions. No terminal phase of one training analysis is quite like that of another, and only the skill and experience of the training analyst can do full justice to the individual requirements. Beyond that, however, the earlier statements concerning the analyst's attitude during a therapeutic analysis apply equally for the training analysis: to undermine, in the end phase of the analysis, the ego-syntonic vocational activity through unwarranted genetic "interpretations" is often neither theoretically justified nor clinically helpful. We should, furthermore, guard against driving the candidate into an artificial regression at a point when he begins to use psychological comprehension in areas that transcend his own personality. Let me end this discussion by stating once more my pleasure at having had this opportunity to compare our theoretical and clinical approaches to the problem of the termination of training analyses. I may not have been able to avoid some misunderstandings; but if they did indeed occur, I hope they will not stand in our way, but will become part of the motivation for our continuing interchange.

31 "Some Additional 'Day Residues' of 'The Specimen Dream of Psychoanalysis'" by Max Schur DISCUSSION

I found Dr. Schur's thesis appealing, internally consistent, strongly supported by the facts he put at our disposal, and, above all, in harmony with our clinical experience that it is the very nucleus of the psychopathology of childhood that becomes reactivated in the transference to the analyst and that this transference is therefore most strongly resisted and the last to give way to effective insight. We are, however, faced by uncertainties and difficulties when we investigate Freud's self-analysis: First are those which in all areas of applied analysis arise from the fact that we are not participating in a living clinical situation. T h e n there are those that arise from the fact that we might not be objective because Freud is for us a transference figure par excellence, and we are prone to establish an idealizing transference (or to defend ourselves against it by reaction formation). Finally are those that arise from the fact that Presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society, September, 1966. Schur's paper was published in Psychoanalysis—A General Psychology, ed. R. M. Loewenstein et al. New York: International Universities Press, 1966, pp. 45-85.

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Freud's self-analysis is in some ways a unique event in the history of human thought. Even though there is no doubt that the insights Freud obtained were of benefit to his emotional health, because of the specific historical position of his self-analysis, not all of its features are equivalent to those with which we have become familiar in the usual clinical instances. As an internally consistent alternative—or complement —to Dr. Schur's hypothesis about the significance of the transference in Freud's selfanalysis, I would advance the following explanation. At the height of the transference neurosis of the usual therapeutic analysis, the analysand's extra-analytic activities and his capacity for full emotional responsiveness outside the analytic situation are commonly impoverished; creativeness, too, is generally curtailed and tends to appear only in the final stage of the analysis, after the insightful resolution of a significant sector of the transference has been achieved. During the time under discussion, however, Freud was not only capable of responding to his environment with strong, deep, varied, and appropriate emotions, as can be ascertained by a perusal of his correspondence, but he was arriving at the most original insights, discoveries, and formulations of his life, as is attested by the great work which was the crowning result of his labors of this period: the "Interpretation of Dreams." If Freud's self-analysis had been primarily an act of selfhealing through insight, one would have expected it to end, parallel to the termination of the analysis of the usual transference neurosis, with the discovery of the meaning of the transference and, simultaneously, its resolution. In Freud's case, however, there seems to have occurred a dissolution of the transference bondage without a corresponding insight, i.e., Freud's understanding of the full meaning of the transference came only gradually, much later, and was derived from his clinical work.

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Freud's transference to Fliess (and with it significant aspects of his whole self-analysis) must therefore be viewed as phenomena accompanying creative work: Freud's self-analysis was a creative spell which was simultaneously worked through analytically. In early stages of intense creativity, many creative personalities have to lean on a supporting figure. This need is especially strong when discoveries lead the creative mind into lonely areas that had not previously been explored by others. The sense of isolation of the creative mind is both exhilarating and frightening, the latter because the experience repeats traumatically an early childhood fear of being alone, abandoned, unsupported. In such a situation, even the genius turns to a figure into whom he can temporarily blend; he chooses someone in his environment whom he can see as allpowerful. Certain types of narcissistic ally fixated personalities (even bordering on the paranoid) with their apparently absolute self-confidence and certainty, lend themselves specifically to this role. If Fliess was such a figure for Freud, the transference Freud established was not the conventional therapeutic one, to be worked through by insight, but one that, after fulfilling a temporary function during a period of great creativity, could be discarded. Freud's recognition that the powers of discovery were his own was not the result of the resolution of a transference, but rather, conversely, the transference could be discarded after he had done his work.

32 Forms and Transformations of Narcissism

ι Although in theoretical discussions it will usually not be disputed that narcissism, the libidinal investment of the self, is per se neither pathological nor obnoxious, there exists an understandable tendency to look at it with a negatively toned evaluation as soon as the field of theory is left. Where such a prejudice exists, it is undoubtedly based on a comparison between narcissism and object love and is justified by the assertion that it is the more primitive and the less adaptive of the two forms of libido distribution. I believe that these views do not stem primarily from an objective assessment of either the developmental position or adaptive value of narcissism, but are due to the improper intrusion of the altruistic value system of Western civilization. Whatever the reasons for them, these value judgments exert a narrowing effect on clinical practice. They tend to lead to a wish from the side of the therapist to replace the patient's narcissistic position with 1

Presented at the Plenary Session of the Fall Meeting of the American Psychoanalytic Association, December 5, 1965, New York, First published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association (1966), 14:243-272. For the delimitation of narcissism as "strictly defined, libidinal cathexis of the self" and its differentiation from other libido distributions (such as those employed by ego functions or in "self-interest") see Hertmann (1953, p. 192; and 1956, pp. 287-288). 1

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object love, while the often more appropriate goal of a transformed narcissism (i.e., of a redistribution of the patient's narcissistic libido, and of the integration of the primitive psychological structures into the mature personality) is neglected. On the theoretical side, too, the contribution of narcissism to health, adaptation, and achievement has not been treated extensively. This predilection is justifiable on heuristic grounds, inasmuch as the examination of the relatively silent states of narcissism in equilibrium is clearly less fruitful than the scrutiny of narcissism in states of disturbance. T h e disturbances of narcissistic balance to which we refer as "narcissistic injury" appear to offer a particularly promising access to the problems of narcissism, not only because of the frequency with which they occur in a broad spectrum of normal and abnormal psychological states, but also because they are usually easily recognized by the painful affect of embarrassment or shame that accompanies them and by their ideational elaboration—known as inferiority feeling or hurt pride. 2

In Freud's work two complementary directions can be discerned, which analysts have tended to follow in their endeavor to fit the occurrence of some instances of narcissistic disequilibrium into a pre-established psychoanalytic context. On the one hand, Freud drew attention to certain functions of the ego that relate to the id, especially to the exhibitionistic aspects of the pregenital drives; i.e., he pointed to potential shame as a motive for defense (the ego's Schamgefühl, its sense of shame) and to the occurrence of shame with failures of the defense (Freud, 1896, p p . 169, 171, 178; !

Federn's statements in line with this approach were conjoined to form a chapter of his volume Ego Psychology and the Psychoses (1936). Here, too, however, as is true with so many other of Federn's fascinating insights into ego psychology, the formulations remain too close to phenomenology, i.e., to the introspected experience, and are thus hard to integrate with the established body of psychoanalytic theory (cf. Hartmann, 1950, p. 126).

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1900a, p p . 242ff.; 1930, pp. 99n., 106n.; furthermore, Freud, 1905b, p p . 177-178; 1908a, p . 171; and 1909a, p. 108). On the other hand, Freud asserted that a part of the child's narcissism is transferred upon his superego, and thus narcissistic tensions occur in the ego as it strives to live u p to the ego ideal. T h e superego, Freud said, is "the vehicle of the ego ideal by which the ego measures itself, which it emulates, and whose demands for ever greater perfection it strives to fulfill" (Freud, 1933, pp. 64f.). I cannot in the present context discuss the numerous contributions in the psychoanalytic and related literature that have followed Freud's lead concerning the two directions of the development of narcissism. Although in certain areas I arrived at conclusions that go beyond the outlines indicated by Freud, the general pattern of my own thought has also been determined by them. Despite the fact that, in the present study, I shall frequently be referring to well-known phenomena on the psychological surface that can easily be translated into behavioral terms, the concepts employed here are not those of social psychology. T h e general definition of narcissism as the investment of the self might still be compatible with a transactional approach; but the self in the psychoanalytic sense is variable and by no means coextensive with the limits of the personality as assessed by an observer of the social field. In certain psychological states the self may expand far beyond the borders of the individual, or it may shrink and become identical with a single one of his actions or aims (cf. Piaget, 1937, p . 226f.). T h e antithesis to narcissism is not the object relation but object love. An individual's profusion of object relations, in the sense of the observer of the social field, may conceal his narcissistic experience of the object world; and a person's seeming isolation and loneliness may be the setting for a wealth of current object investments. The concept of primary narcissism is a good case in point.

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Although it is extrapolated from empirical observations, it does not refer to the social field but to the psychological state of the infant. It comprehends the assertion that the baby originally experiences the mother and her ministrations, not as a you and its actions, but within a view of the world in which the I-you differentiation has not yet been established. Thus, the expected control over the mother and her ministrations is closer to the concept a grownup has of himself and of the control he expects over his own body and mind than to the grownup's experience of others and of his control over them. Primary narcissism, however, is not within the focus of the ensuing developmental considerations. Although there remains throughout life an important direct residue of the original position —a basic narcissistic tonus which suffuses all aspects of the personality—I shall turn our attention to two other forms into which it becomes differentiated: the narcissistic self and the idealized parent imago. The balance of primary narcissism is disturbed by maturational pressures and painful psychic tensions which occur because the mother's ministrations are of necessity imperfect and traumatic delays cannot be prevented. T h e baby's psychic organization attempts to deal with the disturbances by building up new systems of perfection. Freud (1915a, p . 135) referred to one of them as the "purified pleasure ego," a stage in development in which everything pleasant, good, and perfect is regarded as part of a rudimentary self, while everything unpleasant, bad, and imperfect is regarded as "outside." Or, in contrast to this first-attempted solution, 3

4

' Bing et al. (1959, p. 24) consider primary narcissism a condition "in which the libido diffusely and in an undifferentiated way is invested in various parts of the organism." Their definition thus places primary narcissism as existing prior to the time when a psychological approach begins to be appropriate. The purified pleasure ego may be considered a prestage of the structure that is referred to as narcissistic self in the present essay. 4

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the baby attempts to maintain the original perfection and omnipotence by imbuing the rudimentary you, the adult, with absolute perfection and power. T h e cathexis of the psychic representation of the idealized parent imago is not adequately subsumed under either a heading of narcissism or of object love. Idealization may of course be properly described as an aspect of narcissism, i.e., of the (still undifferentiated) original bliss, power, perfection, and goodness that is projected onto the parent figure during a phase when these qualities gradually become separated into perfection pertaining to pleasure or power or knowledge or beauty or morality. The intimate relationship between idealization and narcissism is attested to by the fact that homosexual libido is always predominantly involved, even when the object is of the opposite sex. T h e ease, furthermore, with which the representation of the idealized object may at various stages of its development be taken back into the nexus of the self through identification is an additional piece of evidence for its narcissistic character, as Freud (1917c, p . 250), following Rank (1911, p . 416), mentioned when he said that a "narcissistic type of object-choice" may lay the groundwork for the later pathogenic introjection of the depressed. Yet, to subsume the idealized object imago under the heading of narcissism is telling only half the story. Not only is the narcissistic cathexis of the idealized object amalgamated with features of true object love, the libido of the narcissistic cathexis itself has undergone a transformation, i.e., the appearance of idealizing libido may be regarded as a maturational step sui generis in the development of narcissistic libido and differentiated from the development of object love with its own transitional phases. 5

5

For a discussion of the concept formed by the immature psyche of the all-powerful object and the child's relation to it, see Ferenczi (1913) and Jones (1913). See also Sandler et al. who, in this context, speak of an "ideal object" (1963, p. 156f.).

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Although the idealization of the parent imago is a direct continuation of the child's original narcissism, the cognitive image of the idealized parent changes with the maturation of the child's cognitive equipment. During an important transitional period when gratification and frustration are gradually recognized as coming from an external source, the object alternatingly emerges from and resubmerges into the self. When separated from the self the child's experience of the object is total at each point of development, and the seemingly objective classification into "part" and "whole" objects rests on the adult observer's value judgment. Form and content of the psychic representation of the idealized parent thus vary with the maturational stage of the child's cognitive apparatus; they are also influenced by environmental factors that affect the choice of internalizations and their intensity. The idealized parent imago is partly invested with objectlibidinal cathexes, and the idealized qualities are loved as a source of gratifications to which the child clings tenaciously. If the psyche is deprived, however, of a source of instinctual gratification, it will not resign itself to the loss, but will change the object imago into an introject, i.e., into a structure of the psychic apparatus that takes over functions previously performed by the object. Internalization (although part of the autonomous equipment of the psyche and occurring spontaneously) is therefore enhanced by object loss. It must finally be emphasized that within the context of the foregoing metapsychological considerations the term "object loss" refers to a broad spectrum of experiences, ranging from the parent's death, absence, or withdrawal of affection due to physical or mental disease, to the child's unavoidable disappointment in circumscribed aspects of the parental imago, or a parent's prohibitions of unmodified instinctual demands. I would not contradict anyone who feels that the term object loss should not be employed for the frustrations

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imposed by education or other demands of reality. In the context of the preconditions for the internalization of driveregulating functions, the differences are only quantitative. The kindly rejection of a child's unmodified instinctual demand, even if enunciated in the form of a positive value, is still a frustration which connotes the impossibility of maintaining a specific object cathexis; it may therefore result in internalization and the accretion of drive-regulating psychic structure. T h e unique position of the superego among the drive-regulating psychic structures is correlated to the fact that the child has to achieve a phase-specific decathexis of his infantile object representations at the very time when the cathexis has reached the peak of its intensity. If we apply these considerations to our specific topic, we may say that during the preoedipal period there normally occurs a gradual loss of the idealized parent imago and a concomitant accretion of the drive-regulating matrix of the ego, while the massive loss during the oedipal period contributes to the formation of the superego. Every shortcoming detected in the idealized parent leads to a corresponding internal preservation of the externally lost quality of the object. A child's lie remains undetected, and thus one aspect of the omniscient idealized object is lost; but omniscience is 6

• A whole broad spectrum of possibilities is condensed here. Not only parental illness or death but also the parents' reactions to an illness of a young child may prematurely and traumatically shatter the idealized object imago and thus lead to phase-inappropriate, inadequate, massive internalizations which prevent the establishment of an idealized superego and lead later to vacillation between the search for external omnipotent powers with which the person wants to merge, or to a defensive reinforcement of a grandiose self concept. Not only premature discovery of parental weakness, however, can lead to trauma in this area; a narcissistic parent's inability to permit the child the gradual discovery of his shortcomings leads to an equally traumatic result. The ultimate confrontation with the parent's weakness cannot be avoided, and when it occurs the resulting introjection is massive and pathological.

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introjected as a minute aspect of the drive-controlling matrix and as a significant aspect of the all-seeing eye, the omniscience of the superego. It is due to the phase-specific massive introjection of the idealized qualities of the object that, as Freud states, the superego must be regarded as the "vehicle of the ego ideal." Or, expressed in another way: the ego ideal is that aspect of the superego which corresponds to the phase-specific, massive introjection of the idealized qualities of the object. The fact that the idealized parent was the carrier of the originally narcissistic perfection and omnipotence accounts now for the omnipotence, omniscience, and perfection of the superego, and it is due to these circumstances that the values and standards of the superego are experienced as absolute. T h a t the original narcissism has passed through a cherished object before its reinternalization and that the narcissistic investment itself has been raised to the new developmental level of idealization account for the unique emotional importance of our standards, values, and ideals insofar as they are part of the superego. Psychologically, such a value cannot be defined in terms of its content or form. A funny story ceases to be amusing when its content is told without regard to the specific psychological structure of jokes. Similarly, the unique position held by those of our values and ideals which belong to the realm of the superego is determined neither by their (variable) content (which may consist of demands for unselfish, altruistic behavior or of demands for prowess and success) nor by their (variable) form (i.e., whether they are prohibitions or positive values, even including demands for specific modes of drive discharge), but by their genesis and psychic location. It is not its form or content but the unique quality of arousing our love and admiration while imposing the task of drive control that characterizes the ego ideal. Our next task is the consideration of the narcissistic self. Its narcissistic cathexis, in contrast to that employed in the

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instinctual investment of the idealized parent imago and of the ego ideal, is retained within the nexus of the self and does not make the specific partial step toward object love that results in idealization. T h e ego ideal is predominantly related to drive control, while the narcissistic self is closely interwoven with the drives and their inexorable tensions. At the risk of sounding anthropomorphic, yet in reality only condensing a host of clinical impressions and genetic reconstructions, I am tempted to say that the ego experiences the influence of the ego ideal as coming from above and that of the narcissistic self as coming from below. Or I might illustrate my point by the use of imagery that pertains to the preconscious derivatives of the two structures and say that man is led by his ideals but pushed by his ambitions. And in contrast to the 7

7

[At a Research Meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Institute in March, 1972, Kohut discussed a presentation by Roy Schäfer, "The Mover in the Mental Apparatus." (This paper was published as the first part of Schafer's "Action: Its Place in Psychoanalytic Interpretation and Theory" in The Annual of Psychoanalysis, 1:159-196 and as "The Mover of the Mental Apparatus," Chapter 5 in A New Language for Psychoanalysis, 1976, Yale University Press. The following summary of Kohut's remarks is pertinent here: I think we should avoid setting up a total, well-rounded theoretical system; i.e., we should avoid a system that would correspond to the total explanation of the universe with the aid of an intentionalistic god. I wonder whether Schäfer is not perhaps introducing such a "god" when he suggests that we make the person and his actions the center of a new psychoanalytic theory. Psychoanalysis should stick with part theories and with explanatory- and communicative devices of all kinds; in particular, we should not be afraid of being evocative through the use of analogies if these analogies help us to grasp one another's meaning. When I say that we are pushed by our ambitions and led by our ideals (or that we experience our ambitions as coming from below and our ideals as being above us) I am not at that moment setting up a theory; I am rather making first steps toward pointing out important differences between mental contents that had formerly been considered as being very similar. The child "looks up" to the admired powerful adult (the later experience of the internalized ideal still has traces of the early experience); the child wishes himself to grow up, he imagines that he

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idealized parent imago, which is gazed at in awe, admired, looked up to, and like which one wants to become, the narcissistic self wants to be looked at and admired. T h e establishment of the narcissistic self must be evaluated both as a maturationally predetermined step and as a developmental achievement, and the grandiose fantasy that is its functional correlate is phase-appropriate and adaptive, just as is the overestimation of the power and perfection of the idealized object. Premature interference with the narcissistic self leads to later narcissistic vulnerability because the grandiose fantasy becomes repressed and inaccessible to modifying influences. T h e narcissistic self and the ego ideal may also be distinguished by the relationship of the surface layers of the two structures to consciousness. Perception and consciousness are the psychological analogue of the sensory organs that scan the surroundings. T h e fact that the ego ideal has object qualities facilitates, therefore, its availability to consciousness. Even the surface aspects of the narcissistic self, however, are introspectively hard to perceive, since this structure has no object qualities. In a letter to Freud (June 29, 1912) Binswanger mentioned that he "had been struck by his [Freud's] enormous will to power . . . to dominate. . . ." Freud replied (July 4, 1912): "I do not trust myself to contradict you in regard to 8

lifts himself up, i.e., he has flying fantasies, etc. (the later experiences of his ambitious wishes still bear traces of this movement from below). I don't think we need be hypochondriacal about such modes of expressing ourselves, but that we should preserve the freedom of speaking colorfully and strongly. The physicists are not afraid. Nor do they get their fingers rapped because they speak of a "wave" theory of light, or use condensed models of moving particles rather than always carefully speaking of shifting energic fields.] ' These considerations do not apply, of course, when aspects of the ego ideal have become concealed in consequence of endopsychic conflict. Corresponding to the special status of the ego ideal as an internal object, this concealment occupies a position that lies between repression and denial.

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the will to power but I am not aware of it. I have long surmised that not only the repressed content of the psyche, but also the . . . core of our ego [das Eigentliche unseres Ichs," i.e., the essential part of our ego] is unconscious . . . I infer this from the fact that consciousness is . . . a sensory organ directed toward the outside world, so that it is always attached to a part of the ego which is itself unperceived" (Binswanger, 1957, p p . 57-58). As I mentioned before, we experience the preconscious correlates of the narcissistic self and of the ego ideal as our ambitions and ideals. They are at times hard to distinguish, not only because ambitions are often disguised as ideals but also because there are indeed lucky moments in our lives, or lucky periods in the lives of the very fortunate, in which ambitions and ideals coincide. Adolescent types not infrequently disguise their ideals as ambitions and, finally, certain contents of the ego ideal (demands for achievement) may mislead the observer. If the metapsychological differences are kept in mind, however, the phenomenological distinction is greatly facilitated. Our ideals are our internal leaders; we love them and are longing to reach them. Ideals are capable of absorbing a great deal of transformed narcissistic libido and thus of diminishing narcissistic tensions and narcissistic vulnerability. If the ego's instinctual investment of the superego remains insufficiently desexualized (or becomes resexualized), moral masochism is the result, a condition in which the ego may wallow in a state of humiliation when it fails to live up to its ideals. In general, however, the ego does not specifically experience a feeling of being narcissistically wounded when it cannot reach the ideals; rather, it experiences an emotion akin to longing. Our ambitions too, although derived from a system of infantile grandiose fantasies may become optimally restrained, merge with the structure of the ego's goals, and

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achieve autonomy. Yet here too, a characteristic, genetically determined psychological flavor can be discerned. We are driven by our ambitions, we do not love them. If we cannot realize them, narcissistic-exhibitionistic tensions remain undischarged, become dammed up, and the emotion of disappointment that the ego experiences always contains an admixture of shame. And if the grandiosity of the narcissistic self has been insufficiently modified because traumatic onslaughts on the child's self-esteem have driven the grandiose fantasies into repression, then the adult ego will tend to vacillate between an irrational overestimation of the self and feelings of inferiority, and will react with narcissistic mortification (Eidelberg, 1954) to the thwarting of its ambitions. Before we can pursue our examination of the relation between the narcissistic self and the ego, we must turn our attention to two subsidiary topics: exhibitionism and the grandiose fantasy. Let me begin with the description of a mother's interaction with her infant boy from the chapter called "Baby Worship" from Trollope's novel Barchester Towers (1857). "Diddle, diddle . . . d u m . . .; hasn't he got lovely legs?" said the rapturous mother. "He's a . . . little . . . darling, so he is; and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has . . . Well . . . did you ever see?. . . My naughty . . . Johnny. He's pulled down all Mamma's hair . . . the naughtiest little man . . . The child screamed with delight. . . ." T h e foregoing much abbreviated description of a very commonplace scene illustrates well the external surroundings correlated to two important aspects of the child's psychological equipment: his exhibitionistic propensities and his fantasies of grandeur. Exhibitionism, in a broad sense, can be regarded as a principal narcissistic dimension of all drives, as the expression of a narcissistic emphasis on the aim of the drive (upon the self as the performer) rather than on its object. T h e object is important only insofar as it is invited to partici-

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pate in the child's narcissistic pleasure and thus to confirm it. Before psychological separateness has been established, the baby experiences the mother's pleasure in his whole body self as part of his own psychological equipment. After psychological separation has taken place, the child needs the gleam in the mother's eye in order to maintain the narcissistic libidinal suffusion that now concerns, in their sequence, the leading functions and activities of the various maturational phases. We speak thus of anal, of urethral, and of phallic exhibitionism, noting that in the girl the exhibitionism of the urethral-phallic phase is soon replaced by exhibitionism concerning her total appearance and by an interrelated exhibitionistic emphasis on morality and drive control. T h e exhibitionism of the child must gradually become desexualized and subordinated to his goal-directed activities, a task that is achieved best through gradual frustrations accompanied by loving support, while the various overt and covert attitudes of rejection and overindulgence (and especially their amalgamations and rapid, unpredictable alternations) are the emotional soil for a wide range of disturbances. Although the unwholesome results vary greatly, ranging from severe hypochondria to mild forms of embarrassment, metapsychologically speaking they are all states of heightened narcissistic-exhibitionistic tension with incomplete and aberrant modes of discharge. In all these conditions the ego attempts to enlist the object's participation in the exhibitionism of the narcissistic self, but, after the object's rejection, the free discharge of exhibitionistic libido fails; instead of a pleasant suffusion of the body surface, there is the heat of unpleasant blushing; instead of a pleasurable confirmation of the value, beauty, and lovableness of the self, there is painful shame. Now I shall turn to an examination of the position held by the grandiose fantasy in the structure of the personality and of the function it fulfills. While the exhibitionistic-nar-

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cissistic urges may be considered the predominant drive aspect of the narcissistic self, the grandiose fantasy is its ideational content. Whether it contributes to health or disease, to the success of the individual or to his downfall, depends on the degree of its deinstinctualization and the extent of its integration into the realistic purposes of the ego. Take, for instance, Freud's statement that "a m a n who has been the indisputable favorite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror, that confidence by success that often induces real success" (as translated by Jones [1953, p . 5]). Here Freud obviously speaks about the results of adaptively valuable narcissistic fantasies which provide lasting support to the personality. It is evident that in these instances the early narcissistic fantasies of power and greatness had not been opposed by sudden premature experiences of traumatic disappointment but had been gradually integrated into the ego's reality-oriented organization. We can now attempt to summarize the ultimate influence exerted by the two major derivatives of the original narcissism upon the mature psychological organization. Under favorable circumstances, the neutralized forces emanating from the narcissistic self (the narcissistic needs of the personality and its ambitions) become gradually integrated into the web of our ego as a healthy enjoyment of our own activities and successes and as an adaptively useful sense of disappointment tinged with anger and shame over our failures and shortcomings. And, similarly, the ego ideal (the internalized image of perfection which we admire and to which we are looking up) may come to form a continuum with the ego, as a focus for our ego-syntonic values, as a healthy sense of direction and beacon for our activities and pursuits, and as an adaptively useful object of longing disappointment, when we cannot reach it. A firmly cathected, strongly idealized superego absorbs considerable amounts of narcissistic energy, a fact which lessens the personality's propensity toward narcis-

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sistic imbalance. Shame, on the other hand, arises when the ego is unable to provide a proper discharge for the exhibitionistic demands of the narcissistic self. Indeed, in almost all clinically significant instances of shame propensity, the personality is characterized by a defective idealization of the superego and by a concentration of the narcissistic libido upon the narcissistic self; and it is therefore the ambitious, success-driven person with a poorly integrated grandiose-self concept and intense exhibitionistic-narcissistic tensions who is most prone to experience shame. If the pressures from the narcissistic self are intense and the ego is unable to control them, the personality will respond with shame to failures of any kind, whether its ambitions concern moral perfection or external success (or, which is frequently the case, alternately the one or the other, since the personality possesses a firm structure of neither goals nor ideals). 9

Under optimal circumstances, therefore, the ego ideal and the goal structure of the ego are the personality's best protection against narcissistic vulnerability and shame propensity. In the maintenance of the homeostatic narcissistic equilibrium of the personality, the interplay of the narcissistic self, the ego, and the superego may be depicted in the following way. T h e narcissistic self supplies small amounts of narcissistic-exhibitionistic libido, which are transformed into subliminal signals of narcissistic imbalance (subliminal shame signals) as the ego tries to reach its goals, to emulate external examples and to obey external demands, or to live up to the standards and, especially, to the ideals of the superego (i.e., to the "ego ideal . . . whose demands for ever greater perfection it strives to fulfill" [Freud, 1933]). Or, stated in a "Jacobson (1964, pp. 203-204), in harmony with Reich (1960), speaks cogently of the fact that such patients often blame their high ideals for their "agonizing experiences of anxiety, shame, and inferiority," but that in reality they suffer from conflicts relating to "aggrandized, wishful selfimages" and "narcissistic-exhibitionistic strivings."

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whimsical fashion: the narcissistic self attempts to exhibit its perfection to the ego or, indirectly through the mediation of the ego, to the external world or the superego, and finds itself wanting; the resulting minute faulty discharge of libido, however, alerts the ego to a potential experience of painful shame. In contrast to the metapsychological explanation of the emotion of shame presented here, Saul (1947, p p . 92-94), basing himself on Alexander (1938), and in harmony with the approach of cultural anthropology (Benedict, 1946), described guilt and shame as parallel phenomena; he suggested a differentiation of these two emotions by specifying that, unlike guilt, shame arises when people are unable to live up to their ideals. T h e question of the appropriateness of such structural distinctions (cf. especially Piers and Singer's comprehensive statement of this position [1953]) is not germane to the present study and will not be pursued here. It was recently discussed by Hartmann and Loewenstein (1962, p . 67), who maintain that it is inadvisable "to overemphasize the separateness of the ego ideal from the other parts of the superego," a theoretical procedure on which "the structural opposition of guilt and shame hinges." 10

Sandler et al. (1963, p p . 156-157), on the other hand, retain the ego ideal within the context of the superego. Basing themselves on contributions by Jacobson (1954) and A. Reich (1960), they postulate the existence of an "ideal self" (as differentiated from the ego ideal), state that the child attempts to "avoid disappointment and frustration by living up to his ideal self," and conclude that shame arises when the individual fails "to live up to ideal standards which 10

See also Kohut and Seitz (1963, pp. 366-367) who stress the importance of retaining the conception of the essential "functional and genetic cohesion" of the internal moral forces which reside in the superego, despite the heuristic advantages and the convenience of a differentiation according to the phenomenology of their psychological effects.

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he accepts, whereas guilt is experienced when his ideal self, differs from that which he feels to be dictated by his introjects." T h e interplay of the narcissistic self, the ego, and the superego determines the characteristic flavor of the personality and is thus, more than other building blocks or attributes of the personality, instinctively regarded as the touchstone of a person's individuality or identity. In many outstanding personalities this inner balance appears to be dominated more by a well-integrated narcissistic self (which channels the drives) than by the ego ideal (which guides and controls them). Churchill, for example, repeated again and 11

11

It is difficult to find an appropriate place in psychoanalysis for the concept of "identity" (Erikson, 1956) since, amphibologically, it is equally applicable in social and individual psychology. Under these circumstances, an empirical approach to an area vaguely outlined by the impressionistic use of the term seems justified and indeed has occasionally (see, for example, Kramer, 1955) led to illuminating findings, especially in the realm of psychopathology. [An earlier attempt to define the psychoanalytic use of the term "identity" is contained in Kohut's discussion of Haskell Bernstein's paper, "Identity and Sense of Identity," presented before the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society in February, 1963 and abstracted by J. Kavka in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1964), 14:161. Dr. Heinz Kohut thought that a variety of older psychoanalytic concepts have tended to be subsumed under the term identity. Although he thought that the concept still needed cautious scrutiny, he believed that it refers more properly to a basic core of ego functions that characterize an individual throughout his life [here Kohut speaks of the constellation to which he later refers as the nuclear self] than to surface attributes such as social role, or religious and national affiliations. Identity in this sense may constitute a person's emotional strength despite the ups and downs of a neurosis. As an example, Kohut drew attention to Freud's striving to explore new territories which was not impeded by his travel phobia. Contrast Kohut's attempt here to retain the term "identity" as a psychoanalytic concept with his later separate delineations of "self from "identity" and the recognition that "identity" refers to conscious and preconscious configurations and thus deals with the "psychological surface" (pp. 471-472).]

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again, in an ever enlarging arena, the feat of extricating himself from a situation from which there seemed to be no escape by ordinary means. (His famous escape during the Boer war is one example.) I would not be surprised if deep in his personality was hidden the conviction that he could fly and thus get away when ordinary locomotion was barred. In his autobiography (Churchill, 1942, p . 43f.) he describes the following events. During a vacation in the country he played a game in which he was being chased by a cousin and a younger brother. As he was crossing a bridge which led over a ravine he found himself entrapped by his pursuers who had divided their forces. " . . . capture seemed certain" he wrote, "But in a flash there came across me a great project." He looked at the young fir trees below and decided to leap onto one of them. He computed, he meditated. "In a second, I had plunged," he continues, "throwing out my arms to embrace the summit of the fir tree." It was three days before he regained consciousness and more than three months before he crawled out of bed. Yet, although it is obvious that on this occasion the driving unconscious grandiose fantasy was not yet fully integrated, the struggle of the reasoning ego to perform the behest of the narcissistic self in a realistic way was already joined. Luckily, for him and for the forces of civilization, when he reached the peak of his responsibilities the inner balance h a d shifted. 12

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[In a discussion of Liselotte Frankl's paper, "Self-Preservation and the Development of Accident Proneness in Children and Adolescents," presented at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society on March 26, 1963 and published in The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child (1963), 18:464-483 (New York: International Universities Press), Kohut interpreted accident proneness with the aid of the structural theory and the tripartite model of the mind. His remarks were abstracted by J. Kavka in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1964), 14:164-165: Heinz Kohut was impressed by the large psychological area implicated in accidents, and concentrated, in his discussion, on the specificity of accident proneness. Apart from the fact that a lack of physical

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Up to this point I have surveyed the origin, development, and functions of two major forms of narcissism and their integration into the personality. Although the mutual influences of the narcissistic self, the ego, and the ego ideal were not ignored, our attention was focused predominantly on the narcissistic structures themselves and not on the ego's capacity to harness the narcissistic energies and to transform the narcissistic constellations into more highly differentiated, new psychological configurations. There exist, however, a number of acquisitions of the ego which, although genetically and dynamically related to the narcissistic drives and energized by them, are far removed from the preformed narcissistic structures of the personality, and must therefore be evaluated, not

dexterity may be contributory, he considered two aspects of the problem: the content of the superego, and the cooperation of superego and id. Self-preservation is not only an inborn given, but is also due to internalized parental commands. Churchill's autobiography reveals his numerous severe accidents and injuries; his zest for life and optimism, however, tell more about the man than his accidents. The demands he made on himself came from his proud and ambitious, yet loving, mother who expected him to take risks. Only the capacity to take risks provides a chance for survival under certain circumstances. The command that Churchill had internalized was not: Injure yourself! but: Take risks, even to the point of injury, in order to win and survive! Accident proneness may be the result of the cooperation of two psychological agencies. A clever salesman's command to buy something (superego pressure) and the desire to own it (id pressure) combine to overwhelm the ego of a buyer who intended to be prudent. An analogous irresistible cooperation of superego pressures (guilt) and masochistic desires (wish for punishment) leads in some cases to accident proneness. In one patient who suffered frequent injuries, the mother had always stopped short of fully carrying out physical punishment following transgressions. The child (and later the adult) longed for actual punishment to diminish the guilt and to escape the tension of the internal elaboration of a punishment that had not materialized. In the broader cultural field, a religious attitude that holds up future punishment in hell may have a similar effect on the believer.]

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only as transformations of narcissism, but even more as attainments of the ego and as attitudes and achievements of the personality." Those whose relation to narcissism I shall discuss are: man's creativity, his ability to be empathic, his capacity to contemplate his own impermanence, his sense of humor, his wisdom. First I shall briefly examine the relation of narcissism to creativity. Like all complex h u m a n activities, artistic and scientific creativity serves many purposes, and it involves the whole personality and, thus, a wide range of psychological structures and drives. It is therefore to be expected that the narcissism of the creative individual participates in his creative activity, for example, as a spur driving him toward fame and acclaim. If no further connection existed between narcissism and creativity than the interplay of ambition and superior executive equipment, there would be no justification for discussing creativity among the transformations of narcissism. It is my contention, however, that while artists and scientists may indeed be acclaim-hungry, narcissistically vulnerable individuals, and while their ambitions may be helpful in prompting them toward the appropriate communication of their work, the creative activity itself deserves to be considered among the transformations of narcissism. T h e ambitions of a creative individual play an important role in his relation to the public, i.e., to an audience of potential admirers; the transformation of narcissism, however, is a feature of the creator's relation to his work. In creative work, narcissistic energies are employed that have " In his paper on poise, Rangell (1954) demonstrated the genetic and dynamic interrelatedness of specific drives with a whole integrative attitude of the ego. Poise, to state it in my words, rests on the desexualization of the crudely exhibitionistic cathexis of the narcissistic self and on the permeation of neutralized libido into the whole physical and mental personality. Although poise may be nearer to the exhibitionistic drives than the various achievements of the ego to be discussed here, it, too, cannot be fully explained by reference to the drives that supply its fuel, but must be considered as a new, broad configuration within the realm of the ego itself.

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been changed into a form to which I referred earlier as idealizing libido, i.e., the elaboration of the specific point on the developmental road from narcissism toward object love at which an object (in the sense of social psychology) is cathected with narcissistic libido and thus included in the context of the self. T h e analogy to the mother's love for the unborn fetus and for the newborn baby is inviting, and undoubtedly the singleminded devotion to the child who is taken into her expanded self and her empathic responsiveness to him are similar to the creative person's involvement with his work. Nevertheless, I believe that the creative person's relation to his work has less in common with the expanded narcissism of motherhood than with the still unrestricted narcissism of early childhood. Phenomenologically, too, the personality of many unusually creative individuals is more childlike than maternal. Even the experiments of some of the great in science impress the observer with their almost childlike freshness and simplicity. The behavior of Enrico Fermi, for example, while witnessing the first atomic explosion is described by his wife in the following way. He tore a piece of paper into small bits and, as soon as the blast had been set off, dropped them, one by one, watching the impact of the shock wave rise and subside (Fermi, 1954, p . 239). T h e creative individual, whether in art or science, is less psychologically separated from his surroundings than the noncreative one; the "I-you" barrier is not as clearly defined. The intensity of the creative person's awareness of the relevant aspects of his surroundings is akin to the detailed selfperceptions of the schizoid and the childlike: it is nearer to a child's relationship to his excretions or to some schizophrenics' experiences of their body, than to a healthy mother's feeling for her newborn child. 14

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I once treated a gifted schizoid young woman who at one point gave me an artistically detached, beautiful description of the areolar area of one

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T h e indistinctness of "internal" and "external" is familiar to all of us in our relation to the surrounding air, which, as we take it in and expel it, we experience as part of our selves, although we hardly perceive it as long as it forms a part of our external surroundings. Similarly, the creative individual is keenly aware of those aspects of his surroundings which are of significance to his work, and he invests them with narcissistic-idealizing libido. Like the air we breathe, they are most clearly experienced at the moment of union with the self. T h e traditional metaphor expressed by the term "inspiration" (it refers both to the taking in of air and to the fertilizing influence of an external stimulation upon the internal creative powers) and the prototypical description of creativity ("and the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and m a n became a living soul" [Genesis 2:7]) support the assertion that a close psychological proximity exists, on the one hand, between respiratory and creative inspiration and, on the other hand, between the coming to life of dust and the creative transformation of a narcissistically experienced material into a work of art. Greenacre, who recently discussed the nature of creative inspiration (1964) and who mentions the child's interest in the air as a mysterious unseen force which becomes a symbol for his dreams and thoughts and for his dawning conscience, maintains that the future creative artist already possesses in infancy not only great sensitivity to sensory stimuli coming from the primary object, the mother, but also to those from peripheral objects that resemble the primary one. She uses the terms "collective alternates" and "love affair with the world" in describing the artist's attitude to his surroundings, and declares that it should not be considered an expression of of her nipples with an almost microscopic knowledge about the details and a concentrated absorption, as if it were the most fascinating landscape.

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his narcissism, but that "it partakes more of an object relationship, though a collective o n e . . . " (Greenacre, 1957, p. 490). K. R. Eissler, too, refers to the problems of the artist's relation to reality when he speaks of "automorphic techniques" (1962, p . 544), i.e., artistic activities that take place in a borderland of autoplastic and alloplastic attitudes toward reality. A work of art, he explains, is autoplastic insofar as, like a dream or symptom, it serves the solution of an inner conflict and the fulfillment of a wish; it is simultaneously alloplastic, however, since it modified reality by the creation of something original and new. Greenacre and Eissler approach the problem of creativity from directions different from the one taken here and therefore arrive at different conclusions. I believe, nonetheless, that their findings are consistent with the proposition that the artist invests his work with a specific form of narcissistic libido. Thus, Greenacre's observation of the intensity of the future artist's early perception of the world and of the persistence of this sensitivity during maturity is in harmony with the contention that a leading part of the psychological equipment of creative people has been shaped through the extensive elaboration of a transitional point in libido development: idealization. In the average person, this form of narcissistic libido survives only as the idealizing component of the state of being in love, and a surplus of idealizing libido that is not absorbed through the amalgamation with the object cathexis may account for the brief spurt of artistic activity not uncommon during this state. The well-established fact, furthermore, that creative people tend to alternate during periods of productivity between phases when they think extremely highly of their work and phases when they are convinced that it has no value is a sure indication that the work is cathected with a form of narcissistic libido. The spreading of the libidinal investment upon "collective alternates" and ultimately upon

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"the world," which Greenacre describes, appears to me as an indication of a narcissistic experience of the world (an expanded self that includes the world) rather than as the manifestation of a "love affair" within an unqualified context of object love. The fact, too, that, as Eissler shows convincingly, the work of art is simultaneously the materialization of autoplastic and alloplastic psychic processes and that in certain respects the artist's attitude to his work is similar to the fetishist's toward his fetish, lends support to the idea that, for the creator, the work is a transitional object and is invested with transitional narcissistic libido. The fetishist's attachment to the fetish has the intensity of an addiction, a manifestation not of object love but of a fixation on an early object that is experienced as part of the self. Creative artists, and scientists, may be attached to their work with the intensity of an addiction, and they try to control and shape it with forces and for purposes that belong to a narcissistically experienced world. They are attempting to re-create a perfection that formerly was directly an attribute of their own; during the act of creation, however, they do not relate to their work in the give-and-take mutuality that characterizes object love. I turn now to empathy, the second of the faculties of the ego that, though far removed from the drives and largely autonomous, are here considered in the context of the transformation of narcissism. Empathy is the mode by which one gathers psychological data about other people and, when they say what they think or feel, imagines their inner experience even though it is not open to direct observation. Through empathy we aim at 15

15

Although, even concerning the other subject matters discussed in this study, I am in this presentation often not able to adduce sufficient empirical support for my assertions, the following considerations about empathy are in essence more speculative and are probably in need of a psychoanalytically oriented experimental approach for their verification.

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discerning, in one single act of certain recognition, complex psychological configurations which we could either define only through the laborious presentation of a host of details or which it may even be beyond our ability to define. Empathy is an essential constituent of psychological observation and is therefore of special importance for the psychoanalyst, who, as an empirical scientist, must first perceive the complex psychological configurations that are the raw data of h u m a n experience before he can attempt to explain them. The scientific use of empathy, however, is a specific achievement of the autonomous ego since, during the act of empathy, it must deliberately suspend its predominant mode of operation which is geared to the perception of nonpsychological data in the surroundings. T h e groundwork for our ability to obtain access to another person's mind is laid by the fact that in our earliest mental organization the feelings, actions, and behavior of the mother had been included in our self. This primary empathy with the mother prepares us for the recognition that to a large extent the basic inner experiences of other people remain similar to our own. Our first perception of the manifestations of another person's feelings, wishes, and thoughts occurred within the framework of a narcissistic conception of the world; the capacity for empathy belongs, therefore, to the innate equipment of the h u m a n psyche and remains to some 16

16

The capacity to recognize complex psychological states through empathy has its analogy in the capacity to identify a face in a single act of apperception. Here, too, we do not, in general, add up details or go through complex theories of comparative judgment, and here, too, we are generally unable to define our certain recognition by adducing details. The similarity between the perceptual immediacy of the recognition of a face and the empathic grasp of another person's psychological state may not be only an incidental one; it may well be derived from the significant genetic fact that the small child's perceptual merging with the mother's face constitutes simultaneously its most important access to the mother's identity and to her emotional state (cf. Spitz, 1946, pp. 103ff.).

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extent associated with the primary process. T h e original empathic mode of reality perception becomes, however, increasingly overlayered by nonempathic forms of cognition which are attuned to objects that are essentially dissimilar to the self, and its free operation is therefore impeded. T h e persistence of empathic forms of observation outside of psychology is indeed archaic and leads to a faulty, prerational, animistic conception of reality. Nonempathic modes of observation, on the other hand, are not attuned to the experiences of other people and, if they are employed in the psychological field, lead to a mechanistic and lifeless conception of psychological reality. Nonempathic forms of cognition are dominant in the adult. Empathy must thus often be achieved speedily before nonempathic modes of observation are interposed. The approximate correctness of first impressions in the assessment of people, in contrast to subsequent evaluations, is well known and is exploited by skillful men of affairs. Empathy seems here to be able to evade interference and to complete a rapid scrutiny before other modes of observation can assert their ascendancy. Exhaustive empathic comprehension, however, which is the aim of the analyst, requires the ability to use the empathic capacity for prolonged periods. His customary observational attitude ("evenly suspended attention," avoidance of note taking, curtailment of realistic interactions, concentration on the purpose of achieving understanding rather than on the wish to cure and to help) aims at excluding psychological processes attuned to the nonpsychological perception of objects and to encourage empathic comprehension through the perception of experiential identities. Foremost among the obstacles interfering with the use of empathy (especially for prolonged periods) are those that stem from conflicts about relating to another person in a narcissistic mode. Since training in empathy is an important aspect of psychoanalytic education, the loosening of narcis-

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sistic positions constitutes a specific task of the training analysis, and the candidate's increasing ability to employ the transformed narcissistic cathexes in empathic observation is a sign that this goal is being reached. Could it be that among the obstacles to the use of empathy is also the resistance against the acknowledgment of unconscious knowledge about others? Could it be that the analysand's "I have always known it" when an unconscious content is uncovered (Freud, 1914c, p . 148) may correspond to an "I have always recognized it" in the analyst when he and the patient arrive at a valid reconstruction or when the patient supplies a relevant memory? Freud pondered the question whether thought transference does occur (1933, p p . 54-56) and referred to such biological and social phenomena as the means by which "the common purpose comes about in the great insect communities" and the possibility of the persistence of an "original, archaic method of communication between individuals" which "in the course of phylogenetic evolution . . . has been replaced by the better method of giving information with the help of signals," yet, which may still "put itself into effect under certain conditions — for instance, in passionately excited mobs" (p. 55). T o these statements one could add only that an intentional curbing of the usual cognitive processes of the ego (such as is brought about in the analytic situation) may free the access to empathic communication as does the involuntary trancelike condition that occurs in those who become submerged in an excited m o b " and that the prototype of empathic understanding must be sought not only in the prehistory of the race but also in the early life of the 17

For a striking description of the ego's perviousness to the dominant mental tendencies of an aroused multitude, and an illuminating discussion of the propensity of the individual who is trapped in an agitated group to shed ego autonomy and to respond regressively in narcissistic-identificatory compliance, see A. Mitscherlich (1957, esp. pp. 202f.).

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individual. Under favorable circumstances, the faculty of perceiving the psychological manifestations of the mother, achieved through the extension of narcissistic cathexes, becomes the starting point for a series of developmental steps that lead ultimately to a state in which the ego can choose between the use of empathic and nonempathic modes of observation, depending on realistic requirements and on the nature of the surroundings that it scrutinizes. Man's capacity to acknowledge the finiteness of his existence and to act in accordance with this painful discovery may well be his greatest psychological achievement, despite the fact that it can often be demonstrated that a manifest acceptance of transience may go hand in hand with covert denials. T h e acceptance of transience is accomplished by the ego, which performs the emotional work that precedes, accompanies, and follows separations. Without these efforts, a valid conception of time, of limits, and of the im permanence of the object cathexes could not be achieved. Freud discussed the emotional task imposed on the psyche by the impermanence of objects, be they beloved people or cherished values (1916b, p. 305), and gave expression to the conviction that their impermanence did not detract from their worth. On the contrary, he said, their very impermanence makes us love and admire them even more: "Transience value is scarcity value in time." Freud's attitude is based on the relinquishment of emotional infantilism, an abandonment of even a trace of the narcissistic insistence on the omnipotence of the wish; it expresses the acceptance of realistic values. More difficult still, however, than the acknowledgment of the impermanence of object cathexes is the unqualified intellectual and emotional acceptance of the fact that we ourselves are impermanent, that the self which is cathected with narcissistic libido is finite in time. I believe that this rare feat rests, not

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simply on a victory of autonomous reason and supreme objectivity over the claims of narcissism, but on the creation of a higher form of narcissism. T h e great who have achieved the outlook on life to which the Romans referred as living sub specie aeternitatis do not display resignation and hopelessness but a quiet pride which is often coupled with mild disdain of the rabble which, without being able to delight in the variety of experiences life has to offer, is yet afraid of death and trembles at its approach. Goethe (1828, p . 26) gave beautiful expression of his contempt for those who cannot accept death as an intrinsic part of life in the following stanza: Und so lang du das nicht hast, Dieses: Stirb und werde! Bist du nur ein trüber Gast Auf der dunklen Erde. w

Only through an acceptance of death, Goethe says here, can m a n reap all that is in life; without it, life is dim and insignificant. I do not believe that an attitude such as the one expressed by Goethe is to be understood as a beautiful denial of the fear of death. There is no undertone of anxiety in it and no excitement. Conspicuous in it, however, is a nonisolated, creative superiority which judges and admonishes with quiet assurance. I have little doubt that those who are able to achieve this ultimate attitude toward life do so on the strength of a new, expanded, transformed narcissism: a cosmic narcissism which has transcended the bounds of the individual. Just as the child's primary empathy with the mother is the precursor of the adult's ability to be empathic, so his primary 18

(Adapted from a translation by Ludwig Lewisohn [1934, p. 110]): And till thine this deep behest: Die to win thy being! Art thou but a dreary guest Upon earth unseeing.

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identity with her must be considered the precursor of an expansion of the self, late in life, when the finiteness of individual existence is acknowledged. The original psychological universe, i.e., the primordial experience of the mother, is "remembered" by many people in the form of the occasionally occurring vague reverberations known by the term "oceanic feeling" (Freud, 1930, p p . 64-73). T h e achievement—as the certainty of eventual death is fully realized—of a shift of the narcissistic cathexes from the self to a concept of participation in a supraindividual and timeless existence must also be regarded as genetically predetermined by the child's primary identity with the mother. In contrast to the oceanic feeling, however, which is experienced passively (and usually fleetingly), the genuine shift of the cathexes toward a cosmic narcissism is the enduring, creative result of the steadfast activities of an autonomous ego, and only very few are able to attain it. It seems a long way from the acceptance of transience and the quasi-religious solemnity of a cosmic narcissism to another uniquely h u m a n acquisition: the capacity for humor. And yet, the two phenomena have much in common. It is not by accident that Freud introduces his essay on humor (1927b, p. 161) with a man's ability to overcome the fear of his impending death by putting himself, through humor, upon a higher plane. "When . . . a criminal who was being led out to the gallows on a Monday remarked: 'Well, the week's beginning nicely,'" Freud says that "the humorous process . . . affords him . . . satisfaction." And Freud states that "humour has something liberating about it"; that it "has something of grandeur"; and that it is a "triumph of narcissism" and "the victorious assertion of . . . invulnerability" (p. 162). Metapsychologically, Freud explains that humor —this "triumph of narcissism"—is achieved by a person's withdrawing "the psychical accent from his ego" and "transposing it on to his super-ego" (p. 164).

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Humor and cosmic narcissism are thus both transformations of narcissism which aid m a n in achieving ultimate mastery over the demands of the narcissistic self, i.e., to tolerate the recognition of his finiteness in principle and even of his impending end. T h e claim that the ego has mastered its fear of death is no doubt often not authentic. If a m a n is unable to be serious and employs humor excessively, or if he is unwilling to face the pains and labors of everyday living and moves along continuously with his head in the clouds, we will become suspicious of both the clown and the saint, and we will probably be right in surmising that neither the humor nor the otherworldliness are genuine. Yet, if a m a n is capable of responding with humor to the recognition of the unalterable realities that oppose the assertions of the narcissistic self, and if he can truly attain the quiet superior stance that enables him to contemplate his own end philosophically, we will assume that a transformation of his narcissism has indeed taken place (a withdrawal of the psychical accent from the "ego," as Freud put it) and will respect the person who has achieved it. A disregard for the interests of the self, even to the point of allowing its death, may also come about during states of supreme object cathexis. Such phenomena (for example, as a consequence of an upsurge of extreme, personified patriotic fervor) take place in a frenzied mental condition, and the ego is paralyzed, as if in a trance. Humor and cosmic narcissism, on the other hand, which permit us to face death without having to resort to denial, are metapsychologically based, not on a decathexis of the self through a frantic hypercathexis of objects, but on a decathexis of the narcissistic self through a rearrangement and transformation of the narcissistic libido; and, in contrast to states of extreme object cathexis, the span of the ego is here not narrowed: the ego remains active and deliberate.

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A genuine decathexis of the self can only be achieved slowly by an intact, well-functioning ego; and it is accompanied by sadness as the cathexis is transferred from the cherished self to the supraindividual ideals and to the world with which one identifies. T h e profoundest forms of humor and cosmic narcissism therefore do not present a picture of grandiosity and elation but that of a quiet inner triumph with an admixture of undenied melancholy. We are now facing our ultimate challenge: the analysis of the h u m a n attitude we call wisdom. In the progression from information through knowledge to wisdom, the first two can still be defined almost exclusively within the sphere of cognition itself. T h e term information refers to the gleaning of isolated data about the world; knowledge to the comprehension of a cohesive set of such data held together by a matrix of abstractions. Wisdom, however, goes beyond the cognitive sphere, although, of course, it includes it. Wisdom is achieved largely through man's ability to overcome his unmodified narcissism, and it rests on his acceptance of the limitations of his physical, intellectual, and emotional powers. It may be defined as an amalgamation of the higher processes of cognition with the psychological attitude that accompanies the renouncement of these narcissistic demands. Neither the possession of ideals nor the capacity for humor nor the acceptance of transience alone characterizes wisdom. All three have to be linked together to form a new psychological constellation which goes beyond the several emotional and cognitive attributes of which it is made u p . Wisdom may thus be defined as a stable attitude of the personality toward life and the world, an attitude that is formed through the integration of the cognitive function with humor, acceptance of transience, and a firmly cathected system of values. Even if we consider wisdom only as a step in man's cognitive development, therefore, we will have to conclude that it can hardly be an attribute of youth, since

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experience and work must first have led to the acquisition of broadly based knowledge. But wisdom is more than knowledge. It is the last step in a series of psychological achievements: from ideals —most strongly cathected in youth —via humor — usually at its height during maturity —to the acceptance of transience. Since the last-named achievement is an essential component of wisdom, it follows that the attainment of wisdom is usually reserved for the later phases of life. The essence of this achievement is a maximal relinquishment of narcissistic delusions, including the acceptance of the inevitability of death, without an abandonment of cognitive and emotional involvements. T h e ultimate act of cognition, i.e., the acknowledgment of the limits and of the finiteness of the self, is not the result of an isolated intellectual process, but is the victorious outcome of the lifework of the total personality in acquiring broadly based knowledge and in transforming archaic modes of narcissism into ideals, humor, and a sense of supraindividual participation in the world. Sarcasm occurs in consequence of the lack of idealized values; it is an attempt to minimize the emotional significance of narcissistic limitations through the hypercathexis of a pleasure-seeking, omnipotent self. T h e most important precondition for the feat of humor under adverse circumstances and for the ability to contemplate one's impending end is the formation and maintenance of a set of cherished values, i.e., metapsychologically, a strong idealization of the superego. Wisdom is, in addition, characterized not only by the maintenance of the libidinal cathexis of the old ideals but by their creative expansion. And in contrast to an attitude of utter seriousness and unrelieved solemnity vis-ä-vis the approaching end of life, the truly wise are able in the end to transform the humor of their years of maturity into a sense of proportion, a touch of irony toward the achievements of individual existence, including even their own wisdom. T h e ego's ultimate mastery over the narcissistic self, the final

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control of the rider over the horse, may after all have been decisively assisted by the fact that the horse, too, has grown old. And, lastly, we may recognize that what has been accomplished is not so much control but the acceptance of the ultimate insight that, as concerns the supreme powers of nature, we are all "Sunday riders." In concluding this presentation, let me now give a brief resume of the principal themes I laid before you. I wanted to emphasize that there are various forms of narcissism that must be considered not only as forerunners of object love but also as independent psychological constellations whose development and functions deserve separate examination and evaluation. In addition, I tried to demonstrate the ways by which a number of complex and autonomous achievements of the mature personality were derived from transformations of narcissism, i.e., created by the ego's capacity to tame narcissistic cathexes and to employ them for its highest aims. 19

I would finally like to say that I have become increasingly convinced of the value of these conceptualizations for psychoanalytic therapy. They are useful in the formulation of broad aspects of psychopathology of the frequently encountered narcissistic personality types among our patients; they help us understand the psychological changes that tend to be induced in them; and, last but not least, they assist us in the evaluation of the therapeutic goal. In many instances, the reshaping of the narcissistic structures and their integration into the personality —the strengthening of ideals, and the achievement, even to a modest degree, of such wholesome transformations of narcissism as humor, creativity, empathy, and wisdom—must be rated as a more genuine and valid result of therapy than the patient's precarious compliance with demands for a change of his narcissism into object love. " The German word "Sonntagsreiter" in the well-known joke mentioned by Freud (1900b, p. 237) has been rendered as "Sunday horseman" in the English translations (1900a, p. 231).

33 The Evaluation of Applicants for Psychoanalytic Training

T h e participants of the 1967 conference on psychoanalytic training were prepared for the meeting by the three precirculated contributions published in this issue: Brian Bird's essay which, starting from a broadly based discussion of certain general problems of psychoanalytic education, focuses on the methodology of evaluation; Paula Heimann's paper which deals not only with the measures we apply—overtly or covertly—when we attempt to form opinions about the suitability of those who wish to enter psychoanalytic training, but which also touches on some profound problems regarding the historical position of psychoanalysis and its future; and Kenneth Calder's compilation of the instructive replies to a questionnaire about evaluation procedures which had been distributed to psychoanalytic training institutions all over the world. 1

My own contribution will deal with the problem of the (quantifiable) assessment of psychological functions and qualities and the influence of the evaluation process on the candidate and on the total analytic milieu. For the rest, it is the aim of this essay to serve as a summarizing statement and as a First published in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysis (1968), 49:548-554, this was presented to the Second Pre-Congress Conference on Training held at the Meeting of the International Psycho-Analytic Association, Copenhagen, 1967. These three papers may be found in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysü (1968), 49:518-547. 1

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preview of some of the opposing opinions faced by the PreCongress. Because the subject matter of the conference is the evaluation of the applicant for psychoanalytic training, the center of our attention concerns the first step of the three-step procedure (evaluation-prediction-decision) that makes up the process of selection. Our predictions are based on a matching of the several psychological capacities we think an analyst should possess and of the comprehensive personality configurations that characterize him, with capacities and personality configurations either manifest in the applicant or which he promises to liberate in his training analysis and develop during his psychoanalytic education. T h e desirable qualities or personality configurations we call the criteria for evaluation, the activities designed to help us find out whether an applicant possesses the potential for them are the methods of evaluation. In inquiring about the methods and criteria of evaluation, we confront broad spectra of possibilities. In the area of methods, they reach from the examination of such informational petty cash as letters of recommendation to the results of that significant h u m a n encounter—subsumed under the term "the interview" — between a young man who considers embarking on a life committed to psychoanalysis and a mature man who m a d e this choice long ago and, having shed both empty idealism and disillusionment, has achieved a realistic acceptance of the assets and limitations of our field and his role in it. In the area of criteria, the possibilities reach from demands for the potential presence of specific circumscribed capacities, such as responsiveness to the emotions of others, to expectations for such broad attributes as integrity, humaneness, and creativeness. Our concern with all the points in both of these spectra is legitimate and important—but regarding all of them, as can be clearly inferred

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from many telling remarks contained in Bird's and Heimann's papers, there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous. T h e risks become especially great when we attempt to isolate criteria that can be utilized in a manner consonant with the methodology of the established sciences. The physical sciences in particular, whose growth and success have exerted a most powerful influence on the mind of modern m a n , have naturally impressed on us that quantification is the hallmark of scientific thinking. It is thus understandable that we should attempt to order the psychological qualities we evaluate in our applicants in a way that facilitates a quantitative rendering of the evaluators' assessments. Yet, while few of us would nowadays subscribe without qualification to Schopenhauer's old dictum (1877) "Wo das Rechnen anfängt, hört das Verstehn auf" ("when the counting begins, understanding ceases"), all of us realize the great loss of psychoanalytic meaning that is brought about when we define psychological data in a manner that favors their quantifiable evaluation. I might add that a careful subdivision of psychological material may be both truly psychoanalytic and analytic—as exemplified by the Hampstead profiles (A. Freud, 1962; A. Freud et al., 1965; Laufer, 1965)—it may provide for the separate examination of details without losing sight of the cohesiveness of the personality in time and in psychological depth. With regard to the methods employed in assessing the applicant, our aim is, of course, to pick the good and weed out the bad; and we assume that within limits we will be able to improve on spontaneous selection and chance. At this point I should like to draw your attention to certain side effects of our institutionalized activities in this area, positive as well as negative, which deserve to be noted along with the direct result (i.e., improved selection) these activities might achieve.

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First, then, a few remarks about organized research activities concerning the evaluation and selection of applicants. The aim of research is to discover and verify empirical data, and in any field of science, including our own, this aim is paramount. T r u e , the systematization required by research may at times interfere with the spontaneity and creative intuition on which so much of our evaluation responses rest. But I can not see how we could, in principle, oppose research in this or any other area. There are no cows sacred to science, and if we wish to be as clear as possible concerning the sequence of evaluation, prediction, and the student's actual performance, appropriate research is required. T h e question is not whether research is permissible, but whether it is good or bad, whether its methods fit the field, and especially whether it is designed to lead to the verification of meaningful hypotheses or is in the service of circular reasoning, covered up by a complex armamentarium of procedures. A second question, concerning the values, preferences, and leading interests we tend to develop when we are functioning as evaluators, is an important one, since our prestige in this role tends to create an adaptation to our standards and to what we consider to be the essentials of psychoanalysis. Our very interest in evaluation procedures, for example — and, in general, our systematic interest in educational matters—tends to lead us to the scrutiny of autonomous ego functions. This preference is not only a manifestation of the already existing emphasis on ego psychology; it frequently leads us beyond the borders of psychoanalytic ego psychology and tends to shift the major focus of the interest of an influential group of psychoanalytic educators from the investigation of the psychic apparatus and its functions to the interpersonal activities and the professional efficiency of the individual, i.e., to problems of social psychology. I do not wish to imply that as evaluators we might simply tend to become "surface-minded"; there is probably little

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danger if one or the other of us should begin to manifest such easily recognizable blunting of psychoanalytic perceptivity. What I have in mind refers to more subtle varieties of preference. As an example, I will mention the possibility that among the personalities who are attracted by work in the educational and administrative fields, there might be a preference for applicants who have the gift of coming to psychological closures, a preference for Menschenkenner, for people who are able to "respond" and to "relate." Within limits, these preferences are of course valid; yet, their acceptance would become deleterious if it were to obscure another set of even more important capacities of an analyst: to be able to resist psychological closures, not to "know," not to "understand," not to "respond" —to wait. Now I should like to refer to the influence of the evaluation procedure on the candidate and on the analytic "atmosphere" in our professional community. T h e evaluation procedure is the first encounter the future psychoanalyst has with organized psychoanalysis and, in view of the deep and lasting effects of first impressions, is thus of crucial importance with regard to the image that begins to form in him of what analysis is like and how an analyst behaves. Lewin has rightly stressed (1946) the fact that, traditionally, a corpse is the first "patient" the medical student encounters may distort his whole outlook on the practice of medicine, i.e., his attitude toward sick and suffering people. I submit that in many instances the impressions gained by the applicant during the evaluation procedures are similarly at variance with the philosophy underlying the practice of psychoanalysis—at variance with that preconscious conception of the human essence by which the analyst is guided in the work to which he is devoting his life. There are many ways in which one could define this basic psychoanalytic philosophy. The "Know Thyself" of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi is sometimes quoted; or one may stress the slow process of self-analy-

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sis with the aid of the analyst. And if we want to avoid all high-sounding phrases we will certainly agree that our patients' defenses have to be carefully considered and treated respectfully (the attacks on the character armor of Reich's epigoni are, I hope, largely a thing of the past). What, then, are the effects of efficient evaluation procedures where secrets are quickly wrested from the candidate through deeply probing individual interviews, examination by groups, stress exposure, or psychological tests? Many of the accepted candidates may overcome these first impressions and work through these traumata in their analyses. Many of the interviewers may be able to shift gears after the concentrated rush of assessing a large number of candidates in a short span of time. But I fear that, in some at least, the experience might subtly undermine their respect for the defenses and for the dynamic equilibrium that characterizes even pathological structures. On the other hand, we may also maintain that the capacity to withstand the hardships of stress interviews, psychological testing, and the quick probing into the personality performed by experienced interviewers should be expected of the applicant when social reality demands that he tolerate them. Or it could be said that, while there are drawbacks to our evaluation procedures, the drawbacks are outweighed by the advantage of weeding out those who should not become analysts. These are knotty problems, and they confront us with a troublesome dilemma which should be consciously confronted and openly discussed. Traditionally, the evaluation of the potential analyst has, I believe, been undertaken in a different way. T h e interviewer, a senior analyst, will neither engage in a deeply probing examination which the candidate may experience as an attack, nor frighten him by exposing him to a mystifying silence, but will try to enlist his cooperation by discussing with him what it means to be an analyst and by explaining to

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him that the right decision is not only important for the institute, but is also crucial for the applicant. Such a procedure is less efficient, less objective, and, last but not least, it may lead the applicant to hypocritical responses of pretended comprehension and good will. Yet, it has the inestimable advantage that the evaluator himself, particularly if he is not overworked, can present to the candidate a closer image of the ultimate professional ideal than the psychological tester or the interviewer who probes quickly behind the defenses and disturbs the established psychological equilibrium of the candidate. And I believe that the candidate's hypocritical responses are more open to subsequent investigation in the training analysis than his defensive adaptation to the interviewer's behavior. Allow me now a few remarks concerning the criteria of evaluation. What attributes characterize the good analyst? Reading the relevant literature, one does not feel encouraged about our capacity to answer this question—whether the attempt is m a d e through the assessment of isolated psychological qualities and functions or through the scrutiny of broader personality configurations. 2

1

[An earlier statement of Kohut's on the subject of analyzability was made at an informal discussion from the floor at a Panel on Analyzability held at a meeting of the Chicago Psychoanalytic Society in 1962. A summary of the proceedings, including the following, was published in the Bulletin of the Philadelphia Association for Psychoanalysis (1963), 13:38, reported by J. Kavka. Heinz Kohut expressed pleasure that the tenor of the panel was not in the direction of establishing lists of factors indicative of suitability for analysis. It is possible and even desirable to enumerate concrete criteria of analyzability; by doing so, however, one usually categorizes only what is already well known. Methodological approaches that are serviceable in other sciences are not necessarily fruitful in psychoanalysis. Dr. Kramer's remark about Freud's love of truth bears closer scrutiny, since Freud may be studied as the prototype of analyzability. In his search for psychological truth he was not a fanatic: he loved truth. Love of truth combined with acceptance of the cognitive boundaries and tolerance for

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Concerning the first method, it is the very fact that quantifiable data are needed in certain types of research that prompts the investigator to isolate circumscribed psychological qualities and functions. Such an approach indeed seems unavoidable when a comparative quantification is the major objective, as was the case, for example, in the comprehensive research undertaken by the Psychoanalytic Clinic for Training and Research of Columbia University (Klein, 1965) in which a number of rating scales were used. We should again remind ourselves, however, that we are casting aside a great part of our psychoanalytic knowledge when we formulate psychological data in terms that can be quantified; and, furthermore, we must be on guard lest the introduction of these methodological devices become the first step on the road toward the establishment of a sterile trait-psychology dressed up in psychoanalytic terms. T h e question whether quantifying devices should be used in such areas of applied psychoanalytic research as evaluation and selection is a crucial one. In brief, the gain in precision must be weighed against the loss in meaning and significance. I am inclined to believe that, at the present time, quantification is not achievable without an excessive loss in psychoanalytic relevance — but I do not know what the future might bring, and I am not opposed to experimentation. Meaningful quantification, however, if it can ever be achieved, will have the emotional limitations that are set to the search are favorable factors in both patient and analyst. His young mother's warm acceptance gave Freud a lifelong trust in and love for reality; from his middle-aged father's attitudes he took over a humorous skepticism toward the accepted values of the time. This mixture of love for reality and doubt vis-ä-vis idealizing distortions were the psychological preconditions for Freud's discoveries. His specific sense of humor (a belittling of pretense and sham, combined with a deep acceptance of the self) was a characteristic expression of his emotional assets. The capacity for humor and irony, without sarcasm, may similarly be viewed as a favorable sign of analyzability in the assessment of a prospective analysand.]

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to be a branch and specialized extension of psychoanalytic metapsychology (in particular of the psychoeconomic point of view), and the questions posed should be metapsychologically meaningful ones. In the area of evaluation and selection, for example, such questions might concern the comparative degree of neutralization of the voyeuristic drive; the degree of the ego's tolerance for uncertainty, i.e., its relative mastery over the narcissistic demand for omniscience; and the like. Whether or not we will be able to achieve psychoanalytically meaningful quantifications in the future, the relevant and useful symbolic notations are at present not the numerical abstractions of mathematics but those of metapsychology. T o state, for example, that empathy is present or not in an applicant, or even to estimate the degree of its potential availability, signifies little. What counts is whether its use is under the ego's control, in which specific areas it is effective, and whether it can lead to the meaningful, balanced, and comprehensive understanding of others. We must thus, as indicated by Heimann in the present symposium, investigate empathy within a broad metapsychological framework in order to derive something useful from this undertaking for our evaluation of the applicant. What, for example, is the difference between the talent of a Menschenkenner (practical knower of people) and the perceptivity of a psychoanalyst? Why was so great a psychologist as Freud, according to his own judgment, a poor knower of people? Or, to shift 3

s

Although psychoanalytic metapsychology does not provide quantitative scales that could be stated in numerical terms, its symbolic notations do allow formulations that correspond to certain mathematical processes. Binswanger (1936) (who was in general not a friend of the application of the methodology of the physical and the biological sciences to the field of psychology) emphasized the mathematical sophistication of certain aspects of psychoanalytic theory, giving as illustration Freud's statement "It is as though the resistance of the conscious against them [the derivatives from the repressed unconscious] was a function of their distance from what was originally repressed" (Freud, 1915b).

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our focus to another problem area (to which Bird has directed our attention) and to ask the same question in a different context: why is the training analyst's report about his candidate so often misleading and, unless reinterpreted, of little usefulness with regard to practical educational decisions? Is it only conflicts about confidentiality and other similar obstacles that stand in the analyst's way, or is the unreliability of this report due to the fact that the understanding achieved in analysis is, in essence, different from the judgments that underlie the many practical decisions which have to be m a d e about a student? It is easier to ask these questions than answer them. But let me now shift from the criteria derived from the evaluation of isolated traits and single functions to those related to broader psychological configurations. I confess that my own sympathies are closer to the broader approach, but I must admit that there is little ground for optimism. Analysts are familiar with the intertwining of pathology with normal and desirable psychological functions and know that the normal and abnormal form a continuum. Many analysts thus tend to define suitability for psychoanalytic work in terms of psychopathology. This approach is neither unsophisticated nor without merit. Those who use it do not assert that it is the pathology per se that accounts for the gift; they see the gift as an outgrowth of a specific controlled responsiveness emanating from the periphery of the pathological sector. A touch of hypersensitivity, for example, to the hostile, immoral, cowardly, or otherwise base motivations of people, distantly related to a paranoid's make-up, could be advanced as constituting a desirable personality type —and a few outstanding analysts do fit such a description. The depressive's capacity to feel a kinship to the sadness and suffering of people, the tendency to identifying with others, have been adduced in support of the claim that the good analyst is basically of the depressive constitution (Panel, 1961), as long

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as the propensity remains controlled and within bounds. And, again, there are undoubtedly splendid analysts who approximate the description. Yet, even if one puts aside doubts about the scientific appropriateness of such statements and definitions, one wonders about their specificity. I am reminded of a fine analyst whom I had known for many years. From time to time he said, "In order to be a real analyst, one has to have had at least so and so many years of experience." As time passed, I noticed that the required number of years grew, and finally caught on that the number he mentioned was the number of years he had spent in the practice of analysis. There are many types of analysts, and there are different types of excellence among them. I once entertained the broad genetic and structural hypothesis that the good analyst has a personality that is characterized by central firmness and peripheral looseness (Panel, 1961). Genetically speaking, I thought that his self-image had developed on the basis of wholesome early experiences of maternal acceptance and empathic care, with a resulting strong and deep sense of nameless narcissistic security. Later, however, disturbing experiences had left him with uncertainties about himself (concerning the definiteness of his sociocultural role, for example), resulting in a peripheral looseness, changeableness, and impressionability. He is a Liebhaber in alien Gestalten (a lover in many shapes), to use a phrase coined by Goethe. I still think that this formulation has much to 4

* [A letter Kohut wrote in November, 1975, to Jürgen vom Scheidt — and which appears in that author's Der fahche Weg zum Selbst (1976), Munich: Kindler, p. 166 —is of interest in this context: I see the concepts self and identity as clearly different. The self is a depth-psychological concept and refers to the core of the personality made up of various constituents in the interplay with the child's earliest self-objects. It contains (1) the basic layers of the personality from which emanate the strivings for power and success; furthermore (2) its

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recommend it; yet, there are excellent analysts who would not be covered even by this broad genetic formula and, vice versa, I know that the pattern also fits people who have achieved excellence in other pursuits. Are we then really left with nothing? No formula that would express, if not what can always be expected to exist, at least what must be recognized as desirable? I think one statement can indeed be made, even though it might still contain a trace of the subjective and even though its practical applicability and usefulness is limited. It refers to the fact that the applicant must give evidence of the potential presence of a vivid interest in psychological matters, especially concerning the inner life of people, that this basic interest should be motivated in essence by libidinal forces, yet, that aggression must be sufficiently available to support and sustain it. I am aware of the apparent triteness of these statements and know that the formula needs elaboration. Here I will only add that central idealized goals; and then, in addition, (3) the basic talents and skills that mediate between ambitions and ideals —all attached to the sense of being a unit in time and space, a recipient of impressions, and an initiator of actions. Identity, on the other hand, is the point of convergence between the developed self (as it is constituted in late adolescence and early adulthood) and the sociocultural position of the individual. This differentiation is to my mind very fruitful. Some individuals are, for example, characterized by a strong, firm, well-defined self that was acquired early in life —but their identity is, due to later circumstances, quite diffuse. I believe that the personality of certain types of psychoanalysts belongs to such a pattern. The diffuseness of the identity permits empathy with many different types of people — yet the firm self protects against fragmentation. There are other people whose organization is the very opposite: a weak self but a strong, perhaps overly strong, a rigid identity. These are individuals whose cohesion is maintained by an intensely experienced social role, an intensely experienced ethnic or religious sense of belonging, etc. And these are people who, when their identity is taken from them (e.g., when they move from one culture to another, such as from the village to the city) will psychologically disintegrate. And there are, finally, still others whose firm but not rigid identity rests on a firmly established self.]

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a deep interest in psychological matters, grounded in early experience, is indispensable whatever its specific genetic source. T h e original curiosity may have been stimulated by the cognitive task of mastering a complex layering of the generations in the child's early environment; its intensity may have been due to a puzzlement over the unexplained mood swings and motivations of a beloved parent; or it may stem from the early identification with an admired parent's own fascination with the inner life of people. Whatever the specific early constellation that led to the intense cathexis of this interest —and, within certain limits, independent of the applicant's conflicts and inhibitions — the crucial condition seems to me to be that the motivation be predominantly a libidinal and not an aggressive one. The future analyst's conscious or unconscious wish to understand should thus be based on love for psychological truth and should be primarily determined neither by the urge to show u p the seamy side in order to destroy, belittle, or degrade, nor—in a reaction formation to the sadistic impulse —by the need to cure, to soothe, to heal. The primary motivation should be fondness for psychological truth itself. T h a t one cannot achieve access to the truth without the aid of free aggression, to overcome obstacles and to sustain the perseverance of the search, goes without saying. But to repeat: the aggression should be in the service of the libidinal aim. Let me end with a story. Some years ago, after having given a lecture in a distant university town, I attended a reception in the home of a psychoanalytic colleague. As these things go, I soon felt that I was a stranger among local people who knew each other well, and found myself chatting in an otherwise deserted hallway with a boy about fourteen years old, the son of the colleague in whose house the reception was being held. He told me he was struggling with a school assignment concerning his occupational life plan, that he was considering becoming an analyst like his father, but that he

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felt he should get the advice of someone outside his own family. And he asked my opinion whether he might write to Miss Freud for her advice. I said that was a great idea, and that, from what I knew about Miss Freud, I felt confident she would answer. The next day I left for home; some weeks passed, and I had forgotten the incident when, to my great pleasure, I received from my colleague a note expressing his gratefulness for my having encouraged his son and, as a souvenir, a photostatic copy of Anna Freud's reply to the boy's inquiry, which was as follows: Dear John, You asked me what I consider essential personal qualities in a future psychoanalyst. T h e answer is comparatively simple. If you want to be a real psychoanalyst you have to have a great love of the truth, scientific truth as well as personal truth, and you have to place this appreciation of truth higher than any discomfort at meeting unpleasant facts, whether they belong to the world outside or to your own inner person. Further, I think that a psychoanalyst should have . . . interests . . . beyond the limits of the medical field . . . in facts that belong to sociology, religion, literature, [and] history . . . [otherwise] his outlook on . . . his patient will remain too narrow. This point contains . . . the necessary preparations beyond the requirements made on candidates of psychoanalysis in the institutes. You ought to be a great reader and become acquainted with the literature of many countries and cultures. In the great literary figures you will find people who know at least as much of h u m a n nature as the psychiatrists and psychologists try to do. Does that answer your question? Yours sincerely, Anna Freud.

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This letter, with its simple and direct expression of an outlook on our profession which many analysts share with Anna Freud, may well serve as a starting point and as the keynote for the discussions of the Pre-Congress. Yet, it must not be denied that the problems which the conference faces are many, that the subject matter allows of no simple solution, and that the participants might at times feel overwhelmed by the complexity of the task, by the different viewpoints that will be taken, and by the seemingly unbridgeable distances that lie between the various solutions being proposed. We know full well —and so does Anna Freud —that a warm and charming letter to a fourteen-year-old about what makes an analyst cannot substitute for the hard-earned insights obtained through experience, study, and debate. Yet, whenever the discussions should reach an external or internal impasse during the meetings, it behooves us to recall one sentence from her letter: "If you want to be a real psychoanalyst, you must have a great love of the truth."

34 The Psychoanalytic Treatment of Narcissistic Personality Disorders Outline of a Systematic

Introductory

Approach

Considerations

T h e classification presented here of the transferencelike structures mobilized during the analysis of narcissistic personalities is based on previous conceptualizations (Kohut, 1966b) of which only the following brief summary can be given. It was suggested that the child's original narcissistic balance, the perfection of his primary narcissism, is disturbed by the unavoidable shortcomings of maternal care, but that the child attempts to save the original experience of perfection by assigning it, on the one hand, to a grandiose and exhibitionistic image of the self: the grandiose self, and, on the other hand, to an admired you: the idealized parent imago. T h e central mechanisms these two basic narcissistic configurations employ in order to preserve a part of the original experience are, of course, antithetical. Yet they coexist from the beginning, and their individual and largely 1

Presented as the Third Freud Anniversary Lecture of The Psychoanalytic Association of New York, May, 1968. First published in The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child (1968), 23:86-113. The tautological term "narcissistic self" employed in "Forms and Transformations of Narcissism" (1966b) is now replaced by the term grandiose self. 1

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independent lines of development are open to separate scrutiny. At this moment it can only be pointed out that, under optimum developmental conditions, the exhibitionism and grandiosity of the archaic grandiose self are gradually tamed, and that the whole structure ultimately becomes integrated into the adult personality and supplies the instinctual fuel for our ego-syntonic ambitions and purposes, for the enjoyment of our activities, and for important aspects of our self-esteem. And under similarly favorable circumstances, the idealized parent imago, too, becomes integrated into the adult personality. Introjected as our idealized superego, it becomes an important component of our psychic organization by holding up to us the guiding leadership of its ideals. If the child, however, suffers severe narcissistic traumata, then the grandiose self does not merge into the relevant ego content, but is retained in its unaltered form and strives for the fulfillment of its archaic aims. And if the child experiences traumatic disappointments in the admired adult, then the idealized parent imago, too, is retained in its unaltered form, is not transformed into tension-regulating psychic structure, but remains an archaic, transitional object that is required for the maintenance of narcissistic homeostasis. Severe regressions, whether occurring spontaneously or during therapy, may lead to the activation of unstable, prepsychological fragments of the mind-body-self and its functions that belong to the stage of autoerotism (cf. Nagera, 1964). The pathognomonically specific, transferencelike, therapeutically salutary conditions on which I am focusing, however, are based on the activation of psychologically elaborated, cohesive configurations that enter into stable amalgamations with the narcissistically perceived psychic representation of the analyst. T h e relative stability of this narcissistic transference-amalgamation is the prerequisite for the performance of the analytic task in the pathogenic narcissistic areas of the personality.

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Transferences

I shall now examine the two narcissistic transferences delimited in accordance with the previously given conceptualizations: the therapeutic activation of the idealized parent imago, for which the term idealizing transference will be employed, and the activation of the grandiose self, which will be called the mirror transference.

Therapeutic Activation of the Idealized Parent The Idealizing Transference

Imago:

T h e idealizing transference is the therapeutic revival of the early state in which the psyche saves a part of the lost experience of global narcissistic perfection by assigning it to an archaic (transitional) object, the idealized parent imago. Since all bliss and power now reside in the idealized object, the child feels empty and powerless when he is separated from it and he attempts, therefore, to maintain a continuous union with it. Idealization, whether it is directed at a dimly perceived archaic mother-breast or at the clearly recognized oedipal parent, must genetically and dynamically be understood as a narcissistic phenomenon. T h e idealizing cathexes, however, although retaining their narcissistic character, become increasingly neutralized and aim-inhibited. It is especially in the most advanced stages of their early development that the idealizations (which now coexist with powerful object-instinctual cathexes) exert their strongest and most important influence on the phase-appropriate internalization processes. At the end of the oedipal period, for example, the internalization of object-cathected aspects of the parental imago accounts for the contents (i.e., the commands and prohibitions) and functions (i.e., praise, scolding, punishment) of

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the superego; the internalization of the narcissistic aspects, however, accounts for the exalted position of these contents and functions. It is from the narcissistic instinctual component of their cathexes that the aura of absolute perfection of the values and standards of the superego and of the omniscience and might of the whole structure are derived. T h e stream of narcissism that is subsumed under the term idealized parent imago remains vulnerable throughout its whole early development, i.e., from the stage of the incipient, archaic idealized object (which is still almost merged with the self) to the time of the massive reinternalization of the idealized aspect of the imago of the oedipal parent (who is already firmly established as separate from the self). The period of greatest vulnerability ends when an idealized nuclear superego has been formed, since the capacity for the idealization of his central values and standards that the child thus acquires exerts a lasting beneficial influence on the psychic economy in the narcissistic sectors of the personality. T h e beginning of latency may be regarded as still belonging to the oedipal phase. It constitutes the last of the several periods of greatest danger in early childhood during which the psyche is especially susceptible to traumatization because, after a spurt of development, a new balance of psychological forces is only insecurely established. If we apply this principle of the vulnerability of new structures to the superego at the beginning of latency— to be specific, if we apply the principle not only to the content of the new values and standards but also, and especially, to the newly established idealization of these values and standards and to the newly established idealization of the rewarding and punishing functions of the superego — then it will not surprise us when we learn from clinical experience that a severe disappointment in the idealized oedipal object, even at the beginning of latency, may yet undo a precariously established idealization of the superego, may recathect the imago of the idealized object

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and thus lead to a renewed insistence on finding an external object of perfection. Under optimal circumstances the child experiences gradual disappointment in the idealized object —or, expressed differently, the child's evaluation of the idealized object becomes increasingly realistic — which leads to a withdrawal of the narcissistic idealizing cathexes from the object imago and to their gradual (or more massive but phase-appropriate) internalization, i.e., to the acquisition of permanent psychological structures, which continue, endopsychically, the functions that had previously been fulfilled by the idealized object. If the child's relationship to the idealized object is, however, severely disturbed, e.g., if he suffers a traumatic (intense and sudden, or not phase-appropriate) disappointment in it, then the child does not acquire the needed internal structure, his psyche remains fixated on an archaic object imago, and the personality will later, and throughout life, be dependent on certain objects in what seems to be an intense form of object hunger. T h e intensity of the search for, and dependency on, these objects is due to the fact that they are striven for as a substitute for missing segments of the psychic structure. These objects are not loved for their attributes, and their actions are only dimly recognized; they are needed in order to replace the functions of a segment of the mental apparatus that had not been established in childhood. T h e structural defects resulting from early disturbances in the relationship with the idealized object cannot be discussed within the confines of this essay. T h e following clinical illustration will, instead, focus on the effect of later traumatic disappointments, u p to and including early latency. Mr. Α., a tall, asthenic man in his late twenties, was a chemist in a pharmaceutical firm. Although he entered analysis with the complaint that he felt sexually stimulated by men, it soon became apparent that his homosexual preoccupations constituted only one of the several indications of an

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underlying broad personality defect. More important were periods of feeling depressed (with an associated drop in his work capacity), and, as a trigger to the preceding disturbance, a specific vulnerability of his self-esteem, manifested by his sensitivity to criticism or simply to the absence of praise from people he experienced as his elders or superiors. Thus, although he was a m a n of considerable intelligence who performed his tasks with skill and creative ability, he was forever in search of approval: from the head of the research laboratory where he was employed, from a number of senior colleagues, and from the fathers of the girls he dated. He was sensitively aware of these men and of their opinion of him. So long as he felt that they approved of him, he experienced himself as whole, acceptable, and capable and was indeed able to do well in his work and to be creative and successful. At slight signs of disapproval of him, however, or of lack of understanding for him, he became depressed, tended to become first enraged and then cold, haughty, and isolated, and his creativeness deteriorated. T h e cohesive transference permitted the gradual reconstruction of a certain genetically decisive pattern. Repeatedly throughout his childhood, the patient had felt abruptly disappointed in the power of his father just when he h a d (re-)established him as a figure of protective strength and efficiency. As is frequent, the first memories the patient supplied subsequent to the transference activations of the crucial pattern referred to a comparatively late period. T h e family had come to the United States when the patient was nine, and the father, who had been prosperous in Europe, was unable to repeat his earlier successes in this country. Time and again, the father shared his newest plans with his son and stirred the child's fantasies and expectations; but time and again he sold out in panic when the occurrence of unforeseen events and his lack of familiarity with the American scene combined to block his purposes. Although these

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memories had always been conscious, the patient had not previously appreciated the intensity of the contrast between the phase of great trust in the father, who inspired great confidence while he was forging his plans, and the subsequent disappointment. Most prominent among the patient's relevant recollections of earlier occurrences of the idealization-disappointment sequence were those of two events which affected the family fortunes decisively when the patient was six and eight years old respectively. T h e father, who during the patient's early childhood h a d been a virile and handsome man, had owned a small but flourishing industry. Judging by many indications and memories, father and son had been very close emotionally, and the son had admired his father greatly. Suddenly, when the patient was six, German armies invaded the country, and the family, which was Jewish, fled. Although the father h a d initially reacted with helplessness and panic, he h a d later been able to re-establish his business, though on a much reduced scale, but, as a consequence of the German invasion of the country to which they had escaped (the patient was eight at that time), everything was again lost and the family had to flee once more. T h e patient's memories implicated the beginning of latency as the period when the structural defect was incurred. There is no doubt, however, that earlier experiences, related to his pathological mother, had sensitized him and accounted for the severity of the later-acquired structural defect. Described in metapsychological terms, his defect was the insufficient idealization of the superego and, concomitantly, a recathexis of the idealized parent imago of the later preoedipal and the oedipal stages. The symptomatic result of this defect was circumscribed yet profound. Because the patient had suffered a traumatic disappointment in the narcissistically invested aspects of the father imago, his superego did not possess the requisite exalted status and was thus

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unable to raise the patient's self-esteem. In view of the fact, however, that the patient had not felt equally deprived of those aspects of the father imago that were invested with object-instinctual cathexes, his superego was relatively intact with regard to those of its contents and functions that were built up as the heir to the object-instinctual dimensions of the oedipal father relationship. His nuclear goals and standards were indeed those of his cultural background, transmitted by his father; what he lacked was the ability to feel more than a fleeting sense of satisfaction when living up to his standards or reaching his goals. Only through the confirmatory approval of external admired figures was he able to obtain a sense of heightened self-esteem. In the transference he seemed insatiable in two demands he directed toward the idealized analyst: that the analyst share the patient's values, goals, and standards (and thus imbue them with significance through their idealization), and that the analyst confirm through the expression of a warm glow of pleasure and participation that the patient had lived up to his values and standards and had successfully worked toward a goal. Without the analyst's expression of his empathic comprehension of these needs, the patient's values and goals seemed to him trite and uninspiring, and his successes were meaningless and left him feeling depressed and empty.

The Genesis of the Pathogenic Idealized Parent Imago

Fixation of the

As can be regularly ascertained, the essential genetic trauma is grounded in the parents' own narcissistic fixations, and the parents' narcissistic needs contribute decisively to the child's remaining enmeshed within the narcissistic web of the parents' personality until, for example, the sudden recognition of the shortcomings of the parent, or the child's sudden desperate recognition of how far out of step his own emotion-

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al development has become confronts him with the insuperable task of achieving the wholesale internalization of a chronic narcissistic relationship. T h e complexity of the pathogenic interplay of parent and child and the varieties of its forms defy a comprehensive description. Yet, in a properly conducted analysis, the crucial pattern will often emerge with great clarity. Mr. B., for example, established a narcissistic transference in which the analyst's presence increased and solidified his self-esteem and thus, secondarily, improved his ego functioning and efficiency. To any impending disruption of this beneficial deployment of narcissistic cathexes, he responded with rage and with a decathexis of the narcissistically invested analyst and a hypercathexis of his grandiose self, manifested by cold and imperious behavior. But finally (after the analyst had gone away, for example), he reached a comparatively stable balance: he withdrew to lonely intellectual activities, which, although pursued with less creativity than before, provided him with a sense of self-sufficiency. In his words, he "rowed out alone to the middle of the lake and looked at the moon." When, however, the possibility offered itself of reestablishing the relationship to the narcissistically invested object, he reacted with the same rage that he had experienced when the transference — to use his own significant analogy—had become "unplugged." At first I thought that the reaction was nonspecific, consisting of yet unexpressed rage about the analyst's leaving, and of anger at having to give up a new-found protective balance. These explanations were, however, incomplete, since the patient was in fact by his reactions describing an important sequence of early events. T h e patient's mother had been intensely enmeshed with him and had supervised and controlled him in a most 2

* The episode described here concerns a patient who was treated by a colleague (a woman) in regular consultation with the author.

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stringent fashion. His exact feeding time, for example, and in later childhood his eating time, were determined by a mechanical timer — reminiscent of the devices Schreber's father employed with his children (Niederland, 1959b) —and thus the child felt that he had no mind of his own and that his mother was continuing to perform his mental functions long beyond the time when such maternal activities, carried out empathically, are indeed phase-appropriate and required. In later childhood, under the impact of the anxious recognition of the inappropriateness of this relationship, he withdrew to his room to think his own thoughts uninfluenced by her interference. When he had just begun to achieve some reliance on this minimum of autonomous functioning, his mother h a d a buzzer installed. From then on, she interrupted his attempts at internal separation from her whenever he wanted to be alone. T h e buzzer summoned him more compellingly (because the mechanical device was experienced as akin to an endopsychic communication) than her voice or knocking would have done. No wonder, then, that he reacted with rage to the return of the analyst after he had "rowed to the center of the lake to look at the moon."

The Process of Working Through and Some Other Clinical Problems in the Idealizing

Transference

Little need be said concerning the beginning of the analysis. Although there may be severe resistances, especially those motivated by apprehensions about the extinction of individuality due to the wish to merge into the idealized object, the pathognomonic regression will establish itself spontaneously if the analyst does not interfere by premature transference interpretations. T h e working-through phase of the analysis can begin only after the pathognomonic idealizing transference has been firmly established. It is set into motion by the fact that the instinctual equilibrium that the

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analysand is trying to maintain is sooner or later disturbed. In the undisturbed transference, the patient feels powerful, good, and capable. Anything that deprives him of the idealized analyst, however, creates a disturbance of his self-esteem: he feels powerless and worthless, and if his ego is not assisted by interpretations concerning the loss of the idealized parent imago, the patient may turn to archaic precursors of the idealized parent imago or may abandon it altogether and regress further to reactively mobilized archaic stages of the grandiose self. T h e retreat to archaic idealizations may manifest itself in the form of vague, impersonal, trancelike religious feelings; the hypercathexis of archaic forms of the grandiose self and of the (autoerotic) body-self will produce the syndrome of emotional coldness, a tendency toward affectation in speech and behavior, shame propensity, and hypochondria. Although such temporary cathectic shifts toward the archaic stages of the idealized parent imago and of the grandiose self are common occurrences in the analysis of narcissistic personalities, they may be precipitated by seemingly minute narcissistic injuries, the discovery of which may put the analyst's empathy and clinical acumen to a severe test. T h e essence of the curative process in the idealizing transference can be epitomized in a few comparatively simple principles. A working-through process is set in motion in which the repressed narcissistic strivings with which the archaic object is invested are admitted into consciousness. Although the ego and superego resistances with which we are familiar from the analysis of the transference neuroses do also occur here, and although there are in addition specific ego resistances (motivated by anxiety concerning hypomanic overstimulation) that oppose the mobilization of the idealizing cathexes, the major part of the working-through process concerns the loss of the narcissistically experienced object. If

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the repeated interpretations of the meaning of separations from the analyst on the level of the idealizing narcissistic libido are given with correct empathy for the analysand's feelings—in particular for what appears to be his lack of emotions, i.e., his coldness and retreat in response to separations, for example —then there will gradually emerge a host of meaningful memories concerning the dynamic prototypes of the present experience. The patient will recall lonely hours during his childhood in which he attempted to overcome a feeling of fragmentation, hypochondria, and deadness, which was due to the separation from the idealized parent. And he will remember, and gratefully understand, how he tried to substitute for the idealized parent imago and its functions by creating erotized replacements and through frantic hyper cathexis of the grandiose self: how he rubbed his face against the rough floor in the basement, looked at the mother's photograph, went through her drawers and smelled her underwear; and how he turned to the performance of grandiose athletic feats in which he was enacting flying fantasies in order to reassure himself. Adult analogues in the analysis (during the weekend, for example) are intense voyeuristic preoccupations, the impulse to shoplift and recklessly speedy drives in the car. Childhood memories and deepening understanding of the analogous transference experiences converge in giving assistance to the patient's ego, and the formerly automatic reactions gradually become more aim-inhibited. The ego acquires increasing tolerance for the analyst's absence and for his occasional failure to achieve a correct empathic understanding. T h e patient learns that the idealizing libido need not be immediately withdrawn from the idealized imago and that the painful and dangerous regressive shifts of the narcissistic cathexes can be prevented. Concomitant with the increase of the ability to maintain a part of the idealizing investment despite the separation, there is also an enhancement of internalization, i.e., the analysand's

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psychic organization acquires the capacity to perform some of the functions previously performed by the idealized object. Therapeutic The Mirror

Activation of the Grandiose Self: Transference

Analogous to the idealized object in the idealizing transference, it is the grandiose self that is reactivated in the transferencelike condition referred to as the mirror transference. T h e mirror transference constitutes the therapeutic revival of the developmental stage in which the child attempts to retain a part of the original, all embracing narcissism by concentrating perfection and power upon a grandiose self and by assigning all imperfections to the outside. T h e mirror transference occurs in three forms, which relate to specific stages of development of the grandiose self: 1. An archaic form in which the self-experience of the analysand includes the analyst; it will be referred to as merger through the extension of the grandiose self. 2. A less archaic form in which the patient assumes that the analyst is like him or that the analyst's psychological makeup is similar to his; it will be called the alter-ego or twinship transference. 3. A still less archaic form in which the analyst is experienced as a separate person who, however, has significance to the patient only within the framework of the needs generated by his therapeutically reactivated grandiose self. Here, the term mirror transference is most accurate and will again be employed. In this narrower sense, the mirror transference is the reinstatement of the phase in which the gleam in the mother's eye, which mirrors the child's exhibitionistic display, and other forms of maternal participation in the child's narcissistic enjoyment confirm the child's self-esteem and by a gradually increasing selectivity of these responses begin to channel it into realistic directions.

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If the development of the grandiose self is traumatically disturbed, this psychic structure may become cut off from further integrative participation in the development of the personality. Insecurely repressed in an archaic form, it is, on the one hand, removed from further external influence, yet, on the other hand, continues to disturb realistic adaptation by its recurrent intrusions into the ego. In the mirror transference (in the narrower sense), however, it may become cohesively remobilized, and a new road to its gradual modification is opened. T h e central activity in the clinical process during the mirror transference concerns the raising to consciousness of the patient's infantile fantasies of exhibitionistic grandeur. In view of the strong resistances that oppose this process and the intensive efforts required in overcoming them, it may at times be disappointing for the analyst to behold the apparently trivial fantasy that the patient has ultimately brought into the light of day. True, sometimes even the content of the fantasy permits an empathic understanding of the shame and hypochondria, and of the anxiety the patient experiences: shame, because the revelation is at times still accompanied by the discharge of unneutralized exhibitionistic libido, and anxiety because the grandiosity isolates the analysand and threatens him with permanent object loss. Patient C , for example, told the following dream during a period when he was looking forward to being publicly honored: "The question was raised of finding a successor for me. I thought: How about God?" T h e dream was partly the result of the attempt to soften the grandiosity through humor; yet it aroused excitement and anxiety and led, against renewed resistances, to the recall of childhood fantasies in which he had felt that he was God. In many instances, however, the nuclear grandiosity is only hinted at. Patient D., for example, recalled with intense

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shame and resistance that as a child he used to imagine that he was running the streetcars in the city. T h e fantasy appeared harmless enough, but the shame and resistance became more understandable when the patient explained that he was operating the streetcars via a "thought control" which emanated from his head, above the clouds. Although the content of the grandiose fantasy cannot be further discussed here, it is important to clarify the role of the mirror transference which enables its emergence. As indicated before, the patient's major resistances are motivated by his attempt to avoid dedifferentiating intrusions of the grandiose self and the narcissistic-exhibitionistic libido into the ego because he reacts to them with uneasy elation alternating with fear of permanent object loss, painful self-consciousness, shame-tension, and hypochondria. The transference functions as a specific therapeutic buffer. In the mirror transference, in the narrower sense, the patient is able to mobilize his grandiose fantasies and exhibitionism on the basis of the hope that the therapist's empathic participation and emotional response will not allow the narcissistic tensions to reach excessively painful or dangerous levels. In the twinship and the merger, the analogous protection is provided by the longterm deployment of the narcissistic cathexes upon the therapist, who now is the carrier of the patient's infantile greatness and exhibitionism. Later, especially with the aid of the final clinical example given in this presentation, some of the specific, concrete clinical steps by which the mobilized infantile narcissistic demands gradually become tamed and neutralized will be demonstrated. But first we will examine the general significance of the mirror transference in the context of therapy. The rational aims of therapy could not by themselves persuade the vulnerable ego of the narcissistically fixated analysand to forego denial and acting out and to face and examine the needs and claims of the archaic grandiose self.

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In order to actuate and maintain in motion the painful process that leads to the confrontation of the grandiose fantasies with a realistic conception of the self and to the realization that life offers only limited possibilities for the gratification of the narcissistic-exhibitionistic wishes, a mirror transference must be established. If it does not develop, the patient's grandiosity remains concentrated upon the grandiose self, the ego's defensive position remains rigid, and ego expansion cannot take place. The mirror transference rests on the therapeutic reactivation of the grandiose self. T h a t the analyst can be enlisted in the support of this structure is an expression of the fact that the formation of a cohesive grandiose self was indeed achieved during childhood; the listening, perceiving, and echoing-mirroring presence of the analyst now reinforces the psychological forces that maintain the cohesiveness of the selfimage, archaic and (by adult standards) unrealistic though it may be. Analogous to the therapeutically invaluable, controlled, temporary swings toward the disintegration of the idealizing parent imago when the idealizing transference is disturbed, we may encounter, as a consequence of a disturbance of the mirror transference, the temporary fragmentation of the narcissistically cathected, cohesive (body-mind) self and a temporary concentration of the narcissistic cathexes on isolated body parts, isolated mental functions, and isolated actions, which are then experienced as dangerously disconnected from a crumbling self. As is the case in the idealizing transference, these temporary disturbances of the transference equilibrium occupy, in the analysis of narcissistic personalities, a central position of strategic importance which corresponds to the place of the structural conflict in the ordinary transference neuroses, and their analysis tends to elicit the deepest insights and leads to the most solid accretions of psychic structure. The following constitutes an especially instructive illustra-

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tion of such a temporary regressive fragmentation of the therapeutically activated grandiose self. Mr. E. was a graduate student who sought relief from painful narcissistic tension states by a number of perverse means in which the inconstancy of his objects and sexual goals were indicative of the fact that he could trust no source of satisfaction. This brief report concerns a weekend during an early phase of the long analysis when the patient was already beginning to realize that separations from the analyst upset his psychic equilibrium, but when he did not yet understand the specific nature of the support provided by the analysis. During earlier weekend separations, a vaguely perceived inner threat had driven him to dangerous voyeuristic activities in public toilets during which he achieved a feeling of merger with the m a n at whom he gazed. This time, however, he was able, through an act of artistic sublimation, not only to spare himself the aforementioned cruder means of protection against the threatened dissolution of the self, but also to explain the nature of the reassurance he was receiving from the analyst. During this weekend the patient painted a picture of the analyst. T h e key to the understanding of this artistic production lay in the fact that in it the analyst had neither eyes nor nose —the place of these sensory organs was taken by the analysand. O n the basis of this evidence and of additional corroborative material, the conclusion could be reached that a decisive support to the maintenance of the patient's narcissistically cathected self-image was supplied by the analyst's perception of him. T h e patient felt whole when he thought that he was acceptingly looked at by an object that substituted for an insufficiently developed endopsychic function: the analyst provided a replacement for the lacking narcissistic cathexis of the self. 3

3

This analysis was carried out by a senior student at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis under regular supervision by the author.

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Some General Therapeutic Considerations Concerning the Mirror Transference T h e analysand's demands for attention, admiration, and for a variety of other forms of mirroring and echoing responses to the mobilized grandiose self, which fill the mirror transference in the narrow sense of this term, do not usually constitute great cognitive problems for the analyst, although he may have to mobilize much subtle understanding to keep pace with the patient's defensive denials of his demands or with the retreat from them when the immediate empathic response to them is not forthcoming. Here, it is of decisive importance that the analyst comprehend and acknowledge the phase-appropriateness of the demands of the grandiose self and that he grasp the fact that for a long time it is a mistake to emphasize to the patient that his demands are unrealistic. If the analyst demonstrates to the patient that the narcissistic needs are appropriate within the context of the total early phase that is being revived in the transference and that they have to be expressed, then the patient will gradually reveal the urges and fantasies of the grandiose self, and the slow process is thus initiated that leads to the integration of the grandiose self into a realistic structure of the ego and to an adaptively useful transformation of its energies. The empathic comprehension of the reactivation of the earlier developmental stages (the alter-ego or twinship transference—the merger with the analyst through the extension of the grandiose self) is not easily achieved. It is, for example, usually difficult for the analyst to hold fast to the realization that the meagerness of object-related imagery with regard to current and past figures as well as with regard to the analyst himself is the appropriate manifestation of an archaic narcissistic relationship. A frequent misunderstanding of the mirror transference in general and of the therapeutic activation of the most archaic stages of the grandiose self in particular thus

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consists in its being mistaken for the outgrowth of a widespread resistance against the establishment of an objectinstinctual transference. And many analyses of narcissistic personality disorders are either short-circuited at this point (leading to a brief analysis of subsidiary sectors of the personality in which ordinary transferences do occur while the principal disturbance, which is narcissistic, remains untouched) or are forced into a mistaken and unprofitable direction against the analysand's diffuse, nonspecific, and chronic ego resistances. If, however, the establishment of a mirror transference is not prevented, the gradual mobilization of the repressed grandiose self will take place and a number of specific pathognomonic, and therapeutically valuable resistances will be set in motion. T h e principal end of the working-through processes in the idealizing transference is the internalization of the idealized object, which leads to the strengthening of the matrix of the ego and to the strengthening of the patient's ideals; the principal end of the working-through processes in the mirror transference is the transformation of the grandiose self, which results in a firming of the ego's potential for action (through the increasing realism of the patient's ambitions and in increasingly realistic self-esteem. An important question posed by the analysis of narcissistic personalities, especially in the area of the grandiose self, concerns the degree of therapeutic activity that needs to be employed by the analyst. In applying Aichhorn's technique with juvenile delinquents (1936), for example, the analyst offers himself actively to the patient as a replica of his grandiose self, in a relationship resembling the twinship (or alterego) variant of a mirror transference (see also A. Freud's illuminating summary [1951]). A delinquent's capacity to attach himself to the analyst in admiration indicates that an idealized parent imago and the deep wish to form an idealizing transference are (preconsciously) present, but, in con-

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sequence of early disappointments, they are denied and hidden. It was Aichhorn's special understanding for the delinquent that led him to offer himself as a mirror image of the delinquent's grandiose self. He was thus able to initiate a veiled mobilization of idealizing cathexes toward an idealized object without disturbing the necessary protection of the defensively created grandiose self and its activities. Once a bond is established, a gradual shift from the omnipotence of the grandiose self to the more deeply longed-for omnipotence of an idealized object (and the requisite therapeutic dependence on it) can be achieved. In the analytic treatment of the ordinary cases of narcissistic personality disturbance, the active encouragement of idealization is not desirable. It leads to the establishment of a tenacious transference bondage, bringing about the formation of a cover of massive identification and hampering the gradual alteration of the existing narcissistic structures. But a spontaneously occurring therapeutic mobilization of the idealized parent imago or of the grandiose self is indeed to be welcomed and must not be interfered with. There are two antithetical pitfalls concerning the form of interpretations that focus on the narcissistic transferences: the analyst's readiness to moralize about the patient's narcissism and his tendency to theorize instead of interpreting the genetics and dynamics of the patient's narcissism with reference to his concrete experiences. T h e triad of value judgments, moralizing, and therapeutic activism in which the analyst steps beyond the basic analytic attitude to become the patient's leader and teacher is most likely to occur when the psychopathology under scrutiny is not understood metapsychologically. Under these circumstances the analyst can hardly be blamed when he tends to abandon the ineffective analytic armamentarium and instead offers himself to the patient as an object to identify with in order to achieve therapeutic changes. If the analyst can

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tolerate lack of success in areas he does not yet understand metapsychologically without abandoning analytic means, then the occurrence of new analytic insights is not prevented and scientific progress can be made. Where metapsychological understanding is not entirely lacking but is incomplete, analysts tend to supplement their interpretations with suggestive pressure, and the weight of the therapist's personality becomes of greater importance. There are certain analysts who are said to be exceptionally gifted in the analysis of "borderline" cases, and anecdotes about their therapeutic activities become widely known in analytic circles. But just as the surgeon, in the heroic era of surgery, was a charismatically gifted individual who performed great feats of courage and skill, while the modern surgeon tends to be a calm, well-trained craftsman, so also with the analyst. As our knowledge about the narcissistic disorders increases, their treatment becomes the work of analysts who do not employ any special charisma, but restrict themselves to the use of the tools that provide rational success: interpretations and reconstructions. There are, of course, moments when a forceful statement is indicated as a final move in persuading the patient that the gratifications obtained from the unmodified narcissistic fantasies are spurious. A skillful analyst of an older generation, for example, it is asserted by local psychoanalytic lore, would make his point at a strategic juncture by silently handing over a crown and scepter to his unsuspecting analysand instead of confronting him with yet another verbal interpretation. In general, however, the psychoanalytic process is most enhanced if we trust the spontaneous synthetic functions of the patient's ego to integrate the narcissistic configurations gradually, in an atmosphere of analytic-empathic acceptance, instead of driving the analysand toward an imitation of the analyst's scornful rejection of the analysand's lack of realism. T h e second danger —that interpretations regarding the

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narcissistic transference might become too abstract —can be much diminished if we avoid falling victim to the widespread confusion between object relations and object love. We must bear in mind that our interpretations about the idealizing transference and the mirror transference are statements about an intense object relation, despite the fact that the object is invested with narcissistic cathexes, and that we are explaining to the analysand how his very narcissism leads him to a heightened sensitivity about certain aspects and actions of the object, the analyst, whom he experiences in a narcissistic mode. If the analyst's interpretations are noncondemnatory; if he can clarify to the patient in concrete terms the significance and the meaning of his (often acted-out) messages, of his seemingly irrational hypersensitivity, and of the back-andforth flow of the cathexis of the narcissistic positions; and especially if he can demonstrate to the patient that these archaic attitudes are comprehensible, adaptive, and valuable within the context of the total state of personality development of which they form a part — then the mature segment of the ego will not turn away from the grandiosity of the archaic self or from the awesome features of the overestimated, narcissistically experienced object. Over and over again, in small, psychologically manageable portions, the ego will deal with the disappointment at having to recognize that the claims of the grandiose self are unrealistic. And, in response to this experience, it will either mournfully withdraw a part of the narcissistic investment from the archaic image of the self, or it will, with the aid of newly acquired structure, neutralize the associated narcissistic energies or channel them into aim-inhibited pursuits. And over and over again, in small, psychologically manageable portions, the ego will deal with the disappointment at having to recognize that the idealized object is unavailable or imperfect. And, in response to this experience, it will withdraw a part of the idealizing

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investment from the object and strengthen the corresponding internal structures. In short, if the ego learns first to accept the presence of the mobilized narcissistic structures, it will gradually integrate them into its own realm, and the analyst will witness the establishment of ego dominance and ego autonomy in the narcissistic sector of the personality. Reactions of the Analyst Reactions of the Analyst during the Mobilization Patient's Idealized Parent Imago in the Idealizing Transference

of the

Some time ago I was consulted by a colleague concerning a stalemate that seemed to have been present from the beginning of the analysis and to have persisted through two years of work. Since the patient, a shallow, promiscuous woman, showed a serious disturbance of her ability to establish meaningful object relations and presented a history of severe childhood traumata, I tended initially to agree with the analyst that the extent of the narcissistic fixations prevented establishing that minimum of transference without which analysis cannot proceed. Still, I asked the analyst for an account of the early sessions, with particular attention to the activities on his part that the patient might have experienced as a rebuff. Among the earliest transference manifestations, several dreams of this Catholic patient h a d contained the figure of an inspired, idealistic priest. While these early dreams had remained uninterpreted, the analyst remembered—clearly against resistance — that he had subsequently remarked that he was not a Catholic. He had justified this move by her supposed need to be acquainted with a minimum of the actual situation, since, in his view, the patient's hold on reality was tenuous. This event must have been very significant for the patient. We later understood

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that, as an initial, tentative transference step, she had revived a specific attitude that had been present in early adolescence, namely an attitude of idealizing religious devotion. Her adolescent religiosity, it may be added, had been in turn the revival of certain states of awe and admiration that had occurred in her childhood. These earliest idealizations, as we could conclude later, had been a refuge from bizarre tensions and fantasies caused by traumatic stimulations and frustrations from the side of her pathological parents. T h e analyst's misguided remark that he was not a Catholic —i.e., not an idealized good and healthy version of the patient —constituted a rebuff for her and led to the stalemate, which the analyst, with the aid of a number of consultations concerning this patient and his response to her, was later largely able to break. I am focusing neither on the transference nor on the effect of the analyst's mistake on the analysis, but on the elucidation of a countertransference symptom. A combination of circumstances, among them the fact that I have observed other similar incidents, allows me to offer the following explanation with a high degree of conviction. An analytically unwarranted rejection of a patient's idealizing attitudes is usually motivated by a defensive fending off of narcissistic tensions, experienced as embarrassment and even leading to hypochondriacal preoccupations, which are generated in the analyst when repressed fantasies of his grandiose self become stimulated by the patient's idealization. Are these reactions of the analyst in the main motivated by current stress, or are they related to the dangerous mobilization of specific repressed unconscious constellations? In a letter to Binswanger (1957), Freud expressed himself as follows about the problem of countertransference: "What is given to the patient," Freud said, must be "consciously allotted, and then more or less of it as the need may arise. Occasionally a great deal. . . ." And then Freud set down the

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crucial maxim: "To give someone too little because one loves him too much is being unjust to the patient and a technical error" (p. 50). If a patient's incestuous object-libidinal demands elicit an intense unconscious response in the analyst, he may become overly technical vis a v i s the patient's wishes or will not even recognize them; at any rate, his ego will not have the freedom to choose the response required by the analysis. A parallel situation may arise in the analysis of a narcissistic personality disturbance when the remobilization of the idealized parent imago prompts the analysand to see the analyst as the embodiment of idealized perfection. If the analyst has not come to terms with his own grandiose self, he may respond to the idealization with an intense stimulation of his unconscious grandiose fantasies and an intensification of defenses, which bring about his rejection of the patient's idealizing transference. If the analyst's defensive attitude becomes chronic, establishment of a workable idealizing transference is interfered with and the analytic process is blocked. It makes little difference whether the rejection of the patient's idealization is blunt, which is rare, or subtle (as in the instance reported), which is common, or, which is most frequent, almost concealed by correct but prematurely given genetic or dynamic interpretations (such as the analyst's quickly calling the patient's attention to idealized figures in his past or pointing out hostile impulses that supposedly underlie the idealizing ones). T h e rejection may express itself through no more than a slight overobjectivity of the analyst's attitude, or it may reveal itself in the tendency to disparage the narcissistic idealization in a humorous and kindly way. And finally, it is even deleterious to emphasize the patient's assets at a time when he attempts the idealizing expansion of the ingrained narcissistic positions and feels insignificant by comparison with the therapist — appealing though it might seem when the analyst expresses respect for his patient. In

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short, during those phases of the analysis of narcissistic personalities when an idealizing transference begins to germinate, there is only one correct analytic attitude: to accept the admiration. Reactions of the Analyst during the Therapeutic Mobilization of the Patient's Grandiose Self in the Mirror Transference T h e mirror transference occurs in different forms which expose the analyst to different emotional tasks. In the mirror transference in the narrower sense, the patient reacts to the ebb and flow of the analyst's empathy with and response to his narcissistic needs, and the presence of the analyst is thus acknowledged. Even these circumstances may elicit reactions in the analyst that interfere with the therapeutic reactivation of the grandiose self, since the analyst's own narcissistic needs may make him intolerant of a situation in which he is reduced to the role of mirror for the patient's infantile narcissism. In the twinship (alter-ego) and merger varieties of the remobilization of the grandiose self, however, the analyst is deprived of even the minimum of narcissistic gratification: the patient's acknowledgment of his separate existence. Whereas in the mirror transference the analyst may become incapable of comprehending the patient's narcissistic needs and of responding to them, the most common dangers in the twinship or merger are his boredom, his lack of emotional involvement with the patient, and his precarious maintenance of attention. A theoretical discussion of these failures must be omitted here. It would require, on the one hand, an examination of the psychology of attention in the absence of stimulation by object cathexes, and, on the other hand, the study of certain aspects of the vulnerability of empathy in analysts that are genetically related to the fact that a specific empathic sensitivity, acquired in an early narcissistic relation-

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ship, often contributes decisively to the motivation for becoming an analyst. Instead of a theoretical discussion, the attempt will be made to illuminate the subject matter with the aid of a clinical example. Miss F., age twenty-five, had sought analysis because of diffuse dissatisfactions. Although she was active in her profession and h a d numerous social contacts, she was not intimate with anyone and felt different from other people and isolated. She had a series of love relationships, but had rejected marriage because she knew that such a step would be a sham. She was subject to sudden changes in her mood with an associated uncertainty about the reality of her feelings and thoughts. In metapsychological terms, the disturbance was due to a faulty integration of the grandiose self, which led to swings between states of anxious excitement and elation over a secret "preciousness" that made her vastly better than anyone else (during times when the ego came close to giving way to the hypercathected grandiose self) and states of emotional depletion (when the ego used all its strength to wall itself off from the unrealistic grandiose substructure). Genetically, the fact that the mother had been depressed during several periods early in the child's life had prevented the gradual integration of the narcissistic-exhibitionistic cathexes of the grandiose self. During decisive periods of her childhood, the girl's presence and activities had not called forth maternal pleasure and approval. On the contrary, whenever she tried to speak about herself, the mother deflected, imperceptibly, the focus of attention to her own depressive selfpreoccupations, and thus the child was deprived of the optimal maternal acceptance that transforms crude exhibitionism and grandiosity into adaptably useful self-esteem and self-enjoyment. During extended phases of the analysis, beginning at a time when I did not yet understand Miss F.'s psychopathology, the following progression of events frequently occurred

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during analytic sessions. The patient arrived in a friendly mood, settled down quietly, and began to communicate her thoughts and feelings: about current topics, the transference, and insights concerning the connection between present and past and between transferences upon the analyst and analogous strivings toward others. In brief, the first part of the sessions had the appearance of a well-moving self-analysis when the analyst is indeed little else than an interested observer who holds himself in readiness for the next wave of resistances. T h e stage in question lasted much longer, however, than the periods of self-analysis encountered in other analyses. I noted, furthermore, that I was not able to maintain the attitude of interested attention that normally establishes itself effortlessly and spontaneously when one listens to an analysand's work of free associations during periods of relatively unimpeded self-analysis. And, finally, after a prolonged period of ignorance and misunderstanding during which I was inclined to argue with the patient about the correctness of my interpretations and to suspect the presence of stubborn hidden resistances, I came to the crucial recognition that the patient demanded a specific response to her communications and that she completely rejected any other. Unlike the analysand during periods of genuine self-analysis, Miss F. could not tolerate the analyst's silence; at approximately the midpoint of the sessions, she suddenly became violently angry at me for being silent. (The archaic nature of her need, it may be added, was betrayed by the suddenness with which it appeared —like the sudden transition from satiation to hunger or from hunger to satiation in very young children.) I gradually learned that she immediately became calm and content when, at these moments, I simply summarized or repeated what she had in essence already said (such as, "You are again struggling to free yourself from becoming embroiled in your mother's suspiciousness against men." Or, "You have worked your way through to the under-

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standing that the fantasies about the visiting Englishman are reflections of fantasies about me"). But if I went beyond what Miss F. herself had already said or discovered, even by a single step only (such as: "The fantasies about the visiting foreigner are reflections of fantasies about me and, in addition, I think that they are a revival of the dangerous stimulation to which you felt exposed by your father's fantasy-stories about you"), she again became violently angry (regardless of the fact that what I had added might be known to her, too), and furiously accused me, in a tense, high-pitched voice, of undermining her, that with my remark I had destroyed everything she had built up, and that I was wrecking the analysis. Certain convictions can only be acquired first hand, and I am thus not able to demonstrate in detail the correctness of the following conclusions. During this phase of the analysis the patient had begun to remobilize an archaic, intensely cathected image of the self that h a d heretofore been kept in repression. Concomitant with the remobilization of the grandiose self, on which she had remained fixated, there also arose the renewed need for an archaic object that would be nothing more than the embodiment of a psychological function that the patient's psyche could not yet perform for itself: to respond empathically to her narcissistic display and to provide her with narcissistic sustenance through approval, mirroring, and echoing. T h e patient thus attempted, with the aid of my confirming, mirroring presence, to integrate a hypercathected archaic self with the rest of her personality. This process began with a cautious reinstatement of a sense of the reality of her thoughts and feelings; it later moved gradually toward the transformation of her intense exhibitionistic needs into an ego-syntonic sense of her own value and an enjoyment of her activities. Due to the fact that I was at that time not sufficiently alert to the pitfalls of such transference demands, many of my

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interventions interfered with the work of structure formation. But I know that the obstacles that opposed my understanding lay not only in the cognitive area; and I can affirm, without transgressing the rules of decorum and without indulging in the kind of immodest self-revelation that ultimately hides more than it admits, that there were specific hindrances in my own personality standing in my way. There was a residual insistence, related to deep and old fixation points, on seeing myself in the narcissistic center of the stage; and, although I had of course for a long time struggled with the relevant childhood delusions and thought that I had, on the whole, achieved dominance over them, I was not up to the extreme demands posed by the conceptually unaided confrontation with the reactivated grandiose self of my patient. Hence, I refused to entertain the possibility that I was not an object for the patient, not an amalgam with the patient's childhood loves and hatreds, but only, as I reluctantly came to see, an impersonal function, without significance except insofar as it related to the kingdom of her own remobilized narcissistic grandeur and exhibitionism. For a long time I insisted, therefore, that the patient's reproaches related to specific transference fantasies and wishes on the oedipal level — but I could make no headway in this direction. It was ultimately, I believe, the high-pitched tone of her voice, which expressed such utter conviction of being right — the conviction of a very young child, a pent-up, heretofore unexpressed conviction — that led me to the right track. I recognized that whenever I did more (or less) than provide simple approval or confirmation in response to Miss F.'s reports of her own discoveries I became for her the depressive mother who deflected the narcissistic cathexes from the child upon herself, or who did not provide the needed narcissistic echo. T h e clinical situation described in the foregoing pages, especially the analyst's therapeutic responses to it require further elucidation. T h e first impression might be that I am

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advocating the analyst's indulgence of the analysand's transference wish; specifically, that the patient had not received the necessary emotional echo or approval from the depressive mother, and that the analyst must now give it to her in order to provide a "corrective emotional experience" (Alexander, French, et al., 1946). There are indeed patients for whom this type of indulgence is not only a temporary tactical requirement during certain stressful phases of analysis, but who cannot ever undertake the steps leading to the increased ego dominance over the childhood wish that is the specific aim of psychoanalytic work. And there is furthermore no doubt that, occasionally, the indulgence of an important childhood wish — especially if it is provided with an air of conviction and in a therapeutic atmosphere that carries a quasi-religious, magical connotation of the efficacy of love—can have lasting beneficial effects with regard to the relief of symptoms and behavioral change in the patient. T h e analytic process in analyzable cases, however, as in the one described in the present clinical vignette, develops in a different way. Although, for tactical reasons, the analyst might in such instances transitorily have to provide what one might call a reluctant compliance with the childhood wish, the true analytic aim is not indulgence but mastery based on insight, achieved in a setting of (tolerable) analytic abstinence. T h e recognition of Miss F.'s specific childhood dem a n d was only the beginning of the working-through process concerning the grandiose self. It was followed by the recall of clusters of analogous memories concerning her mother's entering a phase of depressive self-preoccupation during later periods of the patient's life. Finally, a central set of poignant memories, upon which a series of earlier and later ones seemed to be telescoped, referred specifically to episodes when she came home from kindergarten and early elementary school. At such times she would rush home as fast as she

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could, joyfully anticipating telling her mother about her success in school. She recalled how her mother opened the door, but, instead of the mother's face lighting up, her expression remained blank; and how, when the patient began talking about school and play and about her achievements and successes of the preceding hours, the mother appeared to listen and participate, but imperceptibly the topic of the conversation shifted and the mother began to talk about herself, her headache and her tiredness and her other physical self-preoccupations. All the patient could directly recall about her own reactions was that she felt suddenly drained of energy and empty; she was for a long time unable to remember feeling any rage at her mother on such occasions. It was only after a prolonged period of working through that she could gradually establish connections between the rage she experienced against me when I did not understand her demands, and feelings she h a d experienced as a child. This phase was followed by her disclosing, bit by bit, her persistent infantile grandiosity and exhibitionism, revelations that were accompanied by shame and anxiety. T h e working through accomplished during this period led ultimately to increased ego dominance over the old grandiosity and exhibitionism, and thus to greater self-confidence and to other favorable transformations of her narcissism in this segment of her personality.

Concluding

Remarks

The foregoing examination must, in its entirety, be considered a summarizing preview of a broader study; therefore, no retrospective survey of the findings and opinions presented will be given. It must be stressed that some important aspects of the subject matter either could only be mentioned briefly or had to be disregarded altogether. Thus, as mentioned initially, it was necessary to omit

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almost all references to the work of others, such as the significant contributions by H a r t m a n n (1953), Eissler (1953), Jacobson (1964), and Reich (1960); furthermore, it was not possible to compare the approach toward our subject matter taken in the present study with that chosen by such important authors as Federn (1936), on the one hand, and Mahler (1952), on the other; and, finally, still within the same context, it was not possible to discuss the work of Melanie Klein and her school, which often appears to be concerned with disorders that are related to those scrutinized in this essay. No attempt was made to define and delimit the area of psychopathology with which this study is dealing; the question of the appropriateness of the use of the term transference in the present context could not be taken up; the discussion of the role of aggression had to be by-passed; the recurrent traumatic states in which the focus of the analysis shifts temporarily to the almost exclusive consideration of the overburdenedness of the psyche could not be illuminated; many other difficulties, therapeutic limitations and failures were not considered; and, most regrettably, it was not possible to demonstrate the specific wholesome changes that occur as the result of the transformation of the narcissistic structures and of their energies. In all, it was the aim of this contribution to give the outline of a systematic approach to the psychoanalytic treatment of narcissistic personalities; a thorough scrutiny of the subject could not be undertaken.