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Title: Psychology of the Unconscious

Author: C. G. Jung

Translator: Beatrice M. Hinkle

Release date: July 23, 2021 [eBook #65903]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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Transcriber’s Note:

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placed in the public domain.

PSYCHOLOGY OF THE
UNCONSCIOUS

DR. C. G. JUNG
“PSYCHOLOGY OF THE
UNCONSCIOUS”

PSYCHOLOGY OF THE
UNCONSCIOUS

A Study of the Transformations and Symbolisms of the Libido
A Contribution to the History of the Evolution of Thought

BY

Dr. C. G. JUNG
Of the University of Zurich

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION, WITH INTRODUCTION, BY
BEATRICE M. HINKLE, M.D.
Of the Neurological Department of Cornell University Medical School and of the New York Post
Graduate Medical School

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1916

Copyright, 1916, by
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
New York

All rights reserved

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

That humanity is seeking a new message, a new light upon the meaning
of life, and something tangible, as it were, with which it can work towards a
larger understanding of itself and its relation to the universe, is a fact I think
none will gainsay. Therefore, it has seemed to me particularly timely to
introduce to the English-speaking world Dr. Jung’s remarkable book,
“Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido.” In this work he has plunged boldly
into the treacherous sea of mythology and folklore, the productions of the
ancient mind and that of the common people, and turned upon this vast
material the same scientific and painstaking method of psychologic analysis
that is applied to the modern mind, in order to reveal the common bond of
desire and longing which unites all humanity, and thus bridge the gaps
presumed to exist between ancient and widely separated peoples and those
of our modern time. The discovery of this undercurrent affecting and
influencing ancient peoples as well as modern serves as a foundation or
platform from which he proceeds to hold aloft a new ideal, a new goal of
attainment possible of achievement and which can be intellectually
satisfying, as well as emotionally appealing: the goal of moral autonomy.
This book, remarkable for its erudition and the tremendous labor
expended upon it, as well as for the new light which it sheds upon human
life, its motives, its needs and its possibilities, is not one for desultory
reading or superficial examination. Such an approach will prevent the
reader from gaining anything of its real value; but for those who can bring a
serious interest and willingness to give a careful study to it the work will
prove to be a veritable mine capable of yielding the greatest riches.
The difficulties in translating a book such as this are almost insuperable,
but I have tried faithfully to express Dr. Jung’s thought, keeping as close to
the original text as possible and, at the same time, rendering the difficult

material and complicated German phrasing as simply and clearly as the
subject-matter would allow. In all this work I owe much to Miss Helen I.
Brayton, without whose faithful assistance the work would never have been
completed. I wish to acknowledge my gratitude to Mr. Louis Untermeyer,
whose help in rendering the poetic quotations into English verse has been
invaluable, and to express as well my gratitude to other friends who have
assisted me in various ways from time to time.
B. M. H.

New York, 1915.

AN INTRODUCTION TO PSYCHOANALYSIS
AND ANALYTIC PSYCHOLOGY

When Professor Freud of Vienna made his early discoveries in the realm
of the neuroses, and announced that the basis and origin of the various
symptoms grouped under the terms hysteria and neuroses lay in unfulfilled
desires and wishes, unexpressed and unknown to the patient for the most
part, and concerned chiefly with the sexual instinct, it was not realized what
far-reaching influence this unpopular and bitterly attacked theory would
exert on the understanding of human life in general.
For this theory has so widened in its scope that its application has now
extended beyond a particular group of pathologic states. It has in fact led to
a new evaluation of the whole conduct of human life; a new comprehension
has developed which explains those things which formerly were
unexplained, and there is offered an understanding not only of the
symptoms of a neurosis and the phenomena of conduct but the product of
the mind as expressed in myths and religions.
This amazing growth has proceeded steadily in an ever-widening fashion
despite opposition as violent as any of which we have knowledge in the
past. The criticism originally directed towards the little understood and
much disliked sexual conception now includes the further teachings of a
psychology which by the application to it of such damning phrases as
mystical, metaphysical and sacrilegious, is condemned as unscientific.
To add to the general confusion and misunderstanding surrounding this
new school of thought there has arisen a division amongst the leaders
themselves, so that there now exist two schools led respectively by
Professor Sigmund Freud of Vienna and Dr. Carl Jung of Zurich, referred to
in the literature as the Vienna School and the Zurich School.

It is very easy to understand that criticism and opposition should develop
against a psychology so difficult of comprehension, and so disturbing to the
ideas which have been held by humanity for ages; a psychology which
furthermore requires a special technique as well as an observer trained to
recognize and appreciate in psychologic phenomena a verification of the
statement that there is no such thing as chance, and that every act and every
expression has its own meaning, determined by the inner feelings and
wishes of the individual.
It is not a simple matter to come out boldly and state that every
individual is to a large extent the determiner of his own destiny, for only by
poets and philosophers has this idea been put forth—not by science; and it
is a brave act to make this statement with full consciousness of all its
meaning, and to stand ready to prove it by scientific reasoning and
procedure.
Developed entirely through empirical investigation and through an
analysis of individual cases, Freudian psychology seems particularly to
belong to that conception of Max Müller’s that “An empirical acquaintance
with facts rises to a scientific knowledge of facts as soon as the mind
discovers beneath the multiplicity of single productions the unity of an
organic system.”[1]
Psychoanalysis is the name given to the method developed for reaching
down into the hidden depths of the individual to bring to light the
underlying motives and determinants of his symptoms and attitudes, and to
reveal the unconscious tendencies which lie behind actions and reactions
and which influence development and determine the relations of life itself.
The result of digging down into the hidden psyche has been to produce a
mass of material from below the threshold of consciousness, so astonishing
and disturbing and out of relation with the previously held values, as to
arouse in any one unfamiliar with the process the strongest antagonism and
criticism.
Although originally studied only as a therapeutic method for the sick it
was soon realized through an analysis of normal people how slight were the
differences in the content of the unconscious of the sick and of the normal.
The differences observed were seen to be rather in the reactions to life and
to the conflicts produced by contending forces in the individual.

These conflicts, usually not fully perceived by the individual, and having
to do with objectionable desires and wishes that are not in keeping with the
conscious idea of self, produce marked effects which are expressed either in
certain opinions, prejudices, attitudes of conduct, faulty actions, or in some
definite pathologic symptom. As Dr. Jung says, he who remains healthy has
to struggle with the same complexes that cause the neurotic to fall ill.
In a valuable book called “The Neighbor,” written by the late Professor
N. Shaler of Harvard University, there occurs this very far-reaching
statement: “It is hardly too much to say that all the important errors of
conduct, all the burdens of men or of societies are caused by the
inadequacies in the association of the primal animal emotions with those
mental powers which have been so rapidly developed in mankind.”
This statement, reached by a process of reasoning and a method of
thought and study entirely different from psychoanalysis, nevertheless so
completely expresses in brief form the very basis of the postulates
developed through psychoanalysis that I quote it here. Such a statement
made in the course of a general examination of human relations does not
arouse opposition nor seem to be so difficult of acceptance. It appears to be
the individual application of these conceptions that has roused such bitter
antagonism and violent denunciations.
Rightly understood and used, psychoanalysis may be compared to
surgery, for psychoanalysis stands in the same relation to the personality as
surgery does to the body, and they aim at parallel results.
It is well recognized that in the last analysis nature is the real physician,
the healer of wounds; but prior to the development of our modern asepsis
and surgical technique the healing produced by nature was most often of a
very faulty and imperfect type—hideous scars, distorted and crippled limbs,
with functions impaired or incapacitated, resulted from the wounds, or else
nature was unable to cope with the hurt and the injured one succumbed.
Science has been steadily working for centuries with the aim of
understanding nature and finding means to aid and co-operate with her so
that healing could take place with the least possible loss of function or
permanent injury to the individual. Marvelous results have rewarded these
persistent efforts, as the brilliant achievements of surgery plainly indicate.
Meantime, however, little thought was given to the possibility of any
scientific method being available to help man overcome the wounds and

conflicts taking place in his soul, hurts which retarded his development and
progress as a personality, and which frequently in the struggle resulted in
physical pains and symptoms of the most varied character. That was left
solely to religion and metaphysics. Now, however, this same assistance that
surgery has given to the physical body, psychoanalysis attempts to give to
the personality. That it cannot always succeed is as much to be expected,
and more, than that surgery does not always succeed, for the analytic work
requires much of the individual. No real result can be attained if he has not
already developed a certain quality of character and intelligence which
makes it possible for him to submit himself to a facing of his naked soul,
and to the pain and suffering which this often entails. Here, as in no other
relation in life, an absolute truth and an absolute honesty are the only basis
of action, since deception of any kind deceives no one but the individual
himself and acts as a boomerang, defeating his own aims.
Such deep searching and penetrating into the soul is not something to be
undertaken lightly nor to be considered a trivial or simple matter, and the
fact is that where a strong compulsion is lacking, such as sickness or a
situation too difficult to meet, much courage is required to undertake it.
In order to understand this psychology which is pervading all realms of
thought and seems destined to be a new psychological-philosophical system
for the understanding and practical advancement of human life, it will be
necessary to go somewhat into detail regarding its development and present
status. For in this new direction lies its greatest value and its greatest
danger.
The beginnings of this work were first published in 1895 in a book
entitled “Studien über Hysterie,” and contained the joint investigations into
hysteria of Dr. Breuer of Vienna and his pupil Dr. Sigmund Freud. The
results of their investigations seemed to show that the various symptoms
grouped under the title of hysteria were the result of emotionally colored
reminiscences which, all unknown to the conscious waking self, were really
actively expressing themselves through the surrogate form of symptoms and
that these experiences, although forgotten by the patient, could be
reproduced and the emotional content discharged.
Hypnosis was the means used to enable the physician to penetrate deeply
into the forgotten memories, for it was found through hypnosis that these
lost incidents and circumstances were not really lost at all but only dropped

from consciousness, and were capable of being revived when given the
proper stimuli. The astonishing part about it was that with the revival of
these memories and their accompanying painful and disturbing emotions,
the symptoms disappeared. This led naturally to the conclusion that these
symptoms were dependent upon some emotional disturbance or psychic
trauma which had been inadequately expressed, and that in order to cure the
patient one merely had to establish the connection between the memory and
the emotions which properly belonged to it, letting the emotion work itself
out through a reproduction of the forgotten scene.
With further investigation Freud found that hypnosis was unnecessary for
the revival of the forgotten experiences, and that it was possible to obtain
the lost emotional material in the conscious and normal state. For this
purpose the patient was encouraged to assume a passive, non-critical
attitude and simply let his thoughts flow, speaking of whatever came into
his mind, holding nothing back. During this free and easy discussion of his
life and conditions, directed by the law of association of ideas, reference
was invariably made to the experiences or thoughts which were the most
affective and disturbing elements. It was seen to be quite impossible to
avoid this indirect revelation because of the strength of the emotions
surrounding these ideas and the effect of the conscious wish to repress
unpleasant feelings. This important group of ideas or impressions, with the
feelings and emotions clustered around them which are betrayed through
this process, was called by Jung a complex.
However, with the touching of the complex which always contains
feelings and emotions so painful or unpleasant as to be unacceptable to
consciousness, and which are therefore repressed and hidden, great
difficulties appeared, for very often the patient came to a sudden stop and
could apparently recall nothing more. Memory gaps were frequent, relations
twisted, etc. Evidently some force banished these memories so that the
person was quite honest in saying that he could remember nothing or that
there was nothing to tell. This kind of forgetfulness was called repression,
and is the normal mechanism by which nature protects the individual from
such painful feelings as are caused by unpleasant and unacceptable
experiences and thoughts, the recognition of his egoistic nature, and the
often quite unbearable conflict of his weaknesses with his feelings of
idealism.

At this early time great attention was given towards developing a
technique which would render more easy the reproduction of these
forgotten memories, for with the abandonment of hypnosis it was seen that
some unknown active force was at work which not only banished painful
memories and feelings, but also prevented their return; this was called
resistance. This resistance was found to be the important mechanism which
interfered with a free flow of thought and produced the greatest difficulty in
the further conduct of the analysis. It appeared under various guises and
frequently manifested itself in intellectual objections based on reasoning
ground, in criticism directed towards the analyst, or in criticism of the
method itself, and finally, often in a complete blocking of expression, so
that until the resistance was broken nothing more could be produced.
It was necessary then to find some aid by which these resistances could
be overcome and the repressed memories and feelings revived and set free.
For it was proven again and again that even though the person was not at all
aware of concealing within himself some emotionally disturbing feeling or
experience with which his symptoms were associated, yet such was the fact,
and that under proper conditions this material could be brought into
consciousness. This realm where these unknown but disturbing emotions
were hidden was called the “Unconscious”—the “Unconscious” also being
a name used arbitrarily to indicate all that material of which the person is
not aware at the given time—the not-conscious.
This term is used very loosely in Freudian psychology and is not
intended to provoke any academic discussion but to conform strictly to the
dictionary classification of a “negative concept which can neither be
described nor defined.” To say that an idea or feeling is unconscious merely
means to indicate that the individual is unaware at that time of its existence,
or that all the material of which he is unaware at a given time is
unconscious.
With the discovery of the significance in relation to hysteria of these
varied experiences and forgotten memories which always led into the erotic
realm and usually were carried far back into early childhood, the theory of
an infantile sexual trauma as a cause of this neurosis developed. Contrary to
the usual belief that children have no sexuality and that only at puberty does
it suddenly arise, it was definitely shown that there was a very marked kind

of sexuality among children of the most tender years, entirely instinctive
and capable of producing a grave effect on the entire later life.
However, further investigations carried into the lives of normal people
disclosed quite as many psychic and sexual traumas in their early childhood
as in the lives of the patients; therefore, the conception of the “infantile
sexual trauma” as the etiological factor was abandoned in favor of “the
infantilism of sexuality” itself. In other words, it was soon realized that
many of the sexual traumas which were placed in their early childhood by
these patients, did not really exist except in their own phantasies and
probably were produced as a defence against the memories of their own
childish sexual activities. These experiences led to a deep investigation into
the nature of the child’s sexuality and developed the ideas which Freud
incorporated in a work called “Three Contributions to the Sexual Theory.”
He found so many variations and manifestations of sexual activity even
among young children that he realized that this activity was the normal,
although entirely unconscious, expression of the child’s developing life, and
while not comparable to the adult sexuality, nevertheless produced a very
definite influence and effect on the child’s life.
These childish expressions of this instinct he called “polymorphous
perverse,” because in many ways they resembled the various abnormalities
called perversions when found among adults under certain conditions.
In the light of these additional investigations Freud was led to change his
formulation, for instead of the symptoms of the neurotic patient being due
to definite sexual experiences, they seemed to be determined by his
reactions towards his own sexual constitution and the kind of repression to
which these instincts were subjected.
Perhaps one of the greatest sources of misunderstanding and difficulty in
this whole subject lies in the term sexuality, for Freud’s conception of this is
entirely different from that of the popular sense. He conceives sexuality to
be practically synonymous with the word love and to include under this
term all those tender feelings and emotions which have had their origin in a
primitive erotic source, even if now their primary aim is entirely lost and
another substituted for it. It must also be borne in mind that Freud strictly
emphasizes the psychic side of sexuality and its importance, as well as the
somatic expression.

Therefore, to understand Freud’s theories, his very broad conception of
the term sexual must never be forgotten.
Through this careful investigation of the psychic life of the individual,
the tremendous influence and importance of phantasy-making for the fate
was definitely shown. It was discovered that the indulgence in day-dreams
and phantasies was practically universal not only among children but
among adults, that even whole lives were being lived out in a phantastic
world created by the dreamer, a world wherein he could fulfil all those
wishes and desires which were found to be too difficult or impossible to
satisfy in the world of reality.
Much of this phantasy thinking was seen to be scarcely conscious, but
arose from unrealized wishes, desires and strivings which could only
express themselves through veiled symbols in the form of phantastic
structures not understood, nor fully recognized. Indeed, it is perhaps one of
the most common human experiences to find “queer thoughts,” undesired
ideas and images, forcing themselves upon one’s attention to such an extent
that the will has to be employed to push them out of mind. It is not unusual
to discover long-forgotten impressions of childhood assuming a phantastic
shape in memory, and dwelt upon as though they were still of importance.
This material afforded a rich field for the searchers into the soul, for
through the operation of the law of association of ideas these phantastic
products, traced back to their origin, revealed the fact that instead of being
meaningless or foolish, they were produced by a definite process, and arose
from distinct wishes and desires which unconsciously veiled themselves in
these mysterious forms and pictures.
It is conceded that the most completely unconscious product of an
individual is his dream, and therefore Professor Freud turned his attention
from phantasies and day-dreams to the investigation of the nightly dreams
of his patients to discover whether they would throw light upon the painful
feelings and ideas repressed out of consciousness, and therefore
inaccessible to direct revelation.
This brilliant idea soon led to a rich fruiting, for it became evident that
contrary to the usual conception that the dream is a phantastic and absurd
jumble of heterogeneous fragments, having no real relation to the life of the
individual, it is full of meaning. In fact, it is usually concerned with the
problem of life most pressing at the time, which expresses itself not

directly, but in symbolic form so as to be unrecognized. In this way the
individual gains an expression and fulfilment of his unrealized wish or
desire.
This discovery of the symbolic nature of the dream and the phantasy was
brought about entirely through the associative method and developed
empirically through investigations of the dreams of many people. In this
manner it became evident that certain ideas and objects which recurred
again and again in the dreams and phantasies of different people were
definitely associated with certain unconscious or unrecognized wishes and
desires, and were repeatedly used by the mind to express these meanings
where a direct form was repressed and unallowed. Thus certain dream
expressions and figures were in a general way considered to be rather
definite symbols of these repressed ideas and feelings found in the
unconscious. Through a comparative and parallel study it soon appeared
that there was a similar mechanism at work in myths and fairy tales and that
the relationship between the dreams and phantasies of an individual and the
myths and folk tales of a people was so close that Abraham could say that
the myth is a fragment of the infantile soul life of the race and the dream is
the myth of the individual.
Thus through relating his dreams the patient himself furnished the most
important means of gaining access to the unconscious and disturbing
complexes with which his symptoms were connected.
Besides the dream analysis the patient furnished other means of
revelation of his complexes—his mannerisms and unconscious acts, his
opening remarks to his physician, his emotional reactions to certain ideas;
in short the whole behavior and verbal expressions of the individual reveal
his inner nature and problems.
Through all this work it became clear that in the emotional nature lay the
origin not only of the various nervous illnesses themselves, but also of the
isolated symptoms and individual idiosyncrasies and peculiarities which are
the part of all humanity and that the pathogenic cause of the disturbances
lies not in the ignorance of individuals, but in those inner resistances which
are the underlying basis of this ignorance.
Therefore the aim of the therapy became not merely the relief of the
ignorance but the searching out and combating of these resistances.

It becomes evident from even this brief description of the analytic
procedure that we are dealing with a very complex and delicate material,
and with a technique which needs to make definite use of all influences
available for the help of the patient. It has long been recognized that the
relation established between physician and patient has a great effect upon
the medical assistance which he is able to render—in other words, if a
confidence and personal regard developed in the patient towards the
physician, the latter’s advice was just so much more efficacious. This
personal feeling has been frankly recognized and made of distinct service in
psychoanalytic treatment under the name of transference. It is through the
aid of this definite relationship which must be established in the one being
analyzed towards the analyst that it is possible to deal with the unconscious
and organized resistances which so easily blind the individual and render
the acceptance of the new valuations very difficult to the raw and sensitive
soul.
Freud’s emphasis upon the rôle of the sexual instinct in the production of
the neurosis and also in its determining power upon the personality of the
normal individual does not imply that he does not also recognize other
determinants at the root of human conduct, as for instance, the instinct for
preservation of life and the ego principle itself. But these motives are not so
violently forbidden and repressed as the sexual impulse, and therefore,
because of that repressive force and the strength of the impulse he considers
this primary in its influence upon the human being.
The importance of this instinct upon human life is clearly revealed by the
great place given to it under the name of love in art, literature, poetry,
romance and all beauty from the beginning of recorded time. Viewed in this
light it cannot seem extraordinary that a difficulty or disturbance in this
emotional field should produce such far-reaching consequences for the
individual. The sexual impulse is often compared with that of hunger, and
this craving and need lying in all humanity is called by Freud libido.

The Oedipus Problem

With further investigations into the nature of the repressed complexes a
very astonishing situation was revealed. The parental influence on children
is something so well recognized and understood that to call attention to it
sounds much like a banality. However, here an extraordinary discovery was
made, for in tracing out the feelings and emotions of adults it became
evident that this influence was paramount not only for children but for
adults as well; that the entire direction of lives was largely determined quite
unconsciously by the parental associations, and that, although adults, the
emotional side of their nature was still infantile in type and demanded
unconsciously the infantile or childish relations.
Freud traces out the commencement of the infantile attachment for the
parents in this wise.
In the beginning the child derives its first satisfaction and pleasure from
the mother in the form of nutrition and care for its wants. In this first act of
suckling Freud sees already a kind of sexual pleasure, for he apparently
identifies the pleasure principle and the sexual instinct and considers that
the former is primarily rooted in the latter. At this early time commence
such various infantile actions unconnected with nutrition as thumbsucking,
various movements of the body as rubbing, boring, pulling and other
manifestations of a definite interest in its own body, a delight in nakedness,
the pleasure exhibited in inflicting pain on some object and its opposite, the
pleasure from receiving pain. All of these afford the child pleasure and
satisfaction, and because they seem analogous to certain perversions in
adults they are called by Freud the “polymorphous perverse sexuality” of
childhood. The character of these instinctive actions which have nothing to
do with any other person, and through which the child attains pleasure from
its own body, caused Freud to term this phase of life as autoerotic after
Havelock Ellis. However, with the growth of the child there is a parallel
development of the psychic elements of its sexual nature and now the
mother, the original object of its love, primarily determined by its
helplessness and need, acquires a new valuation. The beginnings of the
need for a love object to satisfy the craving or libido of the child are early in

evidence and, following along sex lines in general, the little son prefers the
mother and the daughter the father after the usual preference of the parents.
At this early time children feel deeply the enormous importance of their
parents and their entire world is bounded by the family circle. All the
elements of the ego which the child possesses have now become manifest;
love, jealousy, curiosity, hate, etc., and those instincts are directed in the
greatest degree towards the objects of their libido, namely the parents. With
the growing ego of the child there is a development of strong wishes and
desires demanding satisfaction which can only be gratified by the mother;
therefore there is aroused in the small son the feeling of jealousy and anger
towards the father in whom he sees a rival for the affection of the mother
and whom he would like to replace. This desire in the soul of the child
Freud calls the Oedipus complex in recognition of its analogy to the tragedy
of King Oedipus who was drawn by his fate to kill his father and win his
mother for a wife. Freud presents this as the nuclear complex of every
neurosis.
At the basis of this complex, some trace of which can be found in every
person, Freud sees a definite incest wish towards the mother which only
lacks the quality of consciousness. Because of moral reactions this wish is
quickly subjected to repression through the operation of the “incest barrier,”
a postulate he compares to the incest taboo found among inferior peoples.
At this time the child is beginning to develop its typical sexual curiosity
expressed by the question, “Where do I come from?” The interest and
investigation of the child into this problem, aided by observations and
deductions from various actions and attitudes of the parents, who have no
idea of the watchfulness of the child, lead him, because of his imperfect
knowledge and immature development, into many false theories and ideas
of birth. These infantile sexual theories are held by Freud to be
determinative in the development of the child’s character and also for the
contents of the unconscious as expressed in a future neurosis.
These various reactions of the child and his sexual curiosity are entirely
normal and unavoidable, and if his development proceeds in an orderly
fashion then, at the time of definite object choice he will pass smoothly
over from the limitations of the family attachment out into the world and
find therein his independent existence.

However, if the libido remains fixed on the first chosen object so that the
growing individual is unable to tear himself loose from these familial ties,
then the incestuous bond is deepened with the developing sexual instinct
and its accompanying need of a love object, and the entire future of the
young personality endangered. For with the development of the incestuous
bond the natural repressions deepen because the moral censor cannot allow
these disturbing relations to become clear to the individual. Therefore, the
whole matter is repressed more deeply into the unconscious, and even a
feeling of positive enmity and repulsion towards the parents is often
developed in order to conceal and over-compensate for the impossible
situation actually present.
This persistence of the attachment of the libido to the original object, and
the inability to find in this a suitable satisfaction for the adult need,
interferes with the normal development of the psycho-sexual character, and
it is due to this that the adult retains that “infantilism of sexuality” which
plays so great a rôle in determining the instability of the emotional life
which so frequently leads into the definite neuroses.

These were the conclusions reached and the ground on which Freudian
psychology rested, regarding the etiology of the neurosis, and the
tendencies underlying normal human mechanisms, when Dr. Carl Jung, the
most prominent of Freud’s disciples, and the leader of the Zurich school,
found himself no longer able to agree with Freud’s findings in certain
particulars, although the phenomena which Freud observed and the
technique of psychoanalysis developed by Freud were the material on
which Jung worked and the value of which he clearly emphasizes. The
differences which have developed lay in his understanding and
interpretation of the phenomena observed.
Beginning with the conception of libido itself as a term used to connote
sexual hunger and craving, albeit the meaning of the word sexual was
extended by Freud to embrace a much wider significance than common
usage has assigned it, Jung was unable to confine himself to this limitation.
He conceived this longing, this urge or push of life as something extending
beyond sexuality even in its wider sense. He saw in the term libido a
concept of unknown nature, comparable to Bergson’s élan vital, a
hypothetical energy of life, which occupies itself not only in sexuality but in

various physiological and psychological manifestations such as growth,
development, hunger, and all the human activities and interests. This cosmic
energy or urge manifested in the human being he calls libido and compares
it with the energy of physics. Although recognizing, in common with Freud
as well as with many others, the primal instinct of reproduction as the basis
of many functions and present-day activities of mankind no longer sexual in
character he repudiates the idea of still calling them sexual, even though
their development was a growth originally out of the sexual. Sexuality and
its various manifestations Jung sees as most important channels occupied
by libido, but not the exclusive ones through which libido flows.
This is an energic concept of life; and from this viewpoint this
hypothetical energy of life or libido is a living power used instinctively by
man in all the automatic processes of his functioning; such very processes
being but different manifestations of this energy. By virtue of its quality of
mobility and change man, through his understanding and intelligence, has
the power consciously to direct and use his libido in definite and desired
ways.
In this conception of Jung will be seen an analogy to Bergson, who
speaks of “this change, this movement and becoming, this self-creation, call
it what you will, as the very stuff and reality of our being.”[2]
In developing the energic conception of libido and separating it from
Freud’s sexual definition, Jung makes possible the explanation of interest in
general, and provides a working concept by which not only the specifically
sexual, but the general activities and reactions of man can be understood.
If a person complains of no longer having interest in his work or of
losing interest in his surroundings, then one understands that his libido is
withdrawn from this object and that in consequence the object itself seems
no longer attractive, whereas, as a matter of fact, the object itself is exactly
the same as formerly. In other words, it is the libido that we bestow upon an
object that makes it attractive and interesting.
The causes for the withdrawal of libido may be various and are usually
quite different from those that the persons offer in explanation. It is the task
of psychoanalysis to discover the real reasons, which are usually hidden and
unknown. On the other hand, when an individual exhibits an exaggerated
interest or places an over-emphasis upon an idea or situation, then we know

there is too much libido here and that we may find as a consequence a
corresponding depletion elsewhere.
This leads directly into the second point of difference between Jung’s
views and those of Freud. This is concerned with those practically universal
childish manifestations of sexuality called by Freud “polymorphous
perverse” because of their similarity to those abnormalities of sexuality
which occur in adults and are called perversions.
Jung takes exception to this viewpoint. He sees in the various
manifestations of childhood the precursors or forerunners of the later fully
developed sexuality, and instead of considering them perverse he considers
them preliminary expressions of sexual coloring. He divides human life into
three stages. The first stage up to about the third or fourth year, generally
speaking, he calls the presexual stage, for there he sees the libido or life
energy occupied chiefly in the functions of nutrition and growth, and he
draws an analogy between this period and that of the caterpillar stage of the
butterfly.
The second stage includes the years from this time until puberty, and this
he speaks of as the prepubertal stage.
The third period is that from puberty onward and can be considered the
time of maturity.
It is in the earliest stage, the period of which varies greatly in different
individuals, that are fully inaugurated those various manifestations which
have so marked a sexual coloring that there can be no question of their
relationship, although at that time sexuality in the adult meaning of the
word does not exist.
Jung explains the polymorphism of these phenomena as arising from a
gradual movement of the libido from exclusive service in the function of
nutrition into new avenues which successively open up with the
development of the child until the final inauguration of the sexual function
proper at puberty. Normally these childish bad habits are gradually
relinquished until the libido is entirely withdrawn from these immature
phases and with the ushering in of puberty for the first time “appears in the
form of an undifferentiated sexual primitive power, clearly forcing the
individual towards division, budding, etc.”
However, if in the course of its movement from the function of nutrition
to the sexual function the libido is arrested or retarded at any phase, then a

fixation may result, creating a disturbance in the harmony of the normal
development. For, although the libido is retarded and remains clinging to
some childish manifestation, time goes on and the physical growth of the
child does not stand still. Soon a great contrast is created between the
infantile manifestations of the emotional life and the needs of the more
adult individual, and the foundation is thus prepared for either the
development of a definite neurosis or else for those weaknesses of character
or symptomatic disturbances which are not sufficiently serious to be called
a neurosis.
One of the most active and important forms of childish libido occupation
is in phantasy making. The child’s world is one of imagery and make-
believe where he can create for himself that satisfaction and enjoyment
which the world of reality so often denies. As the child grows and real
demands of life are made upon him it becomes increasingly necessary that
his libido be taken away from his phantastic world and used for the required
adaptation to reality needed by his age and condition, until finally for the
adult the freedom of the whole libido is necessary to meet the biological
and cultural demands of life.
Instead of thus employing the libido in the real world, however, certain
people never relinquish the seeking for satisfaction in the shadowy world of
phantasy and even though they make certain attempts at adaptation they are
halted and discouraged by every difficulty and obstacle in the path of life
and are easily pulled back into their inner psychic world. This condition is
called a state of introversion. It is concerned with the past and the
reminiscences which belong thereto. Situations and experiences which
should have been completed and finished long ago are still dwelt upon and
lived with. Images and matters which were once important but which
normally have no significance for their later age are still actively
influencing their present lives. The nature and character of these phantasy
products are legion, and are easily recognized in the emotional attitudes and
pretensions, the childish illusions and exaggerations, the prejudices and
inconsistencies which people express in manifold forms. The actual
situation is inadequately faced; small matters are reacted towards in an
exaggerated manner; or else a frivolous attitude is maintained where real
seriousness is demanded. In other words, there is clearly manifested an
inadequate psychic adaptation towards reality which is quite to be expected
from the child, but which is very discordant in the adult.

The most important of these past influences is that of the parents.
Because they are the first objects of the developing childish love, and afford
the first satisfaction and pleasure to the child, they become the models for
all succeeding efforts, as Freud has worked out. This he called the nuclear
or root complex because this influence was so powerful it seemed to be the
determining factor in all later difficulties in the life of the individual.
In this phase of the problem lies the third great difference between Jung’s
interpretation of the observed phenomena and that of Freud.
Jung definitely recognizes that there are many neurotic persons who
clearly exhibited in their childhood the same neurotic tendencies that are
later exaggerated. Also that an almost overwhelming effect on the destiny of
these children is exercised by the influence of the parents, the frequent
over-anxiety or tenderness, the lack of sympathy or understanding, in other
words, the complexes of the parent reacting upon the child and producing in
him love, admiration, fear, distrust, hate, revolt. The greater the
sensitiveness and impressionability of the child, the more he will be
stamped with the familial environment, and the more he will unconsciously
seek to find again in the world of reality the model of his own small world
with all the pleasures and satisfactions, or disappointments and
unhappinesses with which it was filled.
This condition to be sure is not a recognized or a conscious one, for the
individual may think himself perfectly free from this past influence because
he is living in the real world, and because actually there is a great difference
between the present conditions and that of his childish past. He sees all this,
intellectually, but there is a wide gap between the intellectual grasp of a
situation and the emotional development, and it is the latter realm wherein
lies the disharmony. However, although many ideas and feelings are
connected with the parents, analysis reveals very often that they are only
subjective and that in reality they bear little resemblance to the actual past
situation. Therefore, Jung speaks no longer of the real father and mother but
uses the term imago or image to represent the father or mother, because the
feelings and phantasies frequently do not deal with the real parents but with
the distorted and subjective image created by the imagination of the
individual.
Following this distinction Jung sees in the Oedipus complex of Freud
only a symbol for the “childish desire towards the parents and for the

conflict which this craving evokes,” and cannot accept the theory that in
this early stage of childhood the mother has any real sexual significance for
the child.
The demands of the child upon the mother, the jealousy so often
exhibited, are at first connected with the rôle of the mother as protector,
caretaker and supplier of nutritive wants, and only later, with the
germinating eroticism, does the child’s love become admixed with the
developing sexual quality. The chief love objects are still the parents and he
naturally continues to seek and to find in them satisfaction for all his
desires. In this way the typical conflict is developed which in the son is
directed towards the father and in the daughter towards the mother. This
jealousy of the daughter towards the mother is called the Electra complex
from the myth of Electra who took revenge on her mother for the murder of
the husband because she was in this way deprived of her father.
Normally as puberty is attained the child gradually becomes more or less
freed from his parents, and upon the degree in which this is accomplished
depends his health and future well-being.
This demand of nature upon the young individual to free himself from
the bonds of his childish dependency and to find in the world of reality his
independent existence is so imperious and dominating that it frequently
produces in the child the greatest struggles and severest conflicts, the period
being characterized symbolically as a self-sacrifice by Jung.
It frequently happens that the young person is so closely bound in the
family relations that it is only with the greatest difficulty that he can attain
any measure of freedom and then only very imperfectly, so that the libido
sexualis can only express itself in certain feelings and phantasies which
clearly reveal the existence of the complex until then entirely hidden and
unrealized. Now commences the secondary struggle against the unfilial and
immoral feelings with a consequent development of intense resistances
expressing themselves in irritation, anger, revolt and antagonism against the
parents, or else in an especially tender, submissive and yielding attitude
which over-compensates for the rebellion and reaction held within.
This struggle and conflict gives rise to the unconscious phantasy of self-
sacrifice which really means the sacrificing of the childish tendencies and
love type in order to free libido; for his nature demands that he attain the

capacity for the accomplishment of his own personal fulfilment, the
satisfaction of which belongs to the developed man and woman.
This conception has been worked out in detail by Jung in the book which
is herein presented to English readers.
We now come to the most important of Jung’s conceptions in that it bears
practically upon the treatment of certain types of the neuroses and stands
theoretically in direct opposition to Freud’s hypothesis. While recognizing
fully the influence of the parents and of the sexual constitution of the child,
Jung refuses to see in this infantile past the real cause for the later
development of the illness. He definitely places the cause of the pathogenic
conflict in the present moment and considers that in seeking for the cause in
the distant past one is only following the desire of the patient, which is to
withdraw himself as much as possible from the present important period.
The conflict is produced by some important task or duty which is
essential biologically and practically for the fulfilment of the ego of the
individual, but before which an obstacle arises from which he shrinks, and
thus halted cannot go on. With this interference in the path of progression
libido is stored up and a regression takes place whereby there occurs a
reanimation of past ways of libido occupation which were entirely normal
to the child, but which for the adult are no longer of value. These regressive
infantile desires and phantasies now alive and striving for satisfaction are
converted into symptoms, and in these surrogate forms obtain a certain
gratification, thus creating the external manifestations of the neurosis.
Therefore Jung does not ask from what psychic experience or point of
fixation in childhood the patient is suffering, but what is the present duty or
task he is avoiding, or what obstacle in his life’s path he is unable to
overcome? What is the cause of his regression to past psychic experiences?
Following this theory Jung expresses the view that the elaborate
phantasies and dreams produced by these patients are really forms of
compensation or artificial substitutes for the unfulfilled adaptation to
reality. The sexual content of these phantasies and dreams is only
apparently and not actually expressive of a real sexual desire or incest wish,
but is a regressive employment of sexual forms to symbolically express a
present-day need when the attainment of the present ego demand seems too
difficult or impossible, and no adaptation is made to what is possible for the
individual’s capability.[3]

With this statement Jung throws a new light on the work of analytic
psychology and on the conception of the neurotic symptoms, and renders
possible of understanding the many apparent incongruities and conflicting
observations which have been so disturbing to the critics.

It now becomes proper to ask what has been established by all this mass
of investigation into the soul, and what is its value not only as a therapeutic
measure for the neurotic sufferer, but also for the normal human being?
First and perhaps most important is the recognition of a definite
psychological determinism. Instead of human life being filled with foolish,
meaningless or purposeless actions, errors and thoughts, it can be
demonstrated that no expression or manifestation of the psyche, however
trifling or inconsistent in appearance, is really lawless or unmotivated. Only
a possession of the technique is necessary in order to reveal, to any one
desirous of knowing, the existence of the unconscious determinants of his
mannerisms, trivial expressions, acts and behavior, their purpose and
significance.
This leads into the second fundamental conception, which is perhaps
even less considered than the foregoing, and that is the relative value of the
conscious mind and thought. It is the general attitude of people to judge
themselves by their surface motives, to satisfy themselves by saying or
thinking “this is what I want to do or say” or “I intended to do thus and so,”
but somehow what one thought, one intended to say or expected to do is
very often the contrary of what actually is said or done. Every one has had
these experiences when the gap between the conscious thought and action
was gross enough to be observed. It is also a well known experience to
consciously desire something very much and when it is obtained to discover
that this in no wise satisfied or lessened the desire, which was then
transferred to some other object. Thus one became cognizant of the fact that
the feeling and idea presented by consciousness as the desire was an error.
What is the difficulty in these conditions? Evidently some other directing
force than that of which we are aware is at work.
Dr. G. Stanley Hall uses a very striking symbol when he compares the
mind to an iceberg floating in the ocean with one-eighth visible above the
water and seven-eighths below—the one-eighth above being that part called
conscious and the seven-eighths below that which we call the unconscious.

The influence and controlling power of the unconscious desires over our
thoughts and acts are in this relative proportion. Faint glimmers of other
motives and interests than those we accept or which we believe, often flit
into consciousness. These indications, if studied or valued accurately, would
lead to the realization that consciousness is but a single stage and but one
form of expression of mind. Therefore its dictum is but one, often
untrustworthy, approach to the great question as to what is man’s actual
psychic accomplishment, and as to what in particular is the actual soul
development of the individual.
A further contribution of equal importance has been the empiric
development of a dynamic theory of life; the conception that life is in a
state of flux—movement—leading either to construction or destruction.
Through the development man has reached he has attained the power by
means of his intelligence and understanding of definitely directing to a
certain extent this life energy or libido into avenues which serve his interest
and bring a real satisfaction for the present day.
When man through ignorance and certain inherent tendencies fails to
recognize his needs or his power to fulfil them, or to adapt himself to the
conditions of reality of the present time, there is then produced that
reanimation of infantile paths by which an attempt is made to gain
fulfilment or satisfaction through the production of symptoms or attitudes.
The acceptance of these statements demands the recognition of the
existence of an infantile sexuality and the large part played by it in the later
life of the individual. Because of the power and imperious influence exerted
by the parents upon the child, and because of the unconscious attachment of
his libido to the original object, the mother, and the perseverance of this
first love model in the psyche, he finds it very difficult, on reaching the
stage of adult development and the time for seeking a love object outside of
the family, to gain a satisfactory model.
It is exceedingly important for parents and teachers to recognize the
requirements of nature, which, beginning with puberty, imperiously demand
of the young individual a separation of himself from the parent stem and the
development of an independent existence. In our complex modern
civilization this demand of nature is difficult enough of achievement for the
child who has the heartiest and most intelligent co-operation of his parents
and environment—but for the one who has not only to contend with his

own inner struggle for his freedom but has in addition the resistance of his
parents who would hold him in his childhood at any cost, because they
cannot endure the thought of his separation from them, the task becomes
one of the greatest magnitude. It is during this period when the struggle
between the childish inertia and nature’s urge becomes so keen, that there
occur the striking manifestations of jealousy, criticism, irritability all
usually directed against the parents, of defiance of parental authority, of
runaways and various other psychic and nervous disorders known to all.
This struggle, which is the first great task of mankind and the one which
requires the greatest effort, is that which is expressed by Jung as the self-
sacrifice motive—the sacrifice of the childish feelings and demands, and of
the irresponsibility of this period, and the assumption of the duties and tasks
of an individual existence.
It is this great theme which Jung sees as the real motive lying hidden in
the myths and religions of man from the beginning, as well as in the
literature and artistic creations of both ancient and modern time, and which
he works out with the greatest wealth of detail and painstaking effort in the
book herewith presented.
This necessitates a recognition and revaluation of the enormous
importance and influence of the ego and the sexual instinct upon the
thought and reaction of man, and also predicates a displacement of the
psychological point of gravity from the will and intellect to the realm of the
emotions and feelings. The desired end is a synthesis of these two paths or
the use of the intellect constructively in the service of the emotions in order
to gain for the best interest of the individual some sort of co-operative
reaction between the two.
No one dealing with analytic psychology can fail to be struck by the
tremendous and unnecessary burdens which man has placed upon himself,
and how greatly he has increased the difficulties of adaptation by his rigid
intellectual views and moral formulas, and by his inability to admit to
himself that he is actually just a human being imperfect, and containing
within himself all manner of tendencies, good and bad, all striving for some
satisfactory goal. Further, that the refusal to see himself in this light instead
of as an ideal person in no way alters the actual condition, and that in fact,
through the cheap pretense of being able only to consider himself as a very
virtuous person, or as shocked and hurt when observing the “sins” of others,

he actually is prevented from developing his own character and bringing his
own capacities to their fullest expressions.
There is frequently expressed among people the idea of how fortunate it
is that we cannot see each other’s thoughts, and how disturbing it would be
if our real feelings could be read. But what is so shameful in these secrets of
the soul? They are in reality our own egoistic desires all striving, longing,
wishing for satisfaction, for happiness; those desires which instinctively
crave their own gratification but which can only be really fulfilled by
adapting them to the real world and to the social group.
Why is it that it is so painful for man to admit that the prime influence in
all human endeavor is found in the ego itself, in its desires, wishes, needs
and satisfactions, in short, in its need for self-expression and self-
perpetuation, the evolutionary impetus in life?
The basis for the unpleasantness of this idea may perhaps be found in an
inner resistance in nature itself which forces man to include others in his
scheme, lest his own greedy desires should serve to destroy him. But even
with this inner demand and all the ethical and moral teachings of centuries
it is everywhere evident that man has only very imperfectly learned that it is
to his own interest to consider his neighbor and that it is impossible for him
to ignore the needs of the body social of which he is a part. Externally, the
recognition of the strength of the ego impulse is objectionable because of
the ideal conception that self-striving and so-called selfish seeking are
unworthy, ignoble and incompatible with a desirable character and must be
ignored at all cost.
The futility of this attitude is to be clearly seen in the failure after all
these centuries to even approximate it, as evidenced in our human relations
and institutions, and is quite as ineffectual in this realm as in that of
sexuality where the effort to overcome this imperious domination has been
attempted by lowering the instinct, and seeing in it something vile or
unclean, something unspeakable and unholy. Instead of destroying the
power of sexuality this struggle has only warped and distorted, injured and
mutilated the expression; for not without destruction of the individual can
these fundamental instincts be destroyed. Life itself has needs and
imperiously demands expression through the forms created. All nature
answers to this freely and simply except man. His failure to recognize
himself as an instrument through which the life energy is coursing and the

demands of which must be obeyed, is the cause of his misery. Despite his
possession of intellect and self-consciousness, he cannot without disaster to
himself refuse the tasks of life and the fulfilment of his own needs. Man’s
great task is the adaptation of himself to reality and the recognition of
himself as an instrument for the expression of life according to his
individual possibilities.
It is in his privilege as a self-creator that his highest purpose is found.
The value of self-consciousness lies in the fact that man is enabled to
reflect upon himself and learn to understand the true origin and significance
of his actions and opinions, that he may adequately value the real level of
his development and avoid being self-deceived and therefore inhibited from
finding his biological adaptation. He need no longer be unconscious of the
motives underlying his actions or hide himself behind a changed exterior, in
other words, be merely a series of reactions to stimuli as the mechanists
have it, but he may to a certain extent become a self-creating and self-
determining being.
Indeed, there seems to be an impulse towards adaptation quite as Bergson
sees it, and it would seem to be a task of the highest order to use
intelligence to assist one’s self to work with this impulse.

Through the investigation of these different avenues leading into the
hidden depths of the human being and through the revelation of the motives
and influences at work there, although astonishing to the uninitiated, a very
clear and definite conception of the actual human relationship—
brotherhood—of all mankind is obtained. It is this recognition of these
common factors basically inherent in humanity from the beginning and still
active, which is at once both the most hopeful and the most feared and
disliked part of psychoanalysis.
It is disliked by those individuals who have prided themselves upon their
superiority and the distinction between their reactions and motives and
those of ordinary mankind. In other words, they attempt to become
personalities through elevating themselves and lowering others, and it is a
distinct blow to discover that beneath these pretensions lie the very ordinary
elements shared in common by all. On the other hand, to those who have
been able to recognize their own weaknesses and have suffered in the

privacy of their own souls, the knowledge that these things have not set
them apart from others, but that they are the common property of all and
that no one can point the finger of scorn at his fellow, is one of the greatest
experiences of life and is productive of the greatest relief.
It is feared by many who realize that in these painfully acquired
repressions and symptoms lie their safety and their protection from directly
facing and dealing with tendencies and characteristics with which they feel
unable to cope. The repression and the accompanying symptoms indicate a
difficulty and a struggle, and in this way are a sort of compromise or
substitute formation which permit, although only in a wasteful and futile
manner, the activity of the repressed tendencies. Nevertheless, to analyze
the individual back to his original tendencies and reveal to him the meaning
of these substitute formations would be a useless procedure in which truly
“the last state of that man would be worse than the first” if the work ceased
there. The aim is not to destroy those barriers upon which civilized man has
so painfully climbed and to reduce him to his primitive state, but, where
these have failed or imperfectly succeeded, to help him to attain his greatest
possibilities with less expenditure of energy, by less wasteful methods than
nature provides. In this achievement lies the hopeful and valuable side of
this method—the development of the synthesis. It is hopeful because now a
way is opened to deal with these primitive tendencies constructively, and
render their effects not only harmless but useful, by utilizing them in higher
aims, socially and individually valuable and satisfactory.
This is what has occurred normally in those individuals who seem
capable and constructive personalities; in those creative minds that give so
much to the race. They have converted certain psychological tendencies
which could have produced useless symptoms or destructive actions into
valuable productions. Indeed it is not uncommon for strong, capable
persons to state themselves that they knew they could have been equally
capable of a wasteful or destructive life. This utilization of the energy or
libido freed by removing the repressions and the lifting of infantile
tendencies and desires into higher purposes and directions suitable for the
individual at his present status is called sublimation.
It must not be understood by this discussion that geniuses or wonderful
personalities can be created through analysis, for this is not the aim of the
procedure. Its purpose is to remove the inhibitions and restrictions which

interfere with the full development of the personality, to help individuals
attain to that level where they really belong, and to prepare people to better
understand and meet life whether they are neurotic sufferers or so-called
“normal people” with the difficulties and peculiarities which belong to all.
This reasoning and method of procedure is only new when the
application is made to the human being. In all improvements of plants and
animals these general principles have been recognized and their teachings
constructively utilized.
Luther Burbank, that plant wizard whose work is known to all the world,
says, “A knowledge of the battle of the tendencies within a plant is the very
basis of all plant improvement,” and “it is not that the work of plant
improvement brings with it, incidentally, as people mistakenly think, a
knowledge of these forces, it is the knowledge of these forces, rather, which
makes plant improvement possible.”
Has this not been also the mistake of man regarding himself, and the
cause, partly at least, of his failure to succeed in actually reaching a more
advanced and stable development?
This recognition of man’s biological relationship to all life and the
practical utilization of this recognition, necessitates a readjustment of
thought and asks for an examination and reconsideration of the facts of
human conduct which are observable by any thoughtful person. A quiet and
progressive upheaval of old ideas has taken place and is still going on.
Analytic psychology attempts to unify and value all of the various
phenomena of man which have been observed and noted at different times
by isolated investigators of isolated manifestations and thus bring some
orderly sequence into the whole. It offers a method whereby the relations of
the human being biologically to all other living forms can be established,
the actual achievement of man himself adequately valued, and opens a vista
of the possibilities of improvement in health, happiness and
accomplishment for the human being.
Beatrice M. Hinkle.

10 Gramercy Park.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

My task in this work has been to investigate an individual phantasy
system, and in the doing of it problems of such magnitude have been
uncovered, that my endeavor to grasp them in their entirety has necessarily
meant only a superficial orientation toward those paths, the opening and
exploration of which may possibly crown the work of future investigators
with success.
I am not in sympathy with the attitude which favors the repression of
certain possible working hypotheses because they are perhaps erroneous,
and so may possess no lasting value. Certainly I endeavored as far as
possible to guard myself from error, which might indeed become especially
dangerous upon these dizzy heights, for I am entirely aware of the risks of
these investigations. However, I do not consider scientific work as a
dogmatic contest, but rather as a work done for the increase and deepening
of knowledge.
This contribution is addressed to those having similar ideas concerning
science.
In conclusion, I must render thanks to those who have assisted my
endeavors with valuable aid, especially my dear wife and my friends, to
whose disinterested assistance I am deeply indebted.
C. G. Jung.

Zurich.

CONTENTS

PAGE
AUTHOR’S NOTE xlvii

PART I

CHAPTER
INTRODUCTION 3

Relation of the Incest Phantasy to the Oedipus Legend—Moral revulsion over
such a discovery—The unity of the antique and modern psychology—
Followers of Freud in this field—The need of analyzing historical material in
relation to individual analysis.

I.— CONCERNING THE TWO KINDS OF THINKING 8

Antiquity of the belief in dreams—Dream-meanings psychological, not literal
—They concern wish-fulfilments—A typical dream: the sexual assault—What
is symbolic in our every-day thinking?—One kind of thinking: intensive and
deliberate, or directed—Directed thinking and thinking in words—Origin of
speech in primitive nature sounds—The evolution of speech—Directed
thinking a modern acquisition—Thinking, not directed, a thinking in images:
akin to dreaming—Two kinds of thinking: directed and dream or phantasy
thinking—Science an expression of directed thinking—The discipline of
scholasticism as a forerunner—Antique spirit created not science but
mythology—Their world of subjective phantasies similar to that we find in the
childmind of to-day; or in the savage—The dream shows a similar type—
Infantile thinking and dreams a re-echo of the prehistoric and the ancient—The
myths a mass-dream of the people: the dream the myth of the individual—
Phantastic thinking concerns wishes—Typical cases, showing kinship with
ancient myths—Psychology of man changes but slowly—Phantastic thinking
tells us of mythical or other material of undeveloped and no longer recognized
wish tendencies in the soul—The sexual base—The wish, because of its
disturbing nature, expressed not directly, but symbolically.

II.— THE MILLER PHANTASIES 42

Miss Miller’s unusual suggestibility—Identifying herself with others—
Examples of her autosuggestibility and suggestive effect—Not striking in
themselves, but from analytic viewpoint they afford a glance into the soul of the
writer—Her phantasies really tell of the history of her love.

III. THE HYMN OF CREATION 49
—

Miss Miller’s description of a sea-journey—Really a description of
“introversion”—A retreat from reality into herself—The return to the real world
with erotic impression of officer singing in the night-watch—The undervaluing
of such erotic impressions—Their often deep effect—The succeeding dream,
and poem—The denied erotic impression usurps an earlier transference: it
expresses itself through the Father-Imago—Analysis of the poem—Relation to
Cyrano, Milton and Job—The attempt to escape the problem by a religious and
ethical pose—Contrast with real religion—Escape from erotic by transference
to a God or Christ—This made effective by mutual transference: “Love one
another”—The erotic spiritualized, however—The inner conflict kept conscious
by this method—The modern, however, represses the conflict and so becomes
neurotic—The function of Christianity—Its biologic purpose fulfilled—Its
forms of thought and wisdom still available.

IV. THE SONG OF THE MOTH 87
—

The double rôle of Faust: creator and destroyer—“I came not to send peace, but
a sword”—The modern problem of choice between Scylla of world-
renunciation and Charybdis of world-acceptance—The ethical pose of The
Hymn of Creation having failed, the unconscious projects a new attempt in the
Moth-Song—The choice, as in Faust—The longing for the sun (or God) the
same as that for the ship’s officer—Not the object, however: the longing is
important—God is our own longing to which we pay divine honors—The
failure to replace by a real compensation the libido-object which is surrendered,
produces regression to an earlier and discarded object—A return to the infantile
—The use of the parent image—It becomes synonymous with God, Sun, Fire—
Sun and snake—Symbols of the libido gathered into the sun-symbol—The
tendency toward unity and toward multiplicity—One God with many attributes:
or many gods that are attributes of one—Phallus and sun—The sun-hero, the
well-beloved—Christ as sun-god—“Moth and sun” then brings us to historic
depths of the soul—The sun-hero creative and destructive—Hence: Moth and
Flame: burning one’s wings—The destructiveness of being fruitful—Wherefore
the neurotic withdraws from the conflict, committing a sort of self-murder—
Comparison with Byron’s Heaven and Earth.

PART II

I.— ASPECTS OF THE LIBIDO 127

A backward glance—The sun the natural god—Comparison with libido—
Libido, “sun-energy”—The sun-image as seen by the mystic in introversion—
The phallic symbol of the libido—Faust’s key—Mythical heroes with phallic
attributes—These heroes personifications of the human libido and its typical
fates—A definition of the word “libido”—Its etymological context.

II.— THE CONCEPTION AND THE GENETIC THEORY OF LIBIDO 139

A widening of the conception of libido—New light from the study of paranoia
—The impossibility of restricting the conception of libido to the sexual—A
genetic definition—The function of reality only partly sexual—Yet this, and
other functions, originally derivations from procreative impulse—The process
of transformation—Libido, and the conception of will in general—Examples in
mythology—The stages of the libido: its desexualized derivatives and
differentiations—Sublimation vs. repression—Splittings off of the primal libido
—Application of genetic theory of libido to introversion psychoses—Replacing
reality by archaic surrogates—Desexualizing libido by means of phantastic
analogy formations—Possibly human consciousness brought to present state in
this manner—The importance of the little phrase: “Even as.”

III. THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE LIBIDO. A POSSIBLE SOURCE OF 157
— PRIMITIVE HUMAN DISCOVERIES

An example of transition of the libido—Act of boring with forefinger: an
infantile presexual activity—Similar activities in patient’s early childhood—
Outcome in dementia præcox—Its phantasies related to mythological products:
a reproduction of the creations of antiquity—The freeing of libido from the
nutritive to enter the sexual function—The epoch of suckling and the epoch of
displaced rhythmic activity—These followed by the beginnings of onanistic
attempts—An obstacle in the sexual zone produces regression to a previous
mode—These regressions easier in earlier stages of humanity than now—The
ethnological phantasy of boring—Examples—The production of fire—Its
sexual significance—A substitute for coitus—The invention of fire-making then
due to the need of supplying a symbol for the sexual act—The psychological
compulsion for such transitions of the libido based on an original division of the
will—Regression to incestuous—Prohibition here sends incestuous component
of libido back to presexual—Character of its application here—The substitution
of Mother-Earth for the parent—Also of infantile boring—Leading then to
discovery of fire—An example in Hindoo literature—The sexual significance
of the mouth—Its other function: the mating call—The regression which
produced fire through boring also elaborated the mating call—The beginnings
of speech—Example from the Hindoo—Speech and fire the first fruits of
transformation of libido—The fire-preparation regarded as forbidden, as
robbery—The forbidden thing onanism—Onanism a cheating of sexuality of its
purpose—The ceremonial fire-production a substitute for the possibility of
onanistic regression—Thus a transformation of libido ensues.

IV. THE UNCONSCIOUS ORIGIN OF THE HERO 191
—

The cause of introversion—The forward and backward flow of the libido—The
abnormal third—The conflict rooted in the incest problem—The “terrible
mother”—Miss Miller’s introversion—An internal conflict—Its product of
hypnagogic vision and poem—The uniformity of the unconscious in all men—
The unconscious the object of a true psychology—The individual tendency
with its production of the hero cult—The love for the hero or god a love for the
unconscious—A turning back to the mother of humanity—Such regressions act
favorably within limits—Miss Miller’s mention of the Sphinx—Theriomorphic
representations of the libido—Their tendency to represent father and mother—
The Sphinx represents the fear of the mother—Miss Miller’s mention of the
Aztec—Analysis of this figure—The significance of the hand symbolically—
The Aztec a substitute for the Sphinx—The name Chi-wan-to-pel—The
connection of the anal region with veneration—Chiwantopel and Ahasver, the
Wandering Jew—The parallel with Chidher—Heroes generating themselves
through their own mothers—Analogy with the Sun—Setting and rising sun:
Mithra and Helios, Christ and Peter, Dhulqarnein and Chidher—The fish
symbol—The two Dadophores: the two thieves—The mortal and immortal
parts of man—The Trinity taken from phallic symbolism—Comparison of
libido with phallus—Analysis of libido symbolism always leads back to the
mother incest—The hero myth the myth of our own suffering unconscious—
Faust.

V.— SYMBOLISM OF THE MOTHER AND OF REBIRTH 233

The crowd as symbol of mystery—The city as symbol of the mother—The
motive of continuous “union”—The typical journey of the sun-hero—Examples
—A longing for rebirth through the mother—The compulsion to symbolize the
mother as City, Sea, Source, etc.—The city as terrible mother and as holy
mother—The relation of the water-motive to rebirth—Of the tree-motive—Tree
of life a mother-image—The bisexual character of trees—Such symbols to be
understood psychologically, not anatomically—The incestuous desire aims at
becoming a child again, not at incest—It evades incest by creating myths of
symbolic rebirth—The libido spiritualized through this use of symbols—To be
born of the spirit—This compulsion toward symbolism brings a release of
forces bound up in incest—This process in Christianity—Christianity with its
repression of the manifest sexual the negative of the ancient sexual cult—The
unconscious transformation of the incest wish into religious exercise does not
meet the modern need—A conscious method necessary, involving moral
autonomy—Replacing belief by understanding—The history of the symbolism
of trees—The rise of the idea of the terrible mother a mask of the incest wish—
The myth of Osiris—Related examples—The motive of “devouring”—The
Cross of Christ: tree of death and tree of life—Lilith: the devouring mother—

The Lamias—The conquering of the mother—Snake and dragon: the resistance
against incest—The father represents the active repulse of the incest wish of the
son—He frequently becomes the monster to be overcome by the hero—The
Mithraic sacrificing of the incest wish an overcoming of the mother—A
replacing of archaic overpowering by sacrifice of the wish—The crucified
Christ an expression of this renunciation—Other cross sacrifices—Cross
symbol possesses significance of “union”—Child in mother’s womb: or man
and mother in union—Conception of the soul a derivative of mother imago—
The power of incest prohibition created the self-conscious individual—It was
the coercion to domestication—The further visions of Miss Miller.

VI. THE BATTLE FOR DELIVERANCE FROM THE MOTHER 307
—

The appearance of the hero Chiwantopel on horseback—Hero and horse
equivalent of humanity and its repressed libido—Horse a libido symbol, partly
phallic, partly maternal, like the tree—It represents the libido repressed through
the incest prohibition—The scene of Chiwantopel and the Indian—Recalling
Cassius and Brutus: also delirium of Cyrano—Identification of Cassius with his
mother—His infantile disposition—Miss Miller’s hero also infantile—Her
visions arise from an infantile mother transference—Her hero to die from an
arrow wound—The symbolism of the arrow—The onslaught of unconscious
desires—The deadly arrows strike the hero from within—It means the state of
introversion—A sinking back into the world of the child—The danger of this
regression—It may mean annihilation or new life—Examples of introversion—
The clash between the retrogressive tendency in the individual unconscious and
the conscious forward striving—Willed introversion—The unfulfilled sacrifice
in the Miller phantasy means an attempt to renounce the mother: the conquest
of a new life through the death of the old—The hero Miss Miller herself.

VII. THE DUAL MOTHER ROLE 341
—

Chiwantopel’s monologue—His quest for the “one who understands”—A quest
for the mother—Also for the life-companion—The sexual element in the wish
—The battle for independence from the mother—Its peril—Miss Miller’s use of
Longfellow’s Hiawatha—An analysis of Hiawatha—A typical hero of the libido
—The miraculous birth—The hero’s birth symbolic because it is really a rebirth
from the mother-spouse—The twofold mother which in Christian mythology
becomes twofold birth—The hero his own procreator—Virgin conception a
mask for incestuous impregnation—Hiawatha’s early life—The identification
of mother-nature with the mother—The killing of a roebuck a conquering of the
parents—He takes on their strength—He goes forth to slay the father in order to
possess the mother—Minnehaha, the mother—Hiawatha’s introversion—
Hiding in the lap of nature really a return to the mother’s womb—The
regression to the presexual revives the importance of nutrition—The inner

struggle with the mother, to overpower and impregnate her—This fight against
the longing for the mother brings new strength—The Mondamin motive in
other myths—The Savior-hero the fruit of the entrance of the libido into the
personal maternal depths—This is to die, and be born again—Hiawatha’s
struggle with the fish-monster—A new deliverance from the mother—And so
again with Megissogwon, the Magician—The hero must again and again
conquer the mother—Then follows his marriage with Minnehaha—Other
incidents, his death: the sinking of the sun in the west—Miss Miller also
reminded by Chiwantopel’s longing of Wagner’s Siegfried—Analysis of the
Siegfried myth—The treasure-guarding dragon—The dragon the son’s
repressed longing for the mother—Symbolism of the cave—The separation
from the mother, the hero’s conquering of the dragon—The symbolism of the
cup—Drinking from the mother—Cup of the blood of Christ—The resultant
mysterious union of man—Profane interpretations of this mystery—The phallic
significance of the serpent—The snake as representing the introverting libido—
Self-procreation: or creation of the world through introversion—The world thus
an emanation of the libido—The hero himself a serpent—The psychoanalytic
treatment of regression—The hidden libido touched upon causes a struggle: that
is, the hero fights the fight with the treasure-guarding dragon—The awakening
of Brunhilde—Siegfried finding his mother: a symbol of his own libido—The
conquest of the terrible mother brings the love and life-giving mother.

VIII. THE SACRIFICE 428
—

Miss Miller’s vision again—The paradoxical striving of the libido away from
the mother toward the mother—The destroying mother becomes beneficent on
being conquered—Chiwantopel a hero of words, not deeds—He has not that
will to live which breaks the magic circle of the incestuous—His identification
with the author, and her wish for the parents—The end is the devouring of the
daughter’s libido by the mother—Sexuality of the unconscious merely a symbol
—Idle dreaming the mother of the fear of death—This downward path in the
poetry of Hölderlin—The estrangement from reality, the introversion leading to
death—The necessity of freeing libido for a complete devotion to life—
Otherwise bound by unconscious compulsion: Fate—Sublimation through
voluntary work—Creation of the world through cosmic sacrifice—Man
discovers the world when he sacrifices the mother—The incest barrier as the
producer of thought—Budding sexuality drawing the individual from the family
—The mind dawns at the moment the child begins to be free of the mother—He
seeks to win the world, and leave the mother—Childish regression to the
presexual brings archaic phantasies—The incest problem not physical, but
psychological—Sacrifice of the horse: sacrifice of the animal nature—The
sacrifice of the “mother libido”: of the son to the mother—Superiority of
Christian symbol: the sacrifice, not only of lower nature, but the whole
personality—Miss Miller’s phantasy passes from sacrifice of the sexual, to
sacrifice of the infantile personality—Problem of psychoanalysis, expressed
mythologically, the sacrifice and rebirth of the infantile hero—The libido wills

the destruction of its creation: horse and serpent—The end of the hero by means
of earthquake—The one who understands him is the mother.

“Therefore theory, which gives to facts their value and significance, is
often very useful, even if it is partially false, for it throws light on
phenomena which no one observed, it forces an examination, from many
angles, of facts which no one had hitherto studied, and it gives the impulse
for more extended and more productive researches.
“It is, therefore, a moral duty for the man of science to expose himself to
the risk of committing error and to submit to criticism, in order that science
may continue to progress. A writer has attacked the author for this very
severely, saying, here is a scientific ideal very limited and very paltry. But
those who are endowed with a mind sufficiently serious and impersonal as
not to believe that all that they write is the expression of truth absolute and
eternal, approve of this theory which places the aims of science well above
the miserable vanity and paltry ‘amour propre’ of the scientist.”—
Guglielmo Ferrero.
Les Lois Psychologiques du Symbolisme—1895. Preface, p. viii.

PART I

INTRODUCTION

Any one who can read Freud’s “Interpretation of the Dream” without
scientific rebellion at the newness and apparently unjustified daring of its
analytical presentation, and without moral indignation at the astonishing
nudity of the dream interpretation, and who can allow this unusual array of
facts to influence his mind calmly and without prejudice, will surely be
deeply impressed at that place where Freud calls to mind the fact that an
individual psychologic conflict, namely, the Incest Phantasy, is the essential
root of that powerful ancient dramatic material, the Oedipus legend. The
impression made by this simple reference may be likened to that wholly
peculiar feeling which arises in us if, for example, in the noise and tumult
of a modern street we should come across an ancient relic—the Corinthian
capital of a walled-in column, or a fragment of inscription. Just a moment
ago we were given over to the noisy ephemeral life of the present, when
something very far away and strange appears to us, which turns our
attention to things of another order; a glimpse away from the incoherent
multiplicity of the present to a higher coherence in history. Very likely it
would suddenly occur to us that on this spot where we now run busily to
and fro a similar life and activity prevailed two thousand years ago in
somewhat other forms; similar passions moved mankind, and man was
likewise convinced of the uniqueness of his existence. I would liken the
impression which the first acquaintance with the monuments of antiquity so
easily leaves behind to that impression which Freud’s reference to the
Oedipus legend makes—for while we are still engaged with the confusing

impressions of the variability of the Individual Soul, suddenly there is
opened a revelation of the simple greatness of the Oedipus tragedy—that
never extinguished light of the Grecian theatre.
This breadth of outlook carries in itself something of revelation. For us,
the ancient psychology has long since been buried among the shadows of
the past; in the schoolroom one could scarcely repress a sceptical smile
when one indiscreetly reckoned the comfortable matronly age of Penelope
and the age of Jocasta, and comically compared the result of the reckoning
with the tragic-erotic struggles in the legend and drama. We did not know at
that time (and who knows even to-day?) that the mother can be the all-
consuming passion of the son, which perhaps undermines his whole life and
tragically destroys it, so that not even the magnitude of the Oedipus Fate
seems one jot overdrawn. Rare and pathologically understood cases like
Ninon de Lenclos and her son[4] lie too far removed from most of us to give
a living impression. But when we follow the paths traced out by Freud, we
arrive at a recognition of the present existence of such possibilities, which,
although they are too weak to enforce incest, are still strong enough to
cause disturbances of considerable magnitude in the soul. The admission of
such possibilities to one’s self does not occur without a great burst of moral
revulsion. Resistances arise which only too easily dazzle the intellect, and,
through that, make knowledge of self impossible. Whenever we succeed,
however, in stripping feelings from more scientific knowledge, then that
abyss which separates our age from the antique is bridged, and, with
astonishment, we see that Oedipus is still a living thing for us. The
importance of such an impression should not be undervalued. We are taught
by this insight that there is an identity of elementary human conflicts
existing independent of time and place. That which affected the Greeks with
horror still remains true, but it is true for us only when we give up a vain
illusion that we are different—that is to say, more moral, than the ancients.
We of the present day have nearly succeeded in forgetting that an
indissoluble common bond binds us to the people of antiquity. With this
truth a path is opened to the understanding of the ancient mind; an
understanding which so far has not existed, and, on one side, leads to an
inner sympathy, and, on the other side, to an intellectual comprehension.
Through buried strata of the individual soul we come indirectly into
possession of the living mind of the ancient culture, and, just precisely
through that, do we win that stable point of view outside our own culture,

from which, for the first time, an objective understanding of their
mechanisms would be possible. At least that is the hope which we get from
the rediscovery of the Oedipus problem.
The enquiry made possible by Freud’s work has already resulted
fruitfully; we are indebted to this stimulation for some bold attacks upon the
territory of the history of the human mind. There are the works of Riklin,[5]
Abraham,[6] Rank,[7] Maeder,[8] Jones,[9]—recently Silberer has joined their
ranks with a beautiful investigation entitled “Phantasie und Mythus.”[10] We
are indebted to Pfister[11] for a comprehensive work which cannot be
overlooked here, and which is of much importance for Christian religious
psychology. The leading purpose of these works is the unlocking of
historical problems through the application of psychoanalytic knowledge;
that is to say, knowledge drawn from the activity of the modern
unconscious mind concerning specific historical material.
I must refer the reader entirely to the specified works, in order that he
may gain information concerning the extent and the kind of insight which
has already been obtained. The explanations are in many cases dubious in
particulars; nevertheless, this detracts in no way from the total result. It
would be significant enough if only the far-reaching analogy between the
psychologic structure of the historical relics and the structure of the recent
individual psychologic products alone were demonstrated. This proof is
possible of attainment for every intelligent person through the work done up
to this time. The analogy prevails especially in symbolism, as Riklin, Rank,
Maeder, and Abraham have pointed out with illuminating examples; it is
also shown in the individual mechanisms of unconscious work, that is to
say in repression, condensation, etc., as Abraham explicitly shows.
Up to the present time the psychoanalytic investigator has turned his
interest chiefly to the analysis of the individual psychologic problems. It
seems to me, however, that in the present state of affairs there is a more or
less imperative demand for the psychoanalyst to broaden the analysis of the
individual problems by a comparative study of historical material relating to
them, just as Freud has already done in a masterly manner in his book on
“Leonardo da Vinci.”[12] For, just as the psychoanalytic conceptions promote
understanding of the historic psychologic creations, so reversedly historical
materials can shed new light upon individual psychologic problems. These
and similar considerations have caused me to turn my attention somewhat

more to the historical, in the hope that, out of this, new insight into the
foundations of individual psychology might be won.

CHAPTER I
CONCERNING THE TWO KINDS OF THINKING

It is a well-known fact that one of the principles of analytic psychology is
that the dream images are to be understood symbolically; that is to say, that
they are not to be taken literally just as they are presented in sleep, but that
behind them a hidden meaning has to be surmised. It is this ancient idea of
a dream symbolism which has challenged not only criticism, but, in
addition to that, the strongest opposition. That dreams may be full of
import, and, therefore, something to be interpreted, is certainly neither a
strange nor an extraordinary idea. This has been familiar to mankind for
thousands of years, and, therefore, seems much like a banal truth. The
dream interpretations of the Egyptians and Chaldeans, and the story of
Joseph who interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams, are known to every one, and the
dream book of Artemidorus is also familiar. From countless inscribed
monuments of all times and peoples we learn of foreboding dreams, of
significant, of prophetic and also of curative dreams which the Deity sent to
the sick, sleeping in the temple. We know the dream of the mother of
Augustus, who dreamt she was to be with child by the Deity transformed
into a snake. We will not heap up references and examples to bear witness
to the existence of a belief in the symbolism of dreams. When an idea is so
old, and is so generally believed, it is probably true in some way, and,
indeed, as is mostly the case, is not literally true, but is true
psychologically. In this distinction lies the reason why the old fogies of
science have from time to time thrown away an inherited piece of ancient
truth; because it was not literal but psychologic truth. For such
discrimination this type of person has at no time had any comprehension.
From our experience, it is hardly conceivable that a God existing outside
of ourselves causes dreams, or that the dream, eo ipso, foresees the future
prophetically. When we translate this into the psychologic, however, then
the ancient theories sound much more reconcilable, namely, the dream
arises from a part of the mind unknown to us, but none the less important,

and is concerned with the desires for the approaching day. This
psychologic formula derived from the ancient superstitious conception of
dreams, is, so to speak, exactly identified with the Freudian psychology,
which assumes a rising wish from the unconscious to be the source of the
dream.
As the old belief teaches, the Deity or the Demon speaks in symbolic
speech to the sleeper, and the dream interpreter has the riddle to solve. In
modern speech we say this means that the dream is a series of images,
which are apparently contradictory and nonsensical, but arise in reality
from psychologic material which yields a clear meaning.
Were I to suppose among my readers a far-reaching ignorance of dream
analysis, then I should be obliged to illustrate this statement with numerous
examples. To-day, however, these things are quite well known, so that one
must proceed carefully with every-day dream material, out of consideration
for a public educated in these matters. It is a special inconvenience that no
dream can be recounted without being obliged to add to it half a life’s
history which affords the individual foundations of the dream, but there are
some few typical dreams which can be told without too great a ballast. One
of these is the dream of the sexual assault, which is especially prevalent
among women. A girl sleeping after an evening happily spent in dancing,
dreams that a robber breaks open her door noisily and stabs through her
body with a lance. This theme, which explains itself, has countless
variations, some simple, some complicated. Instead of the lance it is a
sword, a dagger, a revolver, a gun, a cannon, a hydrant, a watering pot; or
the assault is a burglary, a pursuit, a robbery, or it is some one hidden in the
closet or under the bed. Or the danger may be illustrated by wild animals;
for instance, a horse which throws the dreamer to the ground and kicks her
in the body with his hind foot; lions, tigers, elephants with threatening
trunks, and finally snakes in endless variety. Sometimes the snake creeps
into the mouth, sometimes it bites the breast like Cleopatra’s legendary asp,
sometimes it comes in the rôle of the paradisical snake, or in the variations
of Franz Stuck, whose pictures of snakes bear the significant titles “Vice,”
“Sin,” “Lust.” The mixture of lust and anxiety is expressed incomparably in
the very atmosphere of these pictures, and far more brutally, indeed, than in
Mörike’s charming poem.
The Maiden’s First Love Song

What’s in the net?
Behold,
But I am afraid,
Do I grasp a sweet eel,
Do I seize a snake?
Love is a blind
Fisherwoman;
Tell the child
Where to seize.
Already it leaps in my hands.

Oh, Pity, or delight!
With nestlings and turnings
It coils on my breast,
It bites me, oh, wonder!
Boldly through the skin,
It darts under my heart.
Oh, Love, I shudder!

What can I do, what can I begin?
That shuddering thing;
There it crackles within
And coils in a ring.
It must be poisoned.
Here it crawls around.
Blissfully I feel as it worms
Itself into my soul
And kills me finally.
All these things are simple, and need no explanation to be intelligible.
Somewhat more complicated, but still unmistakable, is the dream of a
woman; she sees the triumphal arch of Constantine. A cannon stands before
it, to the right of it a bird, to the left a man. A shot flashes out of the tube;
the projectile hits her; it goes into her pocket, into her purse. There it
remains, and she holds her purse as if something very precious were in it.
The image disappears, and she continues to see only the stock of the
cannon, and over that Constantine’s motto, “In hoc signo vinces.”
These few references to the symbolic nature of dreams are perhaps
sufficient. For whomsoever the proof may appear insufficient, and it is
certainly insufficient for a beginner, further evidence may be found in the
fundamental work of Freud, and in the works of Stekel and Rank which are
fuller in certain particulars. We must assume here that the dream symbolism
is an established fact, in order to bring to our study a mind suitably prepared
for an appreciation of this work. We would not be successful if we, on the
contrary, were to be astonished at the idea that an intellectual image can be

projected into our conscious psychic activity; an image which apparently
obeys such wholly other laws and purposes than those governing the
conscious psychic product.
Why are dreams symbolic? Every “why” in psychology is divided into
two separate questions: first, for what purpose are dreams symbolic? We
will answer this question only to abandon it at once. Dreams are symbolic
in order that they can not be understood; in order that the wish, which is the
source of the dream, may remain unknown. The question why this is so and
not otherwise, leads us out into the far-reaching experiences and trains of
thought of the Freudian psychology.
Here the second question interests us, viz., How is it that dreams are
symbolic? That is to say, from where does this capacity for symbolic
representation come, of which we, in our conscious daily life, can discover
apparently no traces?
Let us examine this more closely. Can we really discover nothing
symbolic in our every-day thought? Let us follow our trains of thought; let
us take an example. We think of the war of 1870 and 1871. We think about
a series of bloody battles, the siege of Strassburg, Belfort, Paris, the Treaty
of Peace, the foundation of the German Empire, and so on. How have we
been thinking? We start with an idea, or super-idea, as it is also called, and
without thinking of it, but each time merely guided by a feeling of direction,
we think about individual reminiscences of the war. In this we can find
nothing symbolic, and our whole conscious thinking proceeds according to
this type.[13]
If we observe our thinking very narrowly, and follow an intensive train of
thought, as, for example, the solution of a difficult problem, then suddenly
we notice that we are thinking in words, that in wholly intensive thinking
we begin to speak to ourselves, or that we occasionally write down the
problem, or make a drawing of it so as to be absolutely clear. It must
certainly have happened to any one who has lived for some time in a
foreign country, that after a certain period he has begun to think in the
language of the country. A very intensive train of thinking works itself out
more or less in word form; that is, if one wants to express it, to teach it, or
to convince any one of it. Evidently it directs itself wholly to the outside
world. To this extent, this directed or logical thinking is a reality thinking,[14]
having a real existence for us; that is to say, a thinking which adjusts itself

to actual conditions,[15] where we, expressed in other words, imitate the
succession of objectively real things, so that the images in our mind follow
after each other in the same strictly causal succession as the historical
events outside of our mind.[16]
We call this thinking, thinking with directed attention. It has, in addition,
the peculiarity that one is tired by it, and that, on this account, it is set into
action only for a time. Our whole vital accomplishment, which is so
expensive, is adaptation to environment; a part of it is the directed thinking,
which, biologically expressed, is nothing but a process of psychic
assimilation, which, as in every vital accomplishment, leaves behind a
corresponding exhaustion.
The material with which we think is language and speech concept, a
thing which has been used from time immemorial as something external, a
bridge for thought, and which has a single purpose—that of
communication. As long as we think directedly, we think for others and
speak to others.[17]
Speech is originally a system of emotional and imitative sounds—sounds
which express terror, fear, anger, love; and sounds which imitate the noises
of the elements, the rushing and gurgling of water, the rolling of thunder,
the tumults of the winds, the tones of the animal world, and so on; and,
finally, those which represent a combination of the sounds of perception
and of affective reaction.[18] Likewise in the more or less modern languages,
large quantities of onomatopoetic relics are retained; for example, sounds
for the movement of water,—
Rauschen, risseln, rûschen, rinnen, rennen, to rush, ruscello, ruisseau, river, Rhein.
Wasser, wissen, wissern, pissen, piscis, fisch.
Thus language is originally and essentially nothing but a system of signs
or symbols, which denote real occurrences, or their echo in the human soul.
Therefore one must decidedly agree with Anatole France,[19] when he
says,
“What is thought, and how do we think? We think with words; that alone is sensual and brings us
back to nature. Think of it! The metaphysician has only the perfected cry of monkeys and dogs with
which to construct the system of the world. That which he calls profound speculation and
transcendent method is to put end to end in an arbitrary order the natural sounds which cry out
hunger, fear, and love in the primitive forests, and to which were attached little by little the meanings
which one believed to be abstract, when they were only crude.
“Do not fear that the succession of small cries, feeble and stifled, which compose a book of
philosophy, will teach us so much regarding the universe, that we can live in it no longer.”

Thus is our directed thinking, and even if we were the loneliest and
furthest removed from our fellows, this thinking is nothing but the first
notes of a long-drawn-out call to our companions that water had been
found, that we had killed the bear, that a storm was approaching, or that
wolves were prowling around the camp. A striking paradox of Abélard’s
which expresses in a very intuitive way the whole human limitation of our
complicated thinking process, reads,—“Sermo generatur ab intellectu et
generat intellectum.”[20]
Any system of philosophy, no matter how abstract, represents in means
and purpose nothing more than an extremely cleverly developed
combination of original nature sounds.[21] Hence arises the desire of a
Schopenhauer or a Nietzsche for recognition and understanding, and the
despair and bitterness of their loneliness. One might expect, perhaps, that a
man full of genius could pasture in the greatness of his own thoughts, and
renounce the cheap approbation of the crowd which he despises; yet he
succumbs to the more powerful impulse of the herd instinct. His searching
and his finding, his call, belong to the herd.
When I said just now that directed thinking is properly a thinking with
words, and quoted that clever testimony of Anatole France as drastic proof
of it, a misunderstanding might easily arise, namely, that directed thinking
is really only “word.” That certainly would go too far. Language should,
however, be comprehended in a wider sense than that of speech, which is in
itself only the expression of the formulated thought which is capable of
being communicated in the widest sense. Otherwise, the deaf mute would
be limited to the utmost in his capacity for thinking, which is not the case in
reality. Without any knowledge of the spoken word, he has his “language.”
This language, considered from the standpoint of history, or in other words,
directed thinking, is here a descendant of the primitive words, as, for
instance, Wundt[22] expresses it.
“A further important result of that co-operation of sound and sign interchange consists in the fact
that very many words gradually lose altogether their original concrete thought meaning, and turn into
signs for general ideas and for the expression of the apperceptive functions of relation and
comparison and their products. In this manner abstract thought develops, which, because it would not
be possible without the change of meaning lying at the root of it, is indeed a production of that
psychic and psychophysical reciprocal action out of which the development of language takes place.”
Jodl[23] denies the identity of language and thought, because, for one
reason, one and the same psychic fact might be expressed in different
languages in different ways. From that he draws the conclusion that a

“super-language thinking” exists. Certainly there is such a thing, whether
with Erdmann one considers it “hypologisch,” or with Jodl as “super-
language.” Only this is not logical thinking. My conception of it agrees with
the noteworthy contribution made by Baldwin, which I will quote here
word for word.[24]
“The transmission from pre-judgmental to judgmental meaning is just that from knowledge which
has social confirmation to that which gets along without it. The meanings utilized for judgment are
those already developed in their presuppositions and applications through the confirmation of social
intercourse. Thus, the personal judgment, trained in the methods of social rendering, and disciplined
by the interaction of its social world, projects its content into that world again. In other words, the
platform for all movement into the assertion of individual judgment—the level from which new
experience is utilized—is already and always socialized; and it is just this movement that we find
reflected in the actual results as the sense of the ‘appropriateness’ or synomic character of the
meaning rendered.
“Now the development of thought, as we are to see in more detail, is by a method essentially of
trial and error, of experimentation, of the use of meanings as worth more than they are as yet
recognized to be worth. The individual must use his own thoughts, his established knowledges, his
grounded judgments, for the embodiment of his new inventive constructions. He erects his thought as
we say ‘schematically’—in logic terms, ‘problematically,’ conditionally, disjunctively; projecting
into the world an opinion still peculiar to himself, as if it were true. Thus all discovery proceeds. But
this is, from the linguistic point of view, still to use the current language, still to work by meanings
already embodied in social and conventional usage.
“Language grows, therefore, just as thought does, by never losing its synomic or dual reference; its
meaning is both personal and social.
“It is the register of tradition, the record of racial conquest, the deposit of all the gains made by the
genius of individuals.... The social copy-system, thus established, reflects the judgmental processes
of the race, and in turn becomes the training school of the judgment of new generations.
“Most of the training of the self, whereby the vagaries of personal reaction to fact and image are
reduced to the basis of sound judgment, comes through the use of speech. When the child speaks, he
lays before the world his suggestion for a general or common meaning. The reception he gets
confirms or refutes him. In either case he is instructed. His next venture is now from a platform of
knowledge on which the newer item is more nearly convertible into the common coin of effective
intercourse. The point to notice here is not so much the exact mechanism of the exchange—
secondary conversion—by which this gain is made, as the training in judgment that the constant use
of it affords. In each case, effective judgment is the common judgment.
“Here the object is to point out that it is secured by the development of a function whose rise is
directly ad hoc, directly for the social experimentation by which growth in personal competence is
advanced as well—the function of speech.
“In language, therefore, to sum up the foregoing, we have the tangible—the actual—the historical
—instrument of the development and conservation of psychic meaning. It is the material evidence
and proof of the concurrence of social and personal judgment. In it synomic meaning, judged as
‘appropriate,’ becomes ‘social’ meaning, held as socially generalized and acknowledged.”
These arguments of Baldwin abundantly emphasize the wide-reaching
limitations of thinking caused by language.[25] These limitations are of the
greatest significance, both subjectively and objectively; at least their

meaning is great enough to force one to ask one’s self if, after all, in regard
to independence of thought, Franz Mauthner, thoroughly sceptical, is not
really correct in his view that thinking is speech and nothing more. Baldwin
expresses himself more cautiously and reservedly; nevertheless, his inner
meaning is plainly in favor of the primacy of speech (naturally not in the
sense of the spoken word); the directed thinking, or as we might perhaps
call it, the thinking in internal speech, is the manifest instrument of culture,
and we do not go astray when we say that the powerful work of education
which the centuries have given to directed thinking has produced, just
through the peculiar development of thinking from the individual subjective
into the social objective, a practical application of the human mind to which
we owe modern empiricism and technic, and which occurs for absolutely
the first time in the history of the world. Inquisitive minds have often
tormented themselves with the question why the undoubtedly extraordinary
knowledge of mathematics and principles and material facts united with the
unexampled art of the human hand in antiquity never arrived at the point of
developing those known technical statements of fact, for instance, the
principles of simple machines, beyond the realm of the amusing and curious
to a real technic in the modern sense. There is necessarily only one answer
to this; the ancients almost entirely, with the exception of a few
extraordinary minds, lacked the capacity to allow their interest to follow the
transformations of inanimate matter to the extent necessary for them to be
able to reproduce the process of nature, creatively and through their own
art, by means of which alone they could have succeeded in putting
themselves in possession of the force of nature. That which they lacked was
training in directed thinking, or, to express it psychoanalytically, the
ancients did not succeed in tearing loose the libido which might be
sublimated, from the other natural relations, and did not turn voluntarily to
anthropomorphism. The secret of the development of culture lies in the
mobility of the libido, and in its capacity for transference. It is, therefore, to
be assumed that the directed thinking of our time is a more or less modern
acquisition, which was lacking in earlier times.
But with that we come to a further question, viz., what happens if we do
not think directedly? Then our thinking lacks the major idea, and the feeling
of direction which emanates from that.[26] We no longer compel our thoughts
along a definite track, but let them float, sink and mount according to their
own gravity. According to Kulpe[27] thinking is a kind of inner will action,

the absence of which necessarily leads to an automatic play of ideas. James
understands the non-directed thinking, or “merely associative” thinking, as
the ordinary one. He expresses himself about that in the following manner:
“Our thought consists for the great part of a series of images, one of which produces the other; a
sort of passive dream-state of which the higher animals are also capable. This sort of thinking leads,
nevertheless, to reasonable conclusions of a practical as well as of a theoretical nature.
“As a rule, the links of this sort of irresponsible thinking, which are accidentally bound together,
are empirically concrete things, not abstractions.”
We can, in the following manner, complete these definitions of William
James. This sort of thinking does not tire us; it quickly leads us away from
reality into phantasies of the past and future. Here, thinking in the form of
speech ceases, image crowds upon image, feeling upon feeling; more and
more clearly one sees a tendency which creates and makes believe, not as it
truly is, but as one indeed might wish it to be.[28] The material of these
thoughts which turns away from reality, can naturally be only the past with
its thousand memory pictures. The customary speech calls this kind of
thinking “dreaming.”
Whoever attentively observes himself will find the general custom of
speech very striking, for almost every day we can see for ourselves how,
when falling asleep, phantasies are woven into our dreams, so that between
the dreams of day and night there is not so great a difference. Thus we have
two forms of thinking—directed thinking and dream or phantasy thinking.
The first, working for communication with speech elements, is troublesome
and exhausting; the latter, on the contrary, goes on without trouble, working
spontaneously, so to speak, with reminiscences. The first creates
innovations, adaptations, imitates reality and seeks to act upon it. The latter,
on the contrary, turns away from reality, sets free subjective wishes, and is,
in regard to adaptation, wholly unproductive.[29]
Let us leave aside the query as to why we possess these two different
ways of thinking, and turn back to the second proposition, namely, how
comes it that we have two different ways of thinking? I have intimated
above that history shows us that directed thinking was not always as
developed as it is at present. In this age the most beautiful expression of
directed thinking is science, and the technic fostered by it. Both things are
indebted for their existence simply to an energetic education in directed
thinking. At the time, however, when a few forerunners of the present
culture, like the poet Petrarch, first began to appreciate Nature

understandingly[30] there was already in existence an equivalent for our
science, to wit, scholasticism.[31] This took its objects from the phantasies of
the past, and it gave to the mind a dialectic training in directed thinking.
The only success which beckoned the thinker was rhetorical victory in
disputation, and not a visible transformation of reality.
The subjects of thinking were often astonishingly phantastical; for
example, questions were discussed, such as how many angels could have a
place on the point of a needle? Whether Christ could have done his work of
redemption equally well if he had come into the world as a pea? The
possibility of such problems, to which belong the metaphysical problems in
general, viz., to be able to know the unknowable, shows us of what peculiar
kind that mind must have been which created such things which to us are
the height of absurdity. Nietzsche had guessed, however, at the biological
background of this phenomenon when he spoke of the “beautiful tension”
of the Germanic mind which the Middle Ages created. Taken historically,
scholasticism, in the spirit of which persons of towering intellectual powers,
such as Thomas of Aquinas, Duns Scotus, Abélard, William of Occam and
others, have labored, is the mother of the modern scientific attitude, and a
later time will see clearly how and in what scholasticism still furnishes
living undercurrents to the science of to-day. Its whole nature lies in
dialectic gymnastics which have raised the symbol of speech, the word, to
an almost absolute meaning, so that it finally attained to that substantiality
which expiring antiquity could lend to its logos only temporarily, through
attributes of mystical valuation. The great work of scholasticism, however,
appears to be the foundation of firmly knitted intellectual sublimation, the
conditio sine qua non of the modern scientific and technical spirit.
Should we go further back into history, we shall find that which to-day
we call science, dissolved into an indistinct cloud. The modern culture-
creating mind is incessantly occupied in stripping off all subjectivity from
experience, and in finding those formulas which bring Nature and her
forces to the best and most fitting expression. It would be an absurd and
entirely unjustified self-glorification if we were to assume that we are more
energetic or more intelligent than the ancients—our materials for
knowledge have increased, but not our intellectual capacity. For this reason,
we become immediately as obstinate and insusceptible in regard to new
ideas as people in the darkest times of antiquity. Our knowledge has
increased but not our wisdom. The main point of our interest is displaced

wholly into material reality; antiquity preferred a mode of thought which
was more closely related to a phantastic type. Except for a sensitive
perspicuity towards works of art, not attained since then, we seek in vain in
antiquity for that precise and concrete manner of thinking characteristic of
modern science. We see the antique spirit create not science but mythology.
Unfortunately, we acquire in school only a very paltry conception of the
richness and immense power of life of Grecian mythology.
Therefore, at first glance, it does not seem possible for us to assume that
that energy and interest which to-day we put into science and technic, the
man of antiquity gave in great part to his mythology. That, nevertheless,
gives the explanation for the bewildering changes, the kaleidoscopic
transformations and new syncretistic groupings, and the continued
rejuvenation of the myths in the Grecian sphere of culture. Here, we move
in a world of phantasies, which, little concerned with the outer course of
things, flows from an inner source, and, constantly changing, creates now
plastic, now shadowy shapes. This phantastical activity of the ancient mind
created artistically par excellence. The object of the interest does not seem
to have been to grasp hold of the “how” of the real world as objectively and
exactly as possibly, but to æsthetically adapt subjective phantasies and
expectations. There was very little place among ancient people for the
coldness and disillusion which Giordano Bruno’s thoughts on eternity and
Kepler’s discoveries brought to modern humanity. The naïve man of
antiquity saw in the sun the great Father of the heaven and the earth, and in
the moon the fruitful good Mother. Everything had its demons; they
animated equally a human being and his brother, the animal. Everything
was considered according to its anthropomorphic or theriomorphic
attributes, as human being or animal. Even the disc of the sun was given
wings or four feet, in order to illustrate its movement. Thus arose an idea of
the universe which was not only very far from reality, but was one which
corresponded wholly to subjective phantasies.
We know, from our own experience, this state of mind. It is an infantile
stage. To a child the moon is a man or a face or a shepherd of the stars. The
clouds in the sky seem like little sheep; the dolls drink, eat and sleep; the
child places a letter at the window for the Christ-child; he calls to the stork
to bring him a little brother or sister; the cow is the wife of the horse, and
the dog the husband of the cat. We know, too, that lower races, like the

negroes, look upon the locomotive as an animal, and call the drawers of the
table the child of the table.
As we learn through Freud, the dream shows a similar type. Since the
dream is unconcerned with the real condition of things, it brings the most
heterogeneous matter together, and a world of impossibilities takes the
place of realities. Freud finds progression characteristic of thinking when
awake; that is to say, the advancement of the thought excitation from the
system of the inner or outer perception through the “endopsychic” work of
association, conscious and unconscious, to the motor end; that is to say,
towards innervation. In the dream he finds the reverse, namely, regression
of the thought excitation from the preconscious or unconscious to the
system of perception, by the means of which the dream receives its ordinary
impression of sensuous distinctness, which can rise to an almost
hallucinating clearness. The dream thinking moves in a retrograde manner
towards the raw material of memory. “The structure of the dream thoughts
is dissolved during the progress of regression into its raw material.” The
reanimation of the original perception is, however, only one side of
regression. The other side is regression to the infantile memory material,
which might also be understood as regression to the original perception, but
which deserves especial mention on account of its independent importance.
This regression might, indeed, be considered as “historical.” The dream,
according to this conception, might also be described as the substitute of the
infantile scene, changed through transference into the recent scene.
The infantile scene cannot carry through its revival; it must be satisfied
with its return as a dream. From this conception of the historical side of
regression, it follows consequently that the modes of conclusion of the
dream, in so far as one may speak of them, must show at the same time an
analogous and infantile character. This is truly the case, as experience has
abundantly shown, so that to-day every one who is familiar with the subject
of dream analysis confirms Freud’s proposition that dreams are a piece of
the conquered life of the childish soul. Inasmuch as the childish psychic life
is undeniably of an archaic type, this characteristic belongs to the dream in
quite an unusual degree. Freud calls our attention to this especially.
“The dream, which fulfils its wishes by a short, regressive path, affords us only an example of the
primary method of working of the psychic apparatus, which has been abandoned by us as unsuitable.
That which once ruled in the waking state, when the psychical life was still young and impotent,
appears to be banished to the dream life, in somewhat the same way as the bow and arrow, those
discarded, primitive weapons of adult humanity, have been relegated to the nursery.”[32]

All this experience suggests to us that we draw a parallel between the
phantastical, mythological thinking of antiquity and the similar thinking of
children, between the lower human races and dreams.[33] This train of
thought is not a strange one for us, but quite familiar through our
knowledge of comparative anatomy and the history of development, which
show us how the structure and function of the human body are the results of
a series of embryonic changes which correspond to similar changes in the
history of the race. Therefore, the supposition is justified that ontogenesis
corresponds in psychology to phylogenesis. Consequently, it would be true,
as well, that the state of infantile thinking in the child’s psychic life, as well
as in dreams, is nothing but a re-echo of the prehistoric and the ancient.[34]
In regard to this, Nietzsche takes a very broad and remarkable standpoint.
[35]

“In our sleep and in our dreams we pass through the whole thought of earlier humanity. I mean, in
the same way that man reasons in his dreams, he reasoned when in the waking state many thousands
of years. The first causa which occurred to his mind in reference to anything that needed explanation,
satisfied him and passed for truth. In the dream this atavistic relic of humanity manifests its existence
within us, for it is the foundation upon which the higher rational faculty developed, and which is still
developing in every individual. The dream carries us back into earlier states of human culture, and
affords us a means of understanding it better. The dream thought is so easy to us now, because we are
so thoroughly trained to it through the interminable stages of evolution during which this phantastic
and facile form of theorizing has prevailed. To a certain extent the dream is a restorative for the brain,
which during the day is called upon to meet the severe demands for trained thought, made by the
conditions of a higher civilization.
“From these facts, we can understand how lately more acute logical thinking, the taking seriously
of cause and effect, has been developed; when our functions of reason and intelligence still reach
back involuntarily to those primitive forms of conclusion, and we live about half our lives in this
condition.”
We have already seen that Freud, independently of Nietzsche, has
reached a similar standpoint from the basis of dream analysis. The step
from this established proposition to the perception of the myths as familiar
dream images is no longer a great one. Freud has formulated this conclusion
himself.[36]
“The investigation of this folk-psychologic formation, myths, etc., is by no means finished at
present. To take an example of this, however, it is probable that the myths correspond to the distorted
residue of wish phantasies of whole nations, the secularized dreams of young humanity.”
Rank[37] understands the myths in a similar manner, as a mass dream of
the people.[38] Riklin[39] has insisted rightly upon the dream mechanism of
the fables, and Abraham[40] has done the same for the myths. He says:
“The myth is a fragment of the infantile soul-life of the people.”

and
“Thus the myth is a sustained, still remaining fragment from the infantile soul-life of the people,
and the dream is the myth of the individual.”
An unprejudiced reading of the above-mentioned authors will certainly
allay all doubts concerning the intimate connection between dream
psychology and myth psychology. The conclusion results almost from itself,
that the age which created the myths thought childishly—that is to say,
phantastically, as in our age is still done, to a very great extent
(associatively or analogically) in dreams. The beginnings of myth
formations (in the child), the taking of phantasies for realities, which is
partly in accord with the historical, may easily be discovered among
children.
One might raise the objection that the mythological inclinations of
children are implanted by education. The objection is futile. Has humanity
at all ever broken loose from the myths? Every man has eyes and all his
senses to perceive that the world is dead, cold and unending, and he has
never yet seen a God, nor brought to light the existence of such from
empirical necessity. On the contrary, there was need of a phantastic,
indestructible optimism, and one far removed from all sense of reality, in
order, for example, to discover in the shameful death of Christ really the
highest salvation and the redemption of the world. Thus one can indeed
withhold from a child the substance of earlier myths but not take from him
the need for mythology. One can say, that should it happen that all traditions
in the world were cut off with a single blow, then with the succeeding
generation, the whole mythology and history of religion would start over
again. Only a few individuals succeed in throwing off mythology in a time
of a certain intellectual supremacy—the mass never frees itself.
Explanations are of no avail; they merely destroy a transitory form of
manifestation, but not the creating impulse.
Let us again take up our earlier train of thought.
We spoke of the ontogenetic re-echo of the phylogenetic psychology
among children, we saw that phantastic thinking is a characteristic of
antiquity, of the child, and of the lower races; but now we know also that
our modern and adult man is given over in large part to this same phantastic
thinking, which enters as soon as the directed thinking ceases. A lessening
of the interest, a slight fatigue, is sufficient to put an end to the directed
thinking, the exact psychological adaptation to the real world, and to

replace it with phantasies. We digress from the theme and give way to our
own trains of thought; if the slackening of the attention increases, then we
lose by degrees the consciousness of the present, and the phantasy enters
into possession of the field.
Here the important question obtrudes itself: How are phantasies created?
From the poets we learn much about it; from science we learn little. The
psychoanalytic method, presented to science by Freud, shed light upon this
for the first time. It showed us that there are typical cycles. The stutterer
imagines he is a great orator. The truth of this, Demosthenes, thanks to his
energy, has proven. The poor man imagines himself to be a millionaire, the
child an adult. The conquered fight out victorious battles with the
conquerer; the unfit torments or delights himself with ambitious plans. We
imagine that which we lack. The interesting question of the “why” of all
this we must here leave unanswered, while we return to the historic
problem: From what source do the phantasies draw their materials?[41] We
chose, as an example, a typical phantasy of puberty. A child in that stage
before whom the whole frightening uncertainty of the future fate opens,
puts back the uncertainty into the past, through his phantasy, and says, “If
only I were not the child of my ordinary parents, but the child of a rich and
fashionable count, and had been merely passed over to my parents, then
some day a golden coach would come, and the count would take his child
back with him to his wonderful castle,” and so it goes on, as in Grimm’s
Fairy Tales which the mother tells to her children.[42] With a normal child, it
stops with the fugitive, quickly-passing idea which is soon covered over
and forgotten. However, at one time, and that was in the ancient world of
culture, the phantasy was an openly acknowledged institution. The heroes,
—I recall Romulus and Remus, Semiramis, Moses and many others,—have
been separated from their real parents.[43] Others are directly sons of gods,
and the noble races derive their family trees from heroes and gods. As one
sees by this example, the phantasy of modern humanity is nothing but a re-
echo of an old-folk-belief, which was very widespread originally.[44] The
ambitious phantasy chooses, among others, a form which is classic, and
which once had a true meaning. The same thing holds good in regard to the
sexual phantasy. In the preamble we have spoken of dreams of sexual
assault: the robber who breaks into the house and commits a dangerous act.
That, too, is a mythological theme, and in the prehistoric era was certainly a
reality too.[45] Wholly apart from the fact that the capture of women was

something general in the lawless prehistoric times, it was also a subject of
mythology in cultivated epochs. I recall the capture of Proserpina, Deianira,
Europa, the Sabine women, etc. We must not forget that, even to-day,
marriage customs exist in various regions which recall the ancient custom
of marriage by capture.
The symbolism of the instrument of coitus was an inexhaustible material
for ancient phantasy. It furnished a widespread cult that was designated
phallic, the object of reverence of which was the phallus. The companion of
Dionysus was Phales, a personification of the phallus proceeding from the
phallic Herme of Dionysus. The phallic symbols were countless. Among the
Sabines, the custom existed for the bridegroom to part the bride’s hair with
a lance. The bird, the fish and the snake were phallic symbols. In addition,
there existed in enormous quantities theriomorphic representations of the
sexual instinct, in connection with which the bull, the he-goat, the ram, the
boar and the ass were frequently used. An undercurrent to this choice of
symbol was furnished by the sodomitic inclination of humanity. When in
the dream phantasy of modern man, the feared man is replaced by an
animal, there is recurring in the ontogenetic re-echo the same thing which
was openly represented by the ancients countless times. There were he-
goats which pursued nymphs, satyrs with she-goats; in still older times in
Egypt there even existed a shrine of a goat god, which the Greeks called
Pan, where the Hierodules prostituted themselves with goats.[46] It is well
known that this worship has not died out, but continues to live as a special
custom in South Italy and Greece.[47]
To-day we feel for such a thing nothing but the deepest abhorrence, and
never would admit it still slumbered in our souls. Nevertheless, just as truly
as the idea of the sexual assault is there, so are these things there too; which
we should contemplate still more closely,—not through moral eye-glasses,
with horror, but with interest as a natural science, since these things are
venerable relics of past culture periods. We have, even to-day, a clause in
our penal code against sodomy. But that which was once so strong as to
give rise to a worship among a highly developed people has probably not
wholly disappeared from the human soul during the course of a few
generations. We may not forget that since the symposium of Plato, in which
homo-sexuality faces us on the same level with the so-called “normal
sexuality,” only eighty generations have passed. And what are eighty
generations? They shrink to an imperceptible period of time when

compared with the space of time which separates us from the homo-
Neandertalensis or Heidelbergensis. I might call to mind, in this connection,
some choice thoughts of the great historian Guglielmo Ferrero:[48]
“It is a very common belief that the further man is separated from the present by time, the more
does he differ from us in his thoughts and feelings; that the psychology of humanity changes from
century to century, like fashions of literature. Therefore, no sooner do we find in past history an
institution, a custom, a law or a belief a little different from those with which we are familiar, than we
immediately search for some complex meanings, which frequently resolve themselves into phrases of
doubtful significance.
“Indeed, man does not change so quickly; his psychology at bottom remains the same, and even if
his culture varies much from one epoch to another, it does not change the functioning of his mind.
The fundamental laws of the mind remain the same, at least during the short historical period of
which we have knowledge, and all phenomena, even the most strange, must be capable of
explanation by those common laws of the mind which we can recognize in ourselves.”
The psychologist should accept this viewpoint without reservation as
peculiarly applicable to himself. To-day, indeed, in our civilization the
phallic processions, the Dionysian mysteries of classical Athens, the
barefaced Phallic emblems, have disappeared from our coins, houses,
temples and streets; so also have the theriomorphic representations of the
Deity been reduced to small remnants, like the Dove of the Holy Ghost, the
Lamb of God and the Cock of Peter adorning our church towers. In the
same way, the capture and violation of women have shrunken away to
crimes. Yet all of this does not affect the fact that we, in childhood, go
through a period in which the impulses toward these archaic inclinations
appear again and again, and that through all our life we possess, side by
side with the newly recruited, directed and adapted thought, a phantastic
thought which corresponds to the thought of the centuries of antiquity and
barbarism. Just as our bodies still keep the reminders of old functions and
conditions in many old-fashioned organs, so our minds, too, which
apparently have outgrown those archaic tendencies, nevertheless bear the
marks of the evolution passed through, and the very ancient re-echoes, at
least dreamily, in phantasies.
The symbolism which Freud has discovered, is revealed as an expression
of a thinking and of an impulse limited to the dream, to wrong conduct, and
to derangements of the mind, which form of thinking and impulse at one
time ruled as the mightiest influence in past culture epochs.
The question of whence comes the inclination and ability which enables
the mind to express itself symbolically, brings us to the distinction between
the two kinds of thinking—the directed and adapted on one hand, and the

subjective, fed by our own egotistic wishes, on the other. The latter form of
thinking, presupposing that it were not constantly corrected by the adapted
thinking, must necessarily produce an overwhelmingly subjectively
distorted idea of the world. We regard this state of mind as infantile. It lies
in our individual past, and in the past of mankind.
With this we affirm the important fact that man in his phantastic thinking
has kept a condensation of the psychic history of his development. An
extraordinarily important task, which even to-day is hardly possible, is to
give a systematic description of phantastic thinking. One may, at the most,
sketch it. While directed thinking is a phenomenon conscious throughout,[49]
the same cannot be asserted of phantastic thinking. Doubtless, a great part
of it still falls entirely in the realm of the conscious, but, at least, just as
much goes along in half shadows, and generally an undetermined amount in
the unconscious; and this can, therefore, be disclosed only indirectly.[50] By
means of phantastic thinking, directed thinking is connected with the oldest
foundations of the human mind, which have been for a long time beneath
the threshold of the consciousness. The products of this phantastic thinking
arising directly from the consciousness are, first, waking dreams, or day-
dreams, to which Freud, Flournoy, Pick and others have given special
attention; then the dreams which offer to the consciousness, at first, a
mysterious exterior, and win meaning only through the indirectly inferred
unconscious contents. Lastly, there is a so-called wholly unconscious
phantasy system in the split-off complex, which exhibits a pronounced
tendency towards the production of a dissociated personality.[51]
Our foregoing explanations show wherein the products arising from the
unconscious are related to the mythical. From all these signs it may be
concluded that the soul possesses in some degree historical strata, the oldest
stratum of which would correspond to the unconscious. The result of that
must be that an introversion occurring in later life, according to the
Freudian teaching, seizes upon regressive infantile reminiscences taken
from the individual past. That first points out the way; then, with stronger
introversion and regression (strong repressions, introversion psychoses),
there come to light pronounced traits of an archaic mental kind which,
under certain circumstances, might go as far as the re-echo of a once
manifest, archaic mental product.

This problem deserves to be more thoroughly discussed. As a concrete
example, let us take the history of the pious Abbé Oegger which Anatole
France has communicated to us.[52] This priest was a hypercritical man, and
much given to phantasies, especially in regard to one question, viz., the fate
of Judas; whether he was really damned, as the teaching of the church
asserts, to everlasting punishment, or whether God had pardoned him after
all. Oegger sided with the intelligent point of view that God, in his all-
wisdom, had chosen Judas as an instrument, in order to bring about the
highest point of the work of redemption by Christ.[53] This necessary
instrument, without the help of which the human race would not have been
a sharer in salvation, could not possibly be damned by the all-good God. In
order to put an end to his doubts, Oegger went one night to the church, and
made supplication for a sign that Judas was saved. Then he felt a heavenly
touch upon his shoulder. Following this, Oegger told the Archbishop of his
resolution to go out into the world to preach God’s unending mercy.
Here we have a richly developed phantasy system before us. It is
concerned with the subtle and perpetually undecided question as to whether
the legendary figure of Judas is damned or not. The Judas legend is, in
itself, mythical material, viz., the malicious betrayal of a hero. I recall
Siegfried and Hagen, Balder and Loki. Siegfried and Balder were murdered
by a faithless traitor from among their closest associates. This myth is
moving and tragic—it is not honorable battle which kills the noble, but evil
treachery. It is, too, an occurrence which is historical over and over again.
One thinks of Cæsar and Brutus. Since the myth of such a deed is very old,
and still the subject of teaching and repetition, it is the expression of a
psychological fact, that envy does not allow humanity to sleep, and that all
of us carry, in a hidden recess of our heart, a deadly wish towards the hero.
This rule can be applied generally to mythical tradition. It does not set forth
any account of the old events, but rather acts in such a way that it always
reveals a thought common to humanity, and once more rejuvenated. Thus,
for example, the lives and deeds of the founders of old religions are the
purest condensations of typical, contemporaneous myths, behind which the
individual figure entirely disappears.[54]
But why does our pious Abbé torment himself with the old Judas legend?
He first went into the world to preach the gospel of mercy, and then, after
some time, he separated from the Catholic church and became a
Swedenborgian. Now we understand his Judas phantasy. He was the Judas

who betrayed his Lord. Therefore, first of all, he had to make sure of the
divine mercy, in order to be Judas in peace.
This case throws a light upon the mechanism of the phantasies in general.
The known, conscious phantasy may be of mythical or other material; it is
not to be taken seriously as such, for it has an indirect meaning. If we take
it, however, as important per se, then the thing is not understandable, and
makes one despair of the efficiency of the mind. But we saw, in the case of
Abbé Oegger, that his doubts and his hopes did not turn upon the historical
problem of Judas, but upon his own personality, which wished to win a way
to freedom for itself through the solution of the Judas problem.
The conscious phantasies tell us of mythical or other material of
undeveloped or no longer recognized wish tendencies in the soul. As is
easily to be understood, an innate tendency, an acknowledgment of which
one refuses to make, and which one treats as non-existent, can hardly
contain a thing that may be in accord with our conscious character. It
concerns the tendencies which are considered immoral, and as generally
impossible, and the strongest resentment is felt towards bringing them into
the consciousness. What would Oegger have said had he been told
confidentially that he was preparing himself for the Judas rôle? And what in
ourselves do we consider immoral and non-existent, or which we at least
wish were non-existent? It is that which in antiquity lay widespread on the
surface, viz., sexuality in all its various manifestations. Therefore, we need
not wonder in the least when we find this at the base of most of our
phantasies, even if the phantasies have a different appearance. Because
Oegger found the damnation of Judas incompatible with God’s goodness,
he thought about the conflict in that way; that is the conscious sequence.
Along with this is the unconscious sequence; because Oegger himself
wished to be a Judas, he first made sure of the goodness of God. To Oegger,
Judas was the symbol of his own unconscious tendency, and he made use of
this symbol in order to be able to meditate over his unconscious wish. The
direct coming into consciousness of the Judas wish would have been too
painful for him. Thus, there must be typical myths which are really the
instruments of a folk-psychological complex treatment. Jacob Burckhardt
seems to have suspected this when he once said that every Greek of the
classical era carried in himself a fragment of the Oedipus, just as every
German carries a fragment of Faust.[55]

The problem which the simple story of the Abbé Oegger has brought
clearly before us confronts us again when we prepare to examine phantasies
which owe their existence this time to an exclusively unconscious work. We
are indebted for the material which we will use in the following chapters to
the useful publication of an American woman, Miss Frank Miller, who has
given to the world some poetical unconsciously formed phantasies under
the title, “Quelque faits d’imagination créatrice subconsciente.”—Vol. V.,
Archives de Psychologie, 1906.[56]

CHAPTER II
THE MILLER PHANTASIES

We know, from much psychoanalytic experience, that whenever one
recounts his phantasies or his dreams, he deals not only with the most
important and intimate of his problems, but with the one the most painful at
that moment.[57]
Since in the case of Miss Miller we have to do with a complicated
system, we must give our attention carefully to the particulars which I will
discuss, following as best I can Miss Miller’s presentation.
In the first chapter, “Phénomènes de suggestion passagère ou
d’autosuggestion instantanée,” Miss Miller gives a list of examples of her
unusual suggestibility, which she herself considers as a symptom of her
nervous temperament; for example, she is excessively fond of caviar,
whereas some of her relatives loathe it. However, as soon as any one
expresses his loathing, she herself feels momentarily the same loathing. I do
not need to emphasize especially the fact that such examples are very
important in individual psychology; that caviar is a food for which nervous
women frequently have an especial predilection, is a fact well known to the
psychoanalyst.
Miss Miller has an extraordinary faculty for taking other people’s
feelings upon herself, and of identification; for example, she identifies
herself to such a degree in “Cyrano” with the wounded Christian de
Neuvillette, that she feels in her own breast a truly piercing pain at that
place where Christian received the deadly blow.
From the viewpoint of analytic psychology, the theatre, aside from any
esthetic value, may be considered as an institution for the treatment of the
mass complex. The enjoyment of the comedy, or of the dramatic plot ending
happily is produced by an unreserved identification of one’s own complexes
with the play. The enjoyment of tragedy lies in the thrilling yet satisfactory
feeling that something which might occur to one’s self is happening to

another. The sympathy of our author with the dying Christian means that
there is in her a complex awaiting a similar solution, which whispers softly
to her “hodie tibi, cras mihi,” and that one may know exactly what is
considered the effectual moment Miss Miller adds that she felt a pain in her
breast, “Lorsque Sarah Bernhardt se précipite sur lui pour étancher le sang
de sa blessure.” Therefore the effectual moment is when the love between
Christian and Roxane comes to a sudden end.
If we glance over the whole of Rostand’s play, we come upon certain
moments, the effect of which one cannot easily escape and which we will
emphasize here because they have meaning for all that follows. Cyrano de
Bergerac, with the long ugly nose, on account of which he undertakes
countless duels, loves Roxane, who, for her part unaware of it, loves
Christian, because of the beautiful verses which really originate from
Cyrano’s pen, but which apparently come from Christian. Cyrano is the
misunderstood one, whose passionate love and noble soul no one suspects;
the hero who sacrifices himself for others, and, dying, just in the evening of
life, reads to her once more Christian’s last letter, the verses which he
himself had composed.
“Roxane, adieu, je vais mourir!
C’est pour ce soir, je crois, ma bien-aimée!
J’ai l’âme lourde encore d’amour inexprimé.
Et je meurs! Jamais plus, jamais mes yeux grisés,
Mes regards dont c’était les frémissantes fêtes,
Ne baiseront au vol les gestes que vous faites;
J’en revois un petit qui vous est familier
Pour toucher votre front et je voudrais crier—.
Et je crie:
Adieu!—Ma chère, ma chérie,
Mon trésor—mon amour!
Mon coeur ne vous quitta jamais une seconde,
Et je suis et je serai jusque dans l’autre monde
Celui qui vous aime sans mesure, celui—”

Whereupon Roxane recognizes in him the real loved one. It is already too
late; death comes; and in agonized delirium, Cyrano raises himself, and
draws his sword:
“Je crois, qu’elle regarde....
Qu’elle ose regarder mon nez, la camarde!

(Il lève son épée.)

Que dites-vous?... C’est inutile!
Je le sais!
Mais on ne se bat pas dans l’espoir du succès!
Non! Non! C’est bien plus beau, lorsque c’est inutile!
—Qu’est-ce que c’est que tous ceux-là?—Vous êtes mille?
Ah! je vous reconnais, tous mes vieux ennemis!
Le mensonge!

(Il frappe de son épée le vide.)
Tiens, tiens, ha! ha! les Compromis,
Les Préjugés, les Lâchetés!...

(Il frappe.)
Que je pactise?
Jamais, jamais!—Ah, te voilà, toi, la Sottise!
—Je sais bien qu’à la fin vous me mettrez à bas;
N’importe: je me bats! je me bats! je me bats!
Oui, vous m’arrachez tout, le laurier et la rose!
Arrachez! Il y a malgré vous quelque chose
Que j’emporte, et ce soir, quand j’entrerai chez Dieu,
Mon salut balaiera largement le seuil bleu.
Quelque chose que sans un pli, sans une tache,
J’emporte malgré vous, et c’est—mon panache.”

Cyrano, who under the hateful exterior of his body hid a soul so much
more beautiful, is a yearner and one misunderstood, and his last triumph is
that he departs, at least, with a clean shield—“Sans un pli et sans une
tache.” The identification of the author with the dying Christian, who in
himself is a figure but little impressive and sympathetic, expresses clearly
that a sudden end is destined for her love just as for Christian’s love. The
tragic intermezzo with Christian, however, is played as we have seen upon a
background of much wider significance, viz., the misunderstood love of
Cyrano for Roxane. Therefore, the identification with Christian has only the
significance of a substitute memory (“deckerinnerung”), and is really
intended for Cyrano. That this is just what we might expect will be seen in
the further course of our analysis.
Besides this story of identification with Christian, there follows as a
further example an extraordinarily plastic memory of the sea, evoked by the
sight of a photograph of a steamboat on the high seas. (“Je sentis les
pulsations des machines, le soulèvement des vagues, le balancement du
navire.”)

We may mention here the supposition that there are connected with sea
journeys particularly impressive and strong memories which penetrate
deeply into the soul and give an especially strong character to the surface
memories through unconscious harmony. To what extent the memories
assumed here agree with the above mentioned problem we shall see in the
following pages.
This example, following at this time, is singular: Once, while in bathing,
Miss Miller wound a towel around her hair, in order to protect it from a
wetting. At the same moment she had the following strong impression:
“Il me sembla que j’étais sur un piédestal, une véritable statue égyptienne, avec tous ses détails:
membres raides, un pied en avant, la main tenant des insignes,” and so on.
Miss Miller identified herself, therefore, with an Egyptian statue, and
naturally the foundation for this was a subjective pretension. That is to say,
“I am like an Egyptian statue, just as stiff, wooden, sublime and impassive,”
qualities for which the Egyptian statue is proverbial. One does not make
such an assertion to one’s self without an inner compulsion, and the correct
formula might just as well be, “as stiff, wooden, etc., as an Egyptian statue I
might indeed be.” The sight of one’s own unclothed body in a bath has
undeniable effects for the phantasy, which can be set at rest by the above
formula.[58]
The example which follows this, emphasizes the author’s personal
influence upon an artist:
“J’ai réussi à lui faire rendre des paysages, comme ceux du lac Léman, où il n’a jamais été, et il
prétendait que je pouvais lui faire rendre des choses qu’il n’avait jamais vues, et lui donner la
sensation d’une atmosphère ambiante qu’il n’avait jamais sentie; bref que je me servais de lui comme
lui-même se servait de son crayon, c’est à dire comme d’un simple instrument.”
This observation stands in abrupt contrast to the phantasy of the Egyptian
statue. Miss Miller had here the unspoken need of emphasizing her almost
magic effect upon another person. This could not have happened, either,
without an unconscious need, which is particularly felt by one who does not
often succeed in making an emotional impression upon a fellow being.
With that, the list of examples which are to picture Miss Miller’s
autosuggestibility and suggestive effect, is exhausted. In this respect, the
examples are neither especially striking nor interesting. From an analytical
viewpoint, on the contrary, they are much more important, since they afford
us a glance into the soul of the writer. Ferenczi[59] has taught us in an
excellent work what is to be thought about suggestibility, that is to say, that

these phenomena win new aspects in the light of the Freudian libido theory,
in so much as their effects become clear through “Libido-besetzungen.”
This was already indicated above in the discussion of the examples, and in
the greatest detail regarding the identification with Christian. The
identification becomes effective by its receiving an influx of energy from
the strongly accentuated thought and emotional feeling underlying the
Christian motif. Just the reverse is the suggestive effect of the individual in
an especial capacity for concentrating interest (that is to say, libido) upon
another person, by which the other is unconsciously compelled to reaction
(the same or opposed). The majority of the examples concern cases where
Miss Miller is put under the effects of suggestion; that is to say, when the
libido has spontaneously gained possession of certain impressions, and this
is impossible if the libido is dammed up to an unusual degree by the lack of
application to reality. Miss Miller’s observations about suggestibility inform
us, therefore, of the fact that the author is pleased to tell us in her following
phantasies something of the history of her love.

CHAPTER III
THE HYMN OF CREATION

The second chapter in Miss Miller’s work is entitled, “Gloire à Dieu.
Poème onirique.”
When twenty years of age, Miss Miller took a long journey through
Europe. We leave the description of it to her:
“After a long and rough journey from New York to Stockholm, from there to Petersburg and
Odessa, I found it a true pleasure[60] to leave the world of inhabited cities—and to enter the world of
waves, sky and silence—I stayed hours long on deck to dream, stretched out in a reclining chair. The
histories, legends and myths of the different countries which I saw in the distance, came back to me
indistinctly blended together in a sort of luminous mist, in which things lost their reality, while the
dreams and thoughts alone took on somewhat the appearance of reality. At first, I even avoided all
company and kept to myself, lost wholly in my dreams, where all that I knew of great, beautiful and
good came back into my consciousness with new strength and new life. I also employed a great part
of my time writing to my distant friends, reading and sketching out short poems about the regions
visited. Some of these poems were of a very serious character.”
It may seem superfluous, perhaps, to enter intimately into all these
details. If we recall, however, the remark made above,—that when people
let their unconscious speak, they always tell us the most important things of
their intimate selves—then even the smallest detail appears to have
meaning. Valuable personalities invariably tell us, through their
unconscious, things that are generally valuable, so that patient interest is
rewarded.
Miss Miller describes here a state of “introversion.” After the life of the
cities with their many impressions had been absorbing her interest (with
that already discussed strength of suggestion which powerfully enforced the
impression) she breathed freely upon the ocean, and after so many external
impressions, became engrossed wholly in the internal with intentional
abstraction from the surroundings, so that things lost their reality and
dreams became truth. We know from psychopathology that certain mental
disturbances[61] exist which are first manifested by the individuals shutting
themselves off slowly, more and more, from reality and sinking into their
phantasies, during which process, in proportion as the reality loses its hold,

the inner world gains in reality and determining power.[62] This process
leads to a certain point (which varies with the individual) when the patients
suddenly become more or less conscious of their separation from reality.
The event which then enters is the pathological excitation: that is to say, the
patients begin to turn towards the environment, with diseased views (to be
sure) which, however, still represent the compensating, although
unsuccessful, attempt at transference.[63] The methods of reaction are,
naturally, very different. I will not concern myself more closely about this
here.
This type appears to be generally a psychological rule which holds good
for all neuroses and, therefore, also for the normal in a much less degree.
We might, therefore, expect that Miss Miller, after this energetic and
persevering introversion, which had even encroached for a time upon the
feeling of reality, would succumb anew to an impression of the real world
and also to just as suggestive and energetic an influence as that of her
dreams. Let us proceed with the narrative:
“But as the journey drew to an end, the ship’s officers outdid themselves in kindness (tout ce qu’il
y a de plus empressé et de plus aimable) and I passed many amusing hours teaching them English.
On the Sicilian coast, in the harbor of Catania, I wrote a sailor’s song which was very similar to a
song well known on the sea, (Brine, wine and damsels fine). The Italians in general all sing very
well, and one of the officers who sang on deck during night watch, had made a great impression upon
me and had given me the idea of writing some words adapted to his melody. Soon after that, I was
very nearly obliged to reverse the well-known saying, ‘Veder Napoli e poi morir,’—that is to say,
suddenly I became very ill, although not dangerously so. I recovered to such an extent, however, that
I could go on land to visit the sights of the city in a carriage. This day tired me very much, and since
we had planned to see Pisa the following day, I went on board early in the evening and soon lay
down to sleep without thinking of anything more serious than the beauty of the officers and the
ugliness of the Italian beggars.”
One is somewhat disappointed at meeting here, instead of the expected
impression of reality, rather a small intermezzo, a flirtation. Nevertheless,
one of the officers, the singer, had made a great impression (il m’avait fait
beaucoup d’impression). The remark at the close of the description, “sans
songer à rien de plus sérieux qu’à la beauté des officiers,” and so on,
diminishes the seriousness of the impression, it is true. The assumption,
however, that the impression openly influenced the mood very much, is
supported by the fact that a poem upon a subject of such an erotic character
came forth immediately, “Brine, wine and damsels fine,” and in the singer’s
honor. One is only too easily inclined to take such an impression lightly,
and one admits so gladly the statements of the participators when they
represent everything as simple and not at all serious. I dwell upon this

impression at length, because it is important to know that an erotic
impression after such an introversion, has a deep effect and is undervalued,
possibly, by Miss Miller. The suddenly passing sickness is obscure and
needs a psychologic interpretation which cannot be touched upon here
because of lack of data. The phenomena now to be described can only be
explained as arising from a disturbance which reaches to the very depths of
her being.
“From Naples to Livorno, the ship travelled for a night, during which I slept more or less well,—
my sleep, however, is seldom deep or dreamless. It seemed to me as if my mother’s voice wakened
me, just at the end of the following dream. At first I had a vague conception of the words, ‘When the
morning stars sang together,’ which were the praeludium of a certain confused representation of
creation and of the mighty chorals resounding through the universe. In spite of the strange,
contradictory and confused character which is peculiar to the dream, there was mingled in it the
chorus of an oratorio which has been given by one of the foremost musical societies of New York,
and with that were also memories of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ Then from out of this whirl, there
slowly emerged certain words, which arranged themselves into three strophes and, indeed, they
seemed to be in my own handwriting on ordinary blue-lined writing paper on a page of my old poetry
book which I always carried around with me; in short, they appeared to me exactly as some minutes
later they were in reality in my book.”
Miss Miller now wrote down the following poem, which she rearranged
somewhat a few months later, to make it more nearly, in her opinion, like
the dream original.
“When the Eternal first made Sound
A myriad ears sprang out to hear,
And throughout all the Universe
There rolled an echo deep and clear:
All glory to the God of Sound!

“When the Eternal first made Light
A myriad eyes sprang out to look,
And hearing ears and seeing eyes
Once more a mighty choral took:
All glory to the God of Light!

“When the Eternal first gave Love
A myriad hearts sprang into life;
Ears filled with music, eyes with light;
Pealed forth with hearts with love all rife:
All glory to the God of Love!”

Before we enter upon Miss Miller’s attempt to bring to light through her
suppositions[64] the root of this subliminal creation, we will attempt a short
analytic survey of the material already in our possession. The impression on
the ship has already been properly emphasized, so that we need have no

further difficulty in gaining possession of the dynamic process which
brought about this poetical revelation. It was made clear in the preceding
paragraphs that Miss Miller possibly had not inconsiderably undervalued
the importance of the erotic impression. This assumption gains in
probability through experience, which shows that, very generally, relatively
weak erotic impressions are greatly undervalued. One can see this best in
cases where those concerned, either from social or moral grounds, consider
an erotic relation as something quite impossible; for example, parents and
children, brothers and sisters, relations (homosexual) between older and
younger men, and so on. If the impression is relatively slight, then it does
not exist at all for the participators; if the impression is strong, then a tragic
dependence arises, which may result in some great nonsense, or be carried
to any extent. This lack of understanding can go unbelievably far; mothers,
who see the first erections of the small son in their own bed, a sister who
half-playfully embraces her brother, a twenty-year-old daughter who still
seats herself on her father’s lap, and then has “strange” sensations in her
“abdomen.” They are all morally indignant to the highest degree if one
speaks of “sexuality.” Finally, our whole education is carried on with the
tacit agreement to know as little as possible of the erotic, and to spread
abroad the deepest ignorance in regard to it. It is no wonder, therefore, that
the judgment, in puncto, of the importance of an erotic impression is
generally unsafe and inadequate.
Miss Miller was under the influence of a deep erotic impression, as we
have seen. Because of the sum-total of the feelings aroused by this, it does
not seem that this impression was more than dimly realized, for the dream
had to contain a powerful repetition. From analytic experience, one knows
that the early dreams which patients bring for analysis are none the less of
especial interest, because of the fact that they bring out criticisms and
valuations of the physician’s personality, which previously, would have
been asked for directly in vain. They enrich the conscious impression which
the patient had of his physician, and often concerning very important points.
They are naturally erotic observations which the unconscious was forced to
make, just because of the quite universal undervaluation and uncertain
judgment of the relatively weak erotic impression. In the drastic and
hyperbolic manner of expression of the dream, the impression often appears
in almost unintelligible form on account of the immeasurable dimension of
the symbol. A further peculiarity which seems to rest upon the historic strata

of the unconscious, is this—that an erotic impression, to which conscious
acknowledgment is denied, usurps an earlier and discarded transference and
expresses itself in that. Therefore, it frequently happens, for example, that
among young girls at the time of their first love, remarkable difficulties
develop in the capacity for erotic expression, which may be reduced
analytically to disturbances through a regressive attempt at resuscitation of
the father image, or the “Father-Imago.”[65]
Indeed, one might presume something similar in Miss Miller’s case, for
the idea of the masculine creative deity is a derivation, analytically and
historically psychologic, of the “Father-Imago,”[66] and aims, above all, to
replace the discarded infantile father transference in such a way that for the
individual the passing from the narrow circle of the family into the wider
circle of human society may be simpler or made easier.
In the light of this reflection, we can see, in the poem and its
“Praeludium,” the religious, poetically formed product of an introversion
depending upon the surrogate of the “Father-Imago.” In spite of the
incomplete apperception of the effectual impression, essential component
parts of this are included in the idea of compensation, as marks, so to speak,
of its origin. (Pfister has coined for this the striking expression, “Law of the
Return of the Complex.”) The effectual impression was that of the officer
singing in the night watch, “When the morning stars sang together.” The
idea of this opened a new world to the girl. (Creation.)
This creator has created tone, then light, and then love. That the first to
be created should have been tone, can be made clear only individually, for
there is no cosmogony except the Gnosis of Hermes, a generally quite
unknown system, which would have such tendencies. But now we might
venture a conjecture, which is already apparent, and which soon will be
proven thoroughly, viz., the following chain of associations: the singer—the
singing morning stars—the God of tone—the Creator—the God of Light—
(of the sun)—(of the fire)—and of Love.
The links of this chain are proven by the material, with the exception of
sun and fire, which I put in parentheses, but which, however, will be proven
through what follows in the further course of the analysis. All of these
expressions, with one exception, belong to erotic speech. (“My God, star,
light; my sun, fire of love, fiery love,” etc.) “Creator” appears indistinct at
first, but becomes understandable through the reference to the undertone of

Eros, to the vibrating chord of Nature, which attempts to renew itself in
every pair of lovers, and awaits the wonder of creation.
Miss Miller had taken pains to disclose the unconscious creation of her
mind to her understanding, and, indeed through a procedure which agrees in
principle with psychoanalysis, and, therefore, leads to the same results as
psychoanalysis. But, as usually happens with laymen and beginners, Miss
Miller, because she had no knowledge of psychoanalysis, left off at the
thoughts which necessarily bring the deep complex lying at the bottom of it
to light in an indirect, that is to say, censored manner. More than this, a
simple method, merely the carrying out of the thought to its conclusion, is
sufficient to discover the meaning. Miss Miller finds it astonishing that her
unconscious phantasy does not, following the Mosaic account of creation,
put light in the first place, instead of tone.
Now follows an explanation, theoretically constructed and correct ad hoc,
the hollowness of which is, however, characteristic of all similar attempts at
explanation. She says:
“It is perhaps interesting to recall that Anaxagoras also had the Cosmos arise out of chaos through
a sort of whirlwind, which does not happen usually without producing sound.[67] But at this time I
had studied no philosophy, and knew nothing either of Anaxagoras or of his theories about the ‘νοῦς,’
which I, unconsciously, was openly following. At that time, also, I was equally in complete ignorance
of Leibnitz, and, therefore, knew nothing of his doctrine ‘dum Deus calculat, fit mundus.’”
Miss Miller’s references to Anaxagoras and to Leibnitz both refer to
creation by means of thought; that is to say, that divine thought alone could
bring forth a new material reality, a reference at first not intelligible, but
which will soon, however, be more easily understood.
We now come to those fancies from which Miss Miller principally drew
her unconscious creation.
“In the first place, there is the ‘Paradise Lost’ by Milton, which we had at home in the edition
illustrated by Doré, and which had often delighted me from childhood. Then the ‘Book of Job,’ which
had been read aloud to me since the time of my earliest recollection. Moreover, if one compares the
first words of ‘Paradise Lost’ with my first verse, one notices that there is the same verse measure.

“‘Of man’s first disobedience ...

“‘When the Eternal first made sound.’

“My poem also recalls various passages in Job, and one or two places in Handel’s Oratorio ‘The
Creation,’ which came out very indistinctly in the first part of the dream.”[68]
The “Lost Paradise” which, as is well known, is so closely connected
with the beginning of the world, is made more clearly evident by the verse

—
“Of man’s first disobedience”
which is concerned evidently with the fall, the meaning of which need
not be shown any further. I know the objection which every one
unacquainted with psychoanalysis will raise, viz., that Miss Miller might
just as well have chosen any other verse as an example, and that,
accidentally, she had taken the first one that happened to appear which had
this content, also accidentally. As is well known, the criticism which we
hear equally from our medical colleagues, and from our patients, is
generally based on such arguments. This misunderstanding arises from the
fact that the law of causation in the psychical sphere is not taken seriously
enough; that is to say, there are no accidents, no “just as wells.” It is so, and
there is, therefore, a sufficient reason at hand why it is so. It is moreover
true that Miss Miller’s poem is connected with the fall, wherein just that
erotic component comes forth, the existence of which we have surmised
above.
Miss Miller neglects to tell which passages in Job occurred to her mind.
These, unfortunately, are therefore only general suppositions. Take first, the
analogy to the Lost Paradise. Job lost all that he had, and this was due to an
act of Satan, who wished to incite him against God. In the same way
mankind, through the temptation of the serpent, lost Paradise, and was
plunged into earth’s torments. The idea, or rather the mood which is
expressed by the reference to the Lost Paradise, is Miss Miller’s feeling that
she had lost something which was connected with satanic temptation. To
her it happened, just as to Job, that she suffered innocently, for she did not
fall a victim to temptation. Job’s sufferings are not understood by his
friends;[69] no one knows that Satan has taken a hand in the game, and that
Job is truly innocent. Job never tires of avowing his innocence. Is there a
hint in that? We know that certain neurotic and especially mentally diseased
people continually defend their innocence against non-existent attacks;
however, one discovers at a closer examination that the patient, while he
apparently defends his innocence without reason, fulfils with that a
“Deckhandlung,” the energy for which arises from just those impulses,
whose sinful character is revealed by the contents of the pretended reproach
and calumny.[70]

Job suffered doubly, on one side through the loss of his fortune, on the
other through the lack of understanding in his friends; the latter can be seen
throughout the book. The suffering of the misunderstood recalls the figure
of Cyrano de Bergerac—he too suffered doubly, on one side through
hopeless love, on the other side through misunderstanding. He falls, as we
have seen, in the last hopeless battle against “Le Mensonge, les
Compromis, les Préjugés, les Lâchetés et la Sottise.—Oui, Vous m’arrachez
tout le laurier et la rose!”
Job laments
“God delivereth me to the ungodly,
And casteth me into the hands of the wicked,
I was at ease, and he brake me asunder;
Yea, he hath taken me by the neck, and dashed me to pieces:

“He hath also set me up for his mark.
His archers compass me round about;
He cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare;
He poureth out my gall upon the ground.
He breaketh me with breach upon breach;
He runneth upon me like a giant.”—Job xvi: 11–15.

The analogy of feeling lies in the suffering of the hopeless struggle
against the more powerful. It is as if this conflict were accompanied from
afar by the sounds of “creation,” which brings up a beautiful and mysterious
image belonging to the unconscious, and which has not yet forced its way
up to the light of the upper world. We surmise, rather than know, that this
battle has really something to do with creation, with the struggles between
negations and affirmations. The references to Rostand’s “Cyrano” through
the identification with Christian, to Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” to the sorrows
of Job, misunderstood by his friends, betray plainly that in the soul of the
poet something was identified with these ideas. She also has suffered like
Cyrano and Job, has lost paradise, and dreams of “creation,”—creation by
means of thought—fruition through the whirlwind of Anaxagoras.[71]
We once more submit ourselves to Miss Miller’s guidance:
“I remember that when fifteen years old, I was once very much stirred up over an article, read
aloud to me by my mother, concerning the idea which spontaneously produced its object. I was so
excited that I could not sleep all night because of thinking over and over again what that could mean.
“From the age of nine to sixteen, I went every Sunday to a Presbyterian Church, in charge of
which, at that time, was a very cultured minister. In one of the earliest memories which I have
retained of him, I see myself as a very small girl sitting in a very large pew, continually endeavoring

to keep myself awake and pay attention, without in the least being able to understand what he meant
when he spoke to us of Chaos, Cosmos and the Gift of Love (don d’amour).”
There are also rather early memories of the awakening of puberty (nine
to sixteen) which have connected the idea of the cosmos springing from
chaos with the “don d’amour.” The medium in which these associations
occur is the memory of a certain very much honored ecclesiastic who spoke
those dark words. From the same period of time comes the remembrance of
that excitement about the idea of the “creative thought” which from itself
“produced its object.” Here are two ways of creation intimated: the creative
thought, and the mysterious reference to the “don d’amour.”
At the time when I had not yet understood the nature of psychoanalysis, I
had a fortunate opportunity of winning through continual observation a
deep insight into the soul of a fifteen-year-old girl. Then I discovered, with
astonishment, what the contents of the unconscious phantasies are, and how
far removed they are from those which a girl of that age shows outwardly.
There are wide-reaching phantasies of truly mythical fruitfulness. The girl
was, in the split-off phantasy, the race-mother of uncounted peoples.[72] If
we deduct the poetically spoken phantasy of the girl, elements are left
which at that age are common to all girls, for the unconscious content is to
an infinitely greater degree common to all mankind than the content of the
individual consciousness. For it is the condensation of that which is
historically the average and ordinary.
Miss Miller’s problem at this age was the common human problem:
“How am I to be creative?” Nature knows but one answer to that: “Through
the child (don d’amour!).” “But how is the child attained?” Here the
terrifying problem emerges, which, as our analytic experience shows, is
connected with the father,[73] where it cannot be solved; because the original
sin of incest weighs heavily for all time upon the human race. The strong
and natural love which binds the child to the father, turns away in those
years during which the humanity of the father would be all too plainly
recognized, to the higher forms of the father, to the “Fathers” of the church,
and to the Father God,[74] visibly represented by them, and in that there lies
still less possibility of solving the problem. However, mythology is not
lacking in consolations. Has not the logos become flesh too? Has not the
divine pneuma, even the logos, entered the Virgin’s womb and lived among
us as the son of man? That whirlwind of Anaxagoras was precisely the
divine νοῦς which from out of itself has become the world. Why do we

cherish the image of the Virgin Mother even to this day? Because it is
always comforting and says without speech or noisy sermon to the one
seeking comfort, “I too have become a mother,”—through the “idea which
spontaneously produces its object.”
I believe that there is foundation enough at hand for a sleepless night, if
those phantasies peculiar to the age of puberty were to become possessed of
this idea—the results would be immeasurable! All that is psychologic has
an under and an over meaning, as is expressed in the profound remark of
the old mystic: οὐρανὸς ἄνο, οὐρανὸς κάτο, αἰθέρα ἄνο, αἰθέρα κάτο, πᾶν
τοῦτο ἄνο, πᾶν τοῦτο κάτο, τοῦτο λαβὲ καὶ εὐτυχει[75]—
We would show but slight justice, however, to the intellectual originality
of our author, if we were satisfied to trace back the commotion of that
sleepless night absolutely and entirely to the sexual problem in a narrow
sense. That would be but one-half, and truly, to make use of the mystic’s
expression, only the under half. The other half is the intellectual
sublimation, which strives to make true in its own way the ambiguous
expression of “the idea which produces its object spontaneously,”—ideal
creation in place of the real.
In such an intellectual accomplishment of an evidently very capable
personality, the prospect of a spiritual fruitfulness is something which is
worthy of the highest aspiration, since for many it will become a necessity
of life. Also this side of the phantasy explains, to a great extent, the
excitement, for it is a thought with a presentiment of the future; one of those
thoughts which arise, to use one of Maeterlinck’s expressions,[76] from the
“inconscient supérieur,” that “prospective potency” of subliminal
combinations.[77]
I have had the opportunity of observing certain cases of neuroses of
years’ duration, in which, at the time of the beginning of the illness or
shortly before, a dream occurred, often of visionary clarity. This impressed
itself inextinguishably upon the memory, and in analysis revealed a hidden
meaning to the patient which anticipated the subsequent events of life; that
is to say, their psychologic meaning.[78] I am inclined to grant this meaning
to the commotion of that restless night, because the resulting events of life,
in so far as Miss Miller consciously and unconsciously unveils them to us,
are entirely of a nature to confirm the supposition that that moment is to be
considered as the inception and presentiment of a sublimated aim in life.

Miss Miller concludes the list of her fancies with the following remarks:
“The dream seemed to me to come from a mixture of the representation of ‘Paradise Lost,’ ‘Job,’
and ‘Creation,’ with ideas such as ‘thought which spontaneously produces its object’: ‘the gift of
love,’ ‘chaos, and cosmos.’”
In the same way as colored splinters of glass are combined in a
kaleidoscope, in her mind fragments of philosophy, æsthetics and religion
would seem to be combined—
“under the stimulating influence of the journey, and the countries hurriedly seen, combined with
the great silence and the indescribable charm of the sea. ‘Ce ne fut que cela et rien de plus.’ ‘Only
this, and nothing more!’”
With these words, Miss Miller shows us out, politely and energetically.
Her parting words in her negation, confirmed over again in English, leave
behind a curiosity; viz., what position is to be negated by these words? “Ce
ne fut que cela et rien de plus”—that is to say, really, only “le charme
impalpable de la mer”—and the young man who sang melodiously during
the night watch is long since forgotten, and no one is to know, least of all
the dreamer, that he was a morning star, who came before the creation of a
new day.[79] One should take care lest he satisfy himself and the reader with
a sentence such as “ce ne fut que cela.” Otherwise, it might immediately
happen that one would become disturbed again. This occurs to Miss Miller
too, since she allowed an English quotation to follow,—“Only this, and
nothing more,” without giving the source, it is true. The quotation comes
from an unusually effective poem, “The Raven” by Poe. The line referred to
occurs in the following:
“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—
‘’Tis some visitor.’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door’—
Only this, and nothing more.”

The spectral raven knocks nightly at his door and reminds the poet of his
irrevocably lost “Lenore.” The raven’s name is “Nevermore,” and as a
refrain to every verse he croaks his horrible “Nevermore.” Old memories
come back tormentingly, and the spectre repeats inexorably “Nevermore.”
The poet seeks in vain to frighten away the dismal guest; he calls to the
raven:
“‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend,’ I shrieked, upstarting—
‘Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’”
That quotation, which, apparently, skips lightly over the situation, “Only
this, and nothing more,” comes from a text which depicts in an affecting
manner the despair over the lost Lenore. That quotation also misleads our
poet in the most striking manner. Therefore, she undervalues the erotic
impression and the wide-reaching effect of the commotion caused by it. It is
this undervaluation, which Freud has formulated more precisely as
“repression,” which is the reason why the erotic problem does not attain
directly conscious treatment, and from this there arise “these psychologic
riddles.” The erotic impression works in the unconscious, and, in its stead,
pushes symbols forth into consciousness. Thus, one plays hide-and-seek
with one’s self. First, it is “the morning stars which sing together”; then
“Paradise Lost”; then the erotic yearning clothes itself in an ecclesiastical
dress and utters dark words about “World Creation” and finally rises into a
religious hymn to find there, at last, a way out into freedom, a way against
which the censor of the moral personality can oppose nothing more. The
hymn contains in its own peculiar character the marks of its origin. It thus
has fulfilled itself—the “Law of the Return of the Complex.” The night
singer, in this circuitous manner of the old transference to the Father-Priest,
has become the “Eternal,” the “Creator,” the God of Tone, of Light, of Love.
The indirect course of the libido seems to be a way of sorrow; at least
“Paradise Lost” and the parallel reference to Job lead one to that
conclusion. If we take, in addition to this, the introductory intimation of the
identification with Christian, which we see concludes with Cyrano, then we
are furnished with material which pictures the indirect course of the libido
as truly a way of sorrow. It is the same as when mankind, after the sinful
fall, had the burden of the earthly life to bear, or like the tortures of Job,
who suffered under the power of Satan and of God, and who himself,
without suspecting it, became a plaything of the superhuman forces which
we no longer consider as metaphysical, but as metapsychological. Faust
also offers us the same exhibition of God’s wager.
Mephistopheles:

What will you bet? There’s still a chance to gain him
If unto me full leave you give
Gently upon my road to train him!

Satan:

But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.—Job i:
11.
While in Job the two great tendencies are characterized simply as good
and bad, the problem in Faust is a pronouncedly erotic one; viz., the battle
between sublimation and eros, in which the Devil is strikingly characterized
through the fitting rôle of the erotic tempter. The erotic is lacking in Job; at
the same time Job is not conscious of the conflict within his own soul; he
even continuously disputes the arguments of his friends who wish to
convince him of evil in his own heart. To this extent, one might say that
Faust is considerably more honorable since he openly confesses to the
torments of his soul.
Miss Miller acts like Job; she says nothing, and lets the evil and the good
come from the other world, from the metapsychologic. Therefore, the
identification with Job is also significant in this respect. A wider, and,
indeed, a very important analogy remains to be mentioned. The creative
power, which love really is, rightly considered from the natural standpoint,
remains as the real attribute of the Divinity, sublimated from the erotic
impression; therefore, in the poem God is praised throughout as Creator.
Job offers the same illustration. Satan is the destroyer of Job’s
fruitfulness. God is the fruitful one himself, therefore, at the end of the
book, he gives forth, as an expression of his own creative power, this hymn,
filled with lofty poetic beauty. In this hymn, strangely enough, two
unsympathetic representatives of the animal kingdom, behemoth and the
leviathan, both expressive of the crudest force conceivable in nature, are
given chief consideration; the behemoth being really the phallic attribute of
the God of Creation.
“Behold now behemoth, which I made as well as thee;
He eateth grass as an ox.
Lo, now; his strength is in his loins,
And his force is in the muscles of his belly.
He moveth his tail like a cedar:
The sinews of his thighs are knit together.
His bones are as tubes of brass;
His limbs are like bars of iron.
He is the chief of the ways of God:
He only that made him giveth him his sword....
Behold, if a river overflow, he trembleth not;
He is confident though a Jordan swell even to his mouth.
Shall any take him when he is on the watch.
Or pierce through his nose with a snare?

Canst thou draw leviathan with a fish-hook?
Or press down his tongue with a cord?...
Lay thy hand upon him;
Remember the battle and do no more.
None is so fierce that dare stir him up:
Who then is he that can stand before me?
Who hath first given unto me, that I should repay him?
Whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine.”
—Job xl: 15–20, 23–24; xli: 1, 8, 10–11.
God says this in order to bring his power and omnipotence impressively
before Job’s eyes. God is like the behemoth and the leviathan; the fruitful
nature giving forth abundance,—the untamable wildness and boundlessness
of nature,—and the overwhelming danger of the unchained power.[80]
But what has destroyed Job’s earthly paradise? The unchained power of
nature. As the poet lets it be seen here, God has simply turned his other side
outwards for once; the side which man calls the devil, and which lets loose
all the torments of nature on Job, naturally for the purpose of discipline and
training. The God who created such monstrosities, before whom the poor
weak man stiffens with anxiety, truly must hide qualities within himself
which are food for thought. This God lives in the heart, in the unconscious,
in the realm of metapsychology. There is the source of the anxiety before
the unspeakably horrible, and of the strength to withstand the horrors. The
person, that is to say his conscious “I,” is like a plaything, like a feather
which is whirled around by different currents of air; sometimes the sacrifice
and sometimes the sacrificer, and he cannot hinder either. The Book of Job
shows us God at work both as creator and destroyer. Who is this God? A
thought which humanity in every part of the world and in all ages has
brought forth from itself and always again anew in similar forms; a power
in the other world to which man gives praise, a power which creates as well
as destroys, an idea necessary to life. Since, psychologically understood, the
divinity is nothing else than a projected complex of representation which is
accentuated in feeling according to the degree of religiousness of the
individual, so God is to be considered as the representative of a certain sum
of energy (libido). This energy, therefore, appears projected
(metaphysically) because it works from the unconscious outwards, when it
is dislodged from there, as psychoanalysis shows. As I have earlier made
apparent in the “Bedeutung des Vaters,” the religious instinct feeds upon the
incestuous libido of the infantile period. In the principal forms of religion
which now exist, the father transference seems to be at least the moulding

influence; in older religions, it seems to be the influence of the mother
transference which creates the attributes of the divinity. The attributes of the
divinity are omnipotence, a sternly persecuting paternalism ruling through
fear (Old Testament) and a loving paternalism (New Testament). These are
the attributes of the libido in that wide sense in which Freud has conceived
this idea empirically. In certain pagan and also in certain Christian attributes
of divinity the maternal stands out strongly, and in the former the animal
also comes into the greatest prominence.[81] Likewise, the infantile, so
closely interwoven with religious phantasies, and from time to time
breaking forth so violently, is nowhere lacking.[82] All this points to the
sources of the dynamic states of religious activity. These are those impulses
which in childhood are withdrawn from incestuous application through the
intervention of the incest barrier and which, especially at the time of
puberty, as a result of affluxes of libido coming from the still incompletely
employed sexuality, are aroused to their own peculiar activity. As is easily
understood, that which is valuable in the God-creating idea is not the form
but the power, the libido. The primitive power which Job’s Hymn of
Creation vindicates, the unconditional and inexorable, the unjust and the
superhuman, are truly and rightly attributes of libido, which “lead us unto
life,” which “let the poor be guilty,” and against which struggle is in vain.
Nothing remains for mankind but to work in harmony with this will.
Nietzsche’s “Zarathustra” teaches us this impressively.
We see that in Miss Miller the religious hymn arising from the
unconscious is the compensating amend for the erotic; it takes a great part
of its materials from the infantile reminiscences which she reawakened into
life by the introversion of the libido. Had this religious creation not
succeeded (and also had another sublimated application been eliminated)
then Miss Miller would have yielded to the erotic impression, either to its
natural consequence or to a negative issue, which would have replaced the
lost success in love by a correspondingly strong sorrow. It is well known
that opinions are much divided concerning the worth of this issue of an
erotic conflict, such as Miss Miller has presented to us. It is thought to be
much more beautiful to solve unnoticed an erotic tension, in the elevated
feelings of religious poetry, in which perhaps many other people can find
joy and consolation. One is wrong to storm against this conception from the
radical standpoint of fanaticism for truth.

I think that one should view with philosophic admiration the strange
paths of the libido and should investigate the purposes of its circuitous
ways.
It is not too much to say that we have herewith dug up the erotic root, and
yet the problem remains unsolved. Were there not bound up with that a
mysterious purpose, probably of the greatest biological meaning, then
certainly twenty centuries would not have yearned for it with such intense
longing. Doubtless, this sort of libidian current moves in the same direction
as, taken in the widest sense, did that ecstatic ideal of the Middle Ages and
of the ancient mystery cults, one of which became the later Christianity.
There is to be seen biologically in this ideal an exercise of psychologic
projection (of the paranoidian mechanism, as Freud would express it).[83]
The projection consists in the repressing of the conflict into the unconscious
and the setting forth of the repressed contents into seeming objectivity,
which is also the formula of paranoia. The repression serves, as is well
known, for the freeing from a painful complex from which one must escape
by all means because its compelling and oppressing power is feared. The
repression can lead to an apparent complete suppression which corresponds
to a strong self-control. Unfortunately, however, self-control has limits
which are only too narrowly drawn. Closer observation of people shows, it
is true, that calm is maintained at the critical moment, but certain results
occur which fall into two categories.
First, the suppressed effect comes to the surface immediately afterwards;
seldom directly, it is true, but ordinarily in the form of a displacement to
another object (e. g. a person is, in official relations, polite, submissive,
patient, and so on, and turns his whole anger loose upon his wife or his
subordinates).
Second, the suppressed effect creates compensations elsewhere. For
example, people who strive for excessive ethics, who try always to think,
feel, and act altruistically and ideally, avenge themselves, because of the
impossibility of carrying out their ideals, by subtle maliciousness, which
naturally does not come into their own consciousness as such, but which
leads to misunderstandings and unhappy situations. Apparently, then, all of
these are only “especially unfortunate circumstances,” or they are the guilt
and malice of other people, or they are tragic complications.

One is, indeed, freed of the conscious conflict, nevertheless it lies
invisible at one’s feet, and is stumbled over at every step. The technic of the
apparent suppressing and forgetting is inadequate because it is not possible
of achievement in the last analysis—it is in reality a mere makeshift. The
religious projection offers a much more effectual help. In this one keeps the
conflict in sight (care, pain, anxiety, and so on) and gives it over to a
personality standing outside of one’s self, the Divinity. The evangelical
command teaches us this:
“Cast all your anxiety upon him, because he careth for you.”—I Peter v: 7.
“In nothing be anxious; but in every thing by prayer and supplication ... let your requests be made
known unto God.”—Phil. iv: 6.
One must give the burdening complex of the soul consciously over to the
Deity; that is to say, associate it with a definite representation complex
which is set up as objectively real, as a person who answers those questions,
for us unanswerable. To this inner demand belongs the candid avowal of sin
and the Christian humility presuming such an avowal. Both are for the
purpose of making it possible for one to examine one’s self and to know
one’s self.[84] One may consider the mutual avowal of sins as the most
powerful support to this work of education (“Confess, therefore, your sins
one to another.”—James v: 16). These measures aim at a conscious
recognition of the conflicts, thoroughly psychoanalytic, which is also a
conditio sine qua non of the psychoanalytic condition of recovery. Just as
psychoanalysis in the hands of the physician, a secular method, sets up the
real object of transference as the one to take over the conflicts of the
oppressed and to solve them, so the Christian religion sets up the Saviour,
considered as real; “In whom we have redemption through his blood, the
forgiveness of sins....” (Eph. i: 7 and Col. i: 14.)[85] He is the deliverer and
redeemer of our guilt, a God who stands above sin, “who did no sin, neither
was guile found in his mouth” (Pet. ii: 22). “Who his own self bare our sins
in his body upon the tree” (Pet. ii: 24). “Therefore Christ has been
sacrificed once to take away the sins of many” (Heb. ix: 28). The God, thus
thought of, is distinguished as innocent in himself and as the self-sacrificer.
(These qualities are true also for that amount of energy—libido—which
belongs to the representation complex designated the Redeemer.) The
conscious projection towards which the Christian education aims, offers,
therefore, a double benefit: first, one is kept conscious of the conflict (sins)
of two opposing tendencies mutually resistant, and through this one

prevents a known trouble from becoming, by means of repressing and
forgetting, an unknown and therefore so much more tormenting sorrow.
Secondly, one lightens one’s burden by surrendering it to him to whom all
solutions are known. One must not forget that the individual psychologic
roots of the Deity, set up as real by the pious, are concealed from him, and
that he, although unaware of this, still bears the burden alone and is still
alone with his conflict. This delusion would lead infallibly to the speedy
breaking up of the system, for Nature cannot indefinitely be deceived, but
the powerful institution of Christianity meets this situation. The command
in the book of James is the best expression of the psychologic significance
of this: “Bear ye one another’s burdens.”[86]
This is emphasized as especially important in order to preserve society
upright through mutual love (Transference); the Pauline writings leave no
doubt about this:
“Through love be servants one to another.”—Gal. v: 13.
“Let love of the brethren continue.”—Heb. xiii: 1.
“And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and good works. Not forgetting our own
assembling together as is the custom of some, but exhorting one another.”—Heb. x: 24–25.
We might say that the real transference taught in the Christian
community is the condition absolutely necessary for the efficacy of the
miracle of redemption; the first letter of John comes out frankly with this:
“He that loveth his brother abideth in the light.”—I John ii: 10.
“If we love one another, God abideth in us.”—I John iv: 12.
The Deity continues to be efficacious in the Christian religion only upon
the foundation of brotherly love. Consequently, here too the mystery of
redemption is the unresisting real transference.[87] One may properly ask
one’s self, for what then is the Deity useful, if his efficacy consists only in
the real transference? To this also the evangelical message has a striking
answer:
“Men are all brothers in Christ.”
“So Christ also, having been once offered to bear the sins of many, shall appear a second time
apart from sin to them that wait for him unto salvation.”—Heb. ix: 28.
The condition of transference among brothers is to be such as between
man and Christ, a spiritual one. As the history of ancient cults and certain
Christian sects shows, this explanation of the Christian religion is an
especially important one biologically, for the psychologic intimacy creates
certain shortened ways between men which lead only too easily to that from

which Christianity seeks to release them, namely to the sexual relation with
all those consequences and necessities under which the really already
highly civilized man had to suffer at the beginning of our Christian era. For
just as the ancient religious experience was regarded distinctly as a bodily
union with the Deity,[88] just so was worship permeated with sexuality of
every kind. Sexuality lay only too close to the relations of people with each
other. The moral degeneracy of the first Christian century produced a moral
reaction arising out of the darkness of the lowest strata of society which was
expressed in the second and third centuries at its purest in the two
antagonistic religions, Christianity on the one side, and Mithracism on the
other. These religions strove after precisely that higher form of social
intercourse symbolic of a projected “become flesh” idea (logos), whereby
all those strongest impulsive energies of the archaic man, formerly plunging
him from one passion into another,[89] and which seemed to the ancients like
the compulsion of the evil constellations, as εἱμαρμένη,[90] and which in the
sense of later ages might be translated as the driving force of the libido,[91]
the δύναμις κινητική[92] of Zeno, could be made use of for social
preservation.[93]
It may be assumed most certainly that the domestication of humanity has
cost the greatest sacrifices. An age which produced the stoical ideal must
certainly have known why and against what it was created. The age of Nero
serves to set off effectually the famous extracts from the forty-first letter of
Seneca to Lucilius:
“One drags the other into error, and how can we attain to salvation when no one bids us halt, when
all the world drives us in deeper?”
“Do you ever come across a man unafraid in danger, untouched by desires, happy in misfortune,
peaceful in the midst of a storm, elevated above ordinary mortals, on the same plane as the gods,
does not reverence seize you? Are you not compelled to say, ‘Such an exalted being is certainly
something different from the miserable body which he inhabits?’ A divine strength rules there, such
an excellent mind, full of moderation, raised above all trivialities, which smiles at that which we
others fear or strive after: a heavenly power animates such a person, a thing of this kind does not
exist without the coöperation of a deity. The largest part of such a being belongs to the region from
which he came. Just as the sun’s rays touch the earth in reality and yet are at home only there from
whence they come, so an eminent holy man associates with us. He is sent to us that we may learn to
know the divine better, and although with us, still really belongs to his original home. He looks
thither and reaches towards it; among us he walks as an exalted being.”
The people of this age had grown ripe for identification with the λόγος
(word) “become flesh,” for the founding of a new fellowship, united by one
idea,[94] in the name of which people could love each other and call each
other brothers.[95] The old vague idea of a μεσίτης (Messiah), of a mediator

in whose name new ways of love would be created, became a fact, and with
that humanity made an immense step forward. This had not been brought
about by a speculative, completely sophisticated philosophy, but by an
elementary need in the mass of people vegetating in spiritual darkness. The
profoundest necessities had evidently driven them towards that, since
humanity did not thrive in a state of dissoluteness.[96] The meaning of those
cults—I speak of Christianity and Mithracism—is clear; it is a moral
restraint of animal impulses.[97] The dynamic appearance of both religions
betrays something of that enormous feeling of redemption which animated
the first disciples and which we to-day scarcely know how to appreciate, for
these old truths are empty to us. Most certainly we should still understand
it, had our customs even a breath of ancient brutality, for we can hardly
realize in this day the whirlwinds of the unchained libido which roared
through the ancient Rome of the Cæsars. The civilized man of the present
day seems very far removed from that. He has become merely neurotic. So
for us the necessities which brought forth Christianity have actually been
lost, since we no longer understand their meaning. We do not know against
what it had to protect us.[98] For enlightened people, the so-called
religiousness has already approached very close to a neurosis. In the past
two thousand years Christianity has done its work and has erected barriers
of repression, which protect us from the sight of our own “sinfulness.” The
elementary emotions of the libido have come to be unknown to us, for they
are carried on in the unconscious; therefore, the belief which combats them
has become hollow and empty. Let whoever does not believe that a mask
covers our religion, obtain an impression for himself from the appearance
of our modern churches, from which style and art have long since fled.
With this we turn back to the question from which we digressed, namely,
whether or not Miss Miller has created something valuable with her poem.
If we bear in mind under what psychologic or moral conditions Christianity
came into existence; that is to say, at a time when fierce brutality was an
every-day spectacle, then we understand the religious seizure of the whole
personality and the worth of that religion which defended the people of the
Roman culture against the visible storms of wickedness. It was not difficult
for those people to remain conscious of sin, for they saw it every day spread
out before their eyes. The religious product was at that time the
accomplishment of the total personality. Miss Miller not only undervalues
her “sins,” but the connection between the “depressing and unrelenting

need” and her religious product has even escaped her. Thus her poetical
creation completely loses the living value of a religious product. It is not
much more than a sentimental transformation of the erotic which is secretly
carried out close to consciousness and principally possesses the same worth
as the manifest content of the dream[99] with its uncertain and delusive
perishableness. Thus the poem is properly only a dream become audible.
To the degree that the modern consciousness is eagerly busied with
things of a wholly other sort than religion, religion and its object, original
sin, have stepped into the background; that is to say, into the unconscious in
great part. Therefore, to-day man believes neither in the one nor in the
other. Consequently the Freudian school is accused of an impure phantasy,
and yet one might convince one’s self very easily with a rather fleeting
glance at the history of ancient religions and morals as to what kind of
demons are harbored in the human soul. With this disbelief in the crudeness
of human nature is bound up the disbelief in the power of religion. The
phenomenon, well known to every psychoanalyst, of the unconscious
transformation of an erotic conflict into religious activity is something
ethically wholly worthless and nothing but an hysterical production.
Whoever, on the other hand, to his conscious sin just as consciously places
religion in opposition, does something the greatness of which cannot be
denied. This can be verified by a backward glance over history. Such a
procedure is sound religion. The unconscious recasting of the erotic into
something religious lays itself open to the reproach of a sentimental and
ethically worthless pose.
By means of the secular practice of the naïve projection which is, as we
have seen, nothing else than a veiled or indirect real-transference (through
the spiritual, through the logos), Christian training has produced a
widespread weakening of the animal nature so that a great part of the
strength of the impulses could be set free for the work of social preservation
and fruitfulness.[100] This abundance of libido, to make use of this singular
expression, pursues with a budding renaissance (for example Petrarch) a
course which outgoing antiquity had already sketched out as religious; viz.,
the way of the transference to nature.[101] The transformation of this
libidinous interest is in great part due to the Mithraic worship, which was a
nature religion in the best sense of the word;[102] while the primitive
Christians exhibited throughout an antagonistic attitude to the beauties of

this world.[103] I remember the passage of St. Augustine mentioned by J.
Burckhardt:
“Men draw thither to admire the heights of the mountains and the powerful waves of the sea—and
to turn away from themselves.”
The foremost authority on the Mithraic cult, Franz Cumont,[104] says as
follows:
“The gods were everywhere and mingled in all the events of daily life. The fire which cooked the
means of nourishment for the believers and which warmed them; the water which quenched their
thirst and cleansed them; also the air which they breathed, and the day which shone for them, were
the objects of their homage. Perhaps no religion has given to its adherents in so large a degree as
Mithracism opportunity for prayer and motive for devotion. When the initiated betook himself in the
evening to the sacred grotto concealed in the solitude of the forest, at every step new sensations
awakened in his heart some mystical emotion. The stars that shone in the sky, the wind that
whispered in the foliage, the spring or brook which hastened murmuring to the valley, even the earth
which he trod under his feet, were in his eyes divine; and all surrounding nature a worshipful fear of
the infinite forces that swayed the universe.”
These fundamental thoughts of Mithracism, which, like so much else of
the ancient spiritual life, arose again from their grave during the renaissance
are to be found in the beautiful words of Seneca:[105]
“When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than the ordinary, and whose boughs
are so closely interwoven that the sky cannot be seen, the stately shadows of the wood, the privacy of
the place, and the awful gloom cannot but strike you, as with the presence of a deity, or when we see
some cave at the foot of a mountain penetrating the rocks, not made by human hands, but hollowed
out to great depths by nature; it fills the mind with a religious fear; we venerate the fountain-heads of
great rivers; the sudden eruption of a vast body of water from the secret places of the earth, obtains
an altar: we adore likewise the springs of warm baths, and either the opaque quality or immense
depths, hath made some lakes sacred.”
All this disappeared in the transitory world of the Christian, only to break
forth much later when the thought of mankind had achieved that
independence of the idea which could resist the æsthetic impression, so that
thought was no longer fettered by the emotional effects of the impression,
but could rise to reflective observation. Thus man entered into a new and
independent relation to nature whereby the foundation was laid for natural
science and technique. With that, however, there entered in for the first time
a displacement of the weight of interest; there arose again real-transference
which has reached its greatest development in our time. Materialistic
interest has everywhere become paramount. Therefore, the realms of the
spirit, where earlier the greatest conflicts and developments took place, lie
deserted and fallow; the world has not only lost its God as the
sentimentalists of the nineteenth century bewail, but also to some extent has
lost its soul as well. One, therefore, cannot wonder that the discoveries and

doctrines of the Freudian school, with their wholly psychologic views, meet
with an almost universal disapproval. Through the change of the centre of
interest from the inner to the outer world, the knowledge of nature has
increased enormously in comparison with that of earlier times. By this the
anthropomorphic conception of the religious dogmas has been definitely
thrown open to question; therefore, the present-day religions can only with
the greatest difficulty close their eyes to this fact; for not only has the
intense interest been diverted from the Christian religion, but criticism and
the necessary correction have increased correspondingly. The Christian
religion seems to have fulfilled its great biological purpose, in so far as we
are able to judge. It has led human thought to independence, and has lost its
significance, therefore, to a yet undetermined extent; in any case its
dogmatic contents have become related to Mithracism. In consideration of
the fact that this religion has rendered, nevertheless, inconceivable service
to education, one cannot reject it “eo ipso” to-day. It seems to me that we
might still make use in some way of its form of thought, and especially of
its great wisdom of life, which for two thousand years has been proven to
be particularly efficacious. The stumbling block is the unhappy combination
of religion and morality. That must be overcome. There still remain traces
of this strife in the soul, the lack of which in a human being is reluctantly
felt. It is hard to say in what such things consist; for this, ideas as well as
words are lacking. If, in spite of that, I attempt to say something about it, I
do it parabolically, using Seneca’s words:[106]
“Nothing can be more commendable and beneficial if you persevere in the pursuit of wisdom. It is
what would be ridiculous to wish for when it is in your power to attain it. There is no need to lift up
your hands to Heaven, or to pray the servant of the temple to admit you to the ear of the idol that
your prayers may be heard the better. God is near thee; he is with thee. Yes, Lucilius, a holy spirit
resides within us, the observer of good and evil, and our constant guardian. And as we treat him, he
treats us; no good man is without a God. Could any one ever rise above the power of fortune without
his assistance? It is he that inspires us with thoughts, upright, just and pure. We do not, indeed,
pretend to say what God; but that a God dwells in the breast of every good man is certain.”

CHAPTER IV
THE SONG OF THE MOTH

A little later Miss Miller travelled from Geneva to Paris. She says:
“My weariness on the railway was so great that I could hardly sleep an hour. It was terrifically hot
in the ladies’ carriage.”
At four o’clock in the morning she noticed a moth that flew against the
light in her compartment. She then tried to go to sleep again. Suddenly the
following poem took possession of her mind.
The Moth to the Sun

“I longed for thee when first I crawled to consciousness.
My dreams were all of thee when in the chrysalis I lay.
Oft myriads of my kind beat out their lives
Against some feeble spark once caught from thee.
And one hour more—and my poor life is gone;
Yet my last effort, as my first desire, shall be
But to approach thy glory; then, having gained
One raptured glance, I’ll die content.
For I, the source of beauty, warmth and life
Have in his perfect splendor once beheld.”

Before we go into the material which Miss Miller offers us for the
understanding of the poem, we will again cast a glance over the psychologic
situation in which the poem originated. Some months or weeks appear to
have elapsed since the last direct manifestation of the unconscious that Miss
Miller reported to us; about this period we have had no information. We
learn nothing about the moods and phantasies of this time. If one might
draw a conclusion from this silence it would be presumably that in the time
which elapsed between the two poems, really nothing of importance had
happened, and that, therefore, this poem is again but a voiced fragment of
the unconscious working of the complex stretching out over months and
years. It is highly probable that it is concerned with the same complex as
before.[107] The earlier product, a hymn of creation full of hope, has,
however, but little similarity to the present poem. The poem lying before us

has a truly hopeless, melancholy character; moth and sun, two things which
never meet. One must in fairness ask, is a moth really expected to rise to the
sun? We know indeed the proverbial saying about the moth that flew into
the light and singed its wings, but not the legend of the moth that strove
towards the sun. Plainly, here, two things are connected in her thoughts that
do not belong together; first, the moth which fluttered around the light so
long that it burnt itself; and then, the idea of a small ephemeral being,
something like the day fly, which, in lamentable contrast to the eternity of
the stars, longs for an imperishable daylight. This idea reminds one of
Faust:
“Mark how, beneath the evening sunlight’s glow
The green-embosomed houses glitter;
The glow retreats, done is the day of toil,
It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring;
Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil
Upon its track to follow, follow soaring!
Then would I see eternal Evening gild
The silent world beneath me glowing....
Yet, finally, the weary god is sinking;
The new-born impulse fires my mind,—
I hasten on, his beams eternal drinking,
The day before me and the night behind,
Above me heaven unfurled, the floor of waves beneath me,—
A glorious dream! though now the glories fade.
Alas! the wings that lift the mind no aid
Of wings to lift the body can bequeath me.”

Not long afterwards, Faust sees “the black dog roving there through
cornfields and stubble,” the dog who is the same as the devil, the tempter, in
whose hellish fires Faust has singed his wings. When he believed that he
was expressing his great longing for the beauty of the sun and the earth, “he
went astray thereover” and fell into the hands of “the Evil One.”
“Yes, resolute to reach some brighter distance,
On earth’s fair sun I turn my back.”

This is what Faust had said shortly before, in true recognition of the state
of affairs. The honoring of the beauty of nature led the Christian of the
Middle Ages to pagan thoughts which lay in an antagonistic relation to his
conscious religion, just as once Mithracism was in threatening competition
with Christianity, for Satan often disguises himself as an angel of light.[108]

The longing of Faust became his ruin. The longing for the Beyond had
brought as a consequence a loathing for life, and he stood on the brink of
self-destruction.[109] The longing for the beauty of this world led him anew
to ruin, into doubt and pain, even to Marguerite’s tragic death. His mistake
was that he followed after both worlds with no check to the driving force of
his libido, like a man of violent passion. Faust portrays once more the folk-
psychologic conflict of the beginning of the Christian era, but what is
noteworthy, in a reversed order.
Against what fearful powers of seduction Christ had to defend himself by
means of his hope of the absolute world beyond, may be seen in the
example of Alypius in Augustine. If any of us had been living in that period
of antiquity, he would have seen clearly that that culture must inevitably
collapse because humanity revolted against it. It is well known that even
before the spread of Christianity a remarkable expectation of redemption
had taken possession of mankind. The following eclogue of Virgil might
well be a result of this mood:
“Ultima Cumæi venit jam carminis ætas;[110]
Magnus ab integro Sæclorum nascitur ordo,
Jam redit et Virgo,[111] redeunt Saturnia regna;
Jam nova progenies cælo demittitur alto.
Tu modo nascenti puero, quo ferrea primum
Desinet ac toto surget gens aurea mundo,
Casta fave Lucina: tuus jam regnat Apollo.

“Te duce, si qua manent sceleris vestigia nostri,
Inrita perpetua solvent formidine terras.
Ille deum vitam accipiet divisque videbit
Permixtos heroas et ipse videbitur illis,
Pacatumque reget patriis virtutibus orbem.”[112]

The turning to asceticism resulting from the general expansion of
Christianity brought about a new misfortune to many: monasticism and the
life of the anchorite.[113]
Faust takes the reverse course; for him the ascetic ideal means death. He
struggles for freedom and wins life, at the same time giving himself over to
the Evil One; but through this he becomes the bringer of death to her whom
he loves most, Marguerite. He tears himself away from pain and sacrifices
his life in unceasing useful work, through which he saves many lives.[114]
His double mission as saviour and destroyer has already been hinted in a
preliminary manner:

Wagner:

With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou
Receive the people’s honest veneration!

Faust:

Thus we, our hellish boluses compounding,
Among these vales and hills surrounding,
Worse than the pestilence, have passed.
Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving;
And I must hear, by all the living,
The shameless murderers praised at last!

A parallel to this double rôle is that text in the Gospel of Matthew which
has become historically significant:
“I came not to send peace, but a sword.”—Matt. x: 34.
Just this constitutes the deep significance of Goethe’s Faust, that he
clothes in words a problem of modern man which has been turning in
restless slumber since the Renaissance, just as was done by the drama of
Oedipus for the Hellenic sphere of culture. What is to be the way out
between the Scylla of renunciation of the world and the Charybdis of the
acceptance of the world?
The hopeful tone, voiced in the “Hymn to the God of Creation,” cannot
continue very long with our author. The pose simply promises, but does not
fulfil. The old longing will come again, for it is a peculiarity of all
complexes worked over merely in the unconscious[115] that they lose nothing
of their original amount of affect. Meanwhile, their outward manifestations
can change almost endlessly. One might therefore consider the first poem as
an unconscious longing to solve the conflict through positive religiousness,
somewhat in the same manner as they of the earlier centuries decided their
conscious conflicts by opposing to them the religious standpoint. This wish
does not succeed. Now with the second poem there follows a second
attempt which turns out in a decidedly more material way; its thought is
unequivocal. Only once “having gained one raptured glance ...” and then—
to die.
From the realms of the religious world, the attention, just as in Faust,[116]
turns towards the sun of this world, and already there is something mingled
with it which has another sense, that is to say, the moth which fluttered so
long around the light that it burnt its wings.

We now pass to that which Miss Miller offers for the better
understanding of the poem. She says:
“This small poem made a profound impression upon me. I could not, of course, find immediately a
sufficiently clear and direct explanation for it. However, a few days later when I once more read a
certain philosophical work, which I had read in Berlin the previous winter, and which I had enjoyed
very much, (I was reading it aloud to a friend), I came across the following words: ‘La même
aspiration passionnée de la mite vers l’étoile, de l’homme vers Dieu.’ (The same passionate longing
of the moth for the star, of man for God.) I had forgotten this sentence entirely, but it seemed very
clear to me that precisely these words had reappeared in my hypnagogic poem. In addition to that it
occurred to me that a play seen some years previously, ‘La Mite et La Flamme,’ was a further
possible cause of the poem. It is easy to see how often the word ‘moth’ had been impressed upon
me.”
The deep impression made by the poem upon the author shows that she
put into it a large amount of love. In the expression “aspiration passionnée”
we meet the passionate longing of the moth for the star, of man for God,
and indeed, the moth is Miss Miller herself. Her last observation that the
word “moth” was often impressed upon her shows how often she had
noticed the word “moth” as applicable to herself. Her longing for God
resembles the longing of the moth for the “star.” The reader will recall that
this expression has already had a place in the earlier material, “when the
morning stars sang together,” that is to say, the ship’s officer who sings on
deck in the night watch. The passionate longing for God is the same as that
longing for the singing morning stars. It was pointed out at great length in
the foregoing chapter that this analogy is to be expected: “Sic parvis
componere magna solebam.”
It is shameful or exalted just as one chooses, that the divine longing of
humanity, which is really the first thing to make it human, should be
brought into connection with an erotic phantasy. Such a comparison jars
upon the finer feelings. Therefore, one is inclined in spite of the undeniable
facts to dispute the connection. An Italian steersman with brown hair and
black moustache, and the loftiest, dearest conception of humanity! These
two things cannot be brought together; against this not only our religious
feelings revolt, but our taste also rebels.
It would certainly be unjust to make a comparison of the two objects as
concrete things since they are so heterogeneous. One loves a Beethoven
sonata but one loves caviar also. It would not occur to any one to liken the
sonata to caviar. It is a common error for one to judge the longing according
to the quality of the object. The appetite of the gourmand which is only
satisfied with goose liver and quail is no more distinguished than the

appetite of the laboring man for corned beef and cabbage. The longing is
the same; the object changes. Nature is beautiful only by virtue of the
longing and love given her by man. The æsthetic attributes emanating from
that has influence primarily on the libido, which alone constitutes the
beauty of nature. The dream recognizes this well when it depicts a strong
and beautiful feeling by means of a representation of a beautiful landscape.
Whenever one moves in the territory of the erotic it becomes altogether
clear how little the object and how much the love means. The “sexual
object” is as a rule overrated far too much and that only on account of the
extreme degree to which libido is devoted to the object.
Apparently Miss Miller had but little left over for the officer, which is
humanly very intelligible. But in spite of that a deep and lasting effect
emanates from this connection which places divinity on a par with the
erotic object. The moods which apparently are produced by these objects do
not, however, spring from them, but are manifestations of her strong love.
When Miss Miller praises either God or the sun she means her love, that
deepest and strongest impulse of the human and animal being.
The reader will recall that in the preceding chapter the following chain of
synonyms was adduced: the singer—God of sound—singing morning star
—creator—God of Light—sun—fire—God of Love.
At that time we had placed sun and fire in parentheses. Now they are
entitled to their right place in the chain of synonyms. With the changing of
the erotic impression from the affirmative to the negative the symbols of
light occur as the paramount object. In the second poem where the longing
is clearly exposed it is by no means the terrestrial sun. Since the longing has
been turned away from the real object, its object has become, first of all, a
subjective one, namely, God. Psychologically, however, God is the name of
a representation-complex which is grouped around a strong feeling (the sum
of libido). Properly, the feeling is what gives character and reality to the
complex.[117] The attributes and symbols of the divinity must belong in a
consistent manner to the feeling (longing, love, libido, and so on). If one
honors God, the sun or the fire, then one honors one’s own vital force, the
libido. It is as Seneca says: “God is near you, he is with you, in you.” God
is our own longing to which we pay divine honors.[118] If it were not known
how tremendously significant religion was, and is, this marvellous play
with one’s self would appear absurd. There must be something more than

this, however, because, notwithstanding its absurdity, it is, in a certain
sense, conformable to the purpose in the highest degree. To bear a God
within one’s self signifies a great deal; it is a guarantee of happiness, of
power, indeed even of omnipotence, as far as these attributes belong to the
Deity. To bear a God within one’s self signifies just as much as to be God
one’s self. In Christianity, where, it is true, the grossly sensual
representations and symbols are weeded out as carefully as possible, which
seems to be a continuation of the poverty of symbols of the Jewish cult,
there are to be found plain traces of this psychology. There are even plainer
traces, to be sure, in the “becoming-one with God” in those mysteries
closely related to the Christian, where the mystic himself is lifted up to
divine adoration through initiatory rites. At the close of the consecration
into the Isis mysteries the mystic was crowned with the palm crown,[119] he
was placed on a pedestal and worshipped as Helios.[120] In the magic
papyrus of the Mithraic liturgy published by Dieterich there is the ἱερός
λόγος[121] of the consecrated one:
Ἐγώ εἰμι σύμπλανος ὑμῖν ἀστὴρ καὶ ἐκ τοῦ βάθους ἀναλάμπων.[122]
The mystic in religious ecstasies put himself on a plane with the stars,
just as a saint of the Middle Ages put himself by means of the stigmata on a
level with Christ. St. Francis of Assisi expressed this in a truly pagan
manner,[123] even as far as a close relationship with the brother sun and the
sister moon. These representations of “becoming-one with God” are very
ancient. The old belief removed the becoming-one with God until the time
after death; the mysteries, however, suggest this as taking place already in
this world. A very old text brings most beautifully before one this unity with
God; it is the song of triumph of the ascending soul.[124]
“I am the God Atum, I who alone was.
I am the God Rê at his first splendor.
I am the great God, self-created, God of Gods,
To whom no other God compares.”

“I was yesterday and know to-morrow; the battle-ground of Gods was made when I spoke. I know
the name of that great God who tarries therein.
“I am that great Phoenix who is in Heliopolis, who there keeps account of all there is, of all that
exists.
“I am the God Min, at his coming forth, who placed the feathers upon my head.[125]
“I am in my country, I come into my city. Daily I am together with my father Atum.[126]
“My impurity is driven away, and the sin which was in me is overcome. I washed myself in those
two great pools of water which are in Heracleopolis, in which is purified the sacrifice of mankind for

that great God who abideth there.
“I go on my way to where I wash my head in the sea of the righteous. I arrive at this land of the
glorified, and enter through the splendid portal.
“Thou, who standest before me, stretch out to me thy hands, it is I, I am become one of thee. Daily
am I together with my Father Atum.”
The identification with God necessarily has as a result the enhancing of
the meaning and power of the individual.[127] That seems, first of all, to have
been really its purpose: a strengthening of the individual against his all too
great weakness and insecurity in real life. This great megalomania thus has
a genuinely pitiable background. The strengthening of the consciousness of
power is, however, only an external result of the “becoming-one with God.”
Of much more significance are the deeper-lying disturbances in the realm of
feeling. Whoever introverts libido—that is to say, whoever takes it away
from a real object without putting in its place a real compensation—is
overtaken by the inevitable results of introversion. The libido, which is
turned inward into the subject, awakens again from among the sleeping
remembrances one which contains the path upon which earlier the libido
once had come to the real object. At the very first and in foremost position
it was father and mother who were the objects of the childish love. They are
unequalled and imperishable. Not many difficulties are needed in an adult’s
life to cause those memories to reawaken and to become effectual. In
religion the regressive reanimation of the father-and-mother imago is
organized into a system. The benefits of religion are the benefits of parental
hands; its protection and its peace are the results of parental care upon the
child; its mystic feelings are the unconscious memories of the tender
emotions of the first childhood, just as the hymn expresses it:
“I am in my country, I come into my city. Daily am I together with my father Atum.”[128]
The visible father of the world is, however, the sun, the heavenly fire;
therefore, Father, God, Sun, Fire are mythologically synonymous. The well-
known fact that in the sun’s strength the great generative power of nature is
honored shows plainly, very plainly, to any one to whom as yet it may not
be clear that in the Deity man honors his own libido, and naturally in the
form of the image or symbol of the present object of transference. This
symbol faces us in an especially marked manner in the third Logos of the
Dieterich papyrus. After the second prayer[129] stars come from the disc of
the sun to the mystic, “five-pointed, in quantities, filling the whole air. If the
sun’s disc has expanded, you will see an immeasurable circle, and fiery
gates which are shut off.” The mystic utters the following prayer:

Ἐπακουσόν μου, ἀκουσόν μου—ὁ συνδήσας πνεύματι τὰ πύρινα κλεῖθρα τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, δισώματος
πυρίπολε, φωτὸς κτίστα—πυρίπνοε, πυρίθυμε, πνευματόφως, πυριχαρῆ, καλλίφως, φωτοκράτωρ,
πυρισώματε, φωτοδότα, πυρισπόρε, πυρικλόνε, φωτόβιε, πυριδῖνα, φωτοκινῆτα, κεραυνοκλόνε,
φωτὸς κλέος, αὐξησίφως, ἐνπυρισχησίφως, ἀστροδάμα.[130]
The invocation is, as one sees, almost inexhaustible in light and fire
attributes, and can be likened in its extravagance only to the synonymous
attributes of love of the mystic of the Middle Ages. Among the innumerable
texts which might be used as an illustration of this, I select a passage from
the writings of Mechthild von Magdeburg (1212–1277):
“O Lord, love me excessively and love me often and long; the oftener you love me, so much the
purer do I become; the more excessively you love me, the more beautiful I become; the longer you
love me, the more holy will I become here upon earth.”
God answered: “That I love you often, that I have from my nature, for I myself am love. That I
love you excessively, that I have from my desire, for I too desire that men love me excessively. That I
love you long, that I have from my everlastingness, for I am without end.”[131]
The religious regression makes use indeed of the parent image without,
however, consciously making it an object of transference, for the incest
horror[132] forbids that. It remains rather as a synonym, for example, of the
father or of God, or of the more or less personified symbol of the sun and
fire.[133] Sun and fire—that is to say, the fructifying strength and heat—are
attributes of the libido. In Mysticism the inwardly perceived, divine vision
is often merely sun or light, and is very little, or not at all, personified. In
the Mithraic liturgy there is found, for example, a significant quotation:
Ἡ δὲ πορεία τῶν ὁρωμένων θεῶν διὰ τοῦ δίσκου, πατρός μου, θεοῦ φανήσεται.[134]
Hildegarde von Bingen (1100–1178) expresses herself in the following
manner:[135]
“But the light I see is not local, but far off, and brighter than the cloud which supports the sun. I
can in no way know the form of this light since I cannot entirely see the sun’s disc. But within this
light I see at times, and infrequently, another light which is called by me the living light, but when
and in what manner I see this I do not know how to say, and when I see it all weariness and need is
lifted from me, then too, I feel like a simple girl and not like an old woman.”
Symeon, the New Theologian (970–1040), says the following:
“My tongue lacks words, and what happens in me my spirit sees clearly but does not explain. It
sees the invisible, that emptiness of all forms, simple throughout, not complex, and in extent infinite.
For it sees no beginning, and it sees no end. It is entirely unconscious of the meanings, and does not
know what to call that which it sees. Something complete appears, it seems to me, not indeed through
the being itself, but through a participation. For you enkindle fire from fire, and you receive the
whole fire; but this remains undiminished and undivided, as before. Similarly, that which is divided
separates itself from the first; and like something corporeal spreads itself into several lights. This,
however, is something spiritual, immeasurable, indivisible, and inexhaustible. For it is not separated
when it becomes many, but remains undivided and is in me, and enters within my poor heart like a
sun or circular disc of the sun, similar to the light, for it is a light.”[136]

That that thing, perceived as inner light, as the sun of the other world, is
longing, is clearly shown by Symeon’s words:[137]
“And following It my spirit demanded to embrace the splendor beheld, but it found It not as
creature and did not succeed in coming out from among created beings, so that it might embrace that
uncreated and uncomprehended splendor. Nevertheless it wandered everywhere, and strove to behold
It. It penetrated the air, it wandered over the Heavens, it crossed over the abysses, it searched, as it
seemed to it, the ends of the world.[138] But in all of that it found nothing, for all was created. And I
lamented and was sorrowful, and my breast burned, and I lived as one distraught in mind. But It
came, as It would, and descending like a luminous mystic cloud, It seemed to envelop my whole head
so that dismayed I cried out. But flying away again It left me alone. And when I, troubled, sought for
It, I realized suddenly that It was in me, myself, and in the midst of my heart It appeared as the light
of a spherical sun.”
In Nietzsche’s “Glory and Eternity” we meet with an essentially similar
symbol:
“Hush! I see vastness!—and of vasty things
Shall man be done, unless he can enshrine
Them with his words? Then take the night which brings
The heart upon thy tongue, charmed wisdom mine!

“I look above, there rolls the star-strewn sea.
O night, mute silence, voiceless cry of stars!
And lo! A sign! The heaven its verge unbars—
A shining constellation falls towards me.”[139]

It is not astonishing if Nietzsche’s great inner loneliness calls again into
existence certain forms of thought which the mystic ecstasy of the old cults
has elevated to ritual representation. In the visions of the Mithraic liturgy
we have to deal with many similar representations which we can now
understand without difficulty as the ecstatic symbol of the libido:
Μετὰ δὲ τὸ ειπεῖν σε τὸν δεύτερον λόγον, ὅπου σιγὴ δὶς καὶ τὰ ἀκόλουθα, σύρισον δὶς καὶ
πόππυσον δὶς καὶ εὐθέως ὄψει ἀπὸ τοῦ δίσκου ἀστέρας προσερχομένους πενταδακτυλιαίους
πλείστους καὶ πιπλῶντας ὅλον τὸν αέρα. Σὺ δὲ πάλιν λέγε: σιγή, σιγή. Καὶ τοῦ δίσκου ἀνοιγέντος
ὄψει ἄπειρον κύκλωμα καὶ θύρας πυρίνας ἀποκεκλεισμένας.[140]
Silence is commanded, then the vision of light is revealed. The similarity
of the mystic’s condition and Nietzsche’s poetical vision is surprising.
Nietzsche says “constellation.” It is well known that constellations are
chiefly therio- or anthropo-morphic symbols.
The papyrus says, ἀστέρας πενταδακτυλιαίους[141] (similar to the “rosy-
fingered” Eos), which is nothing else than an anthropomorphic image.
Accordingly, one may expect from that, that by long gazing a living being
would be formed out of the “flame image,” a “star constellation” of therio-
or anthropo-morphic nature, for the symbolism of the libido does not end

with sun, light and fire, but makes use of wholly other means of expression.
I yield precedence to Nietzsche:
The Beacon[142]

“Here, where the island grew amid the seas,
A sacrificial rock high-towering,
Here under darkling heavens,
Zarathustra lights his mountain-fires.

“These flames with grey-white belly,
In cold distances sparkle their desire,
Stretches its neck towards ever purer heights—
A snake upreared in impatience:

“This signal I set up there before me.
This flame is mine own soul,
Insatiable for new distances,
Speeding upward, upward its silent heat.

“At all lonely ones I now throw my fishing rod.
Give answer to the flame’s impatience,
Let me, the fisher on high mountains,
Catch my seventh, last solitude!”

Here libido becomes fire, flame and snake. The Egyptian symbol of the
“living disc of the sun,” the disc with the two entwining snakes, contains
the combination of both the libido analogies. The disc of the sun with its
fructifying warmth is analogous to the fructifying warmth of love. The
comparison of the libido with sun and fire is in reality analogous.
There is also a “causative” element in it, for sun and fire as beneficent
powers are objects of human love; for example, the sun-hero Mithra is
called the “well-beloved.” In Nietzsche’s poem the comparison is also a
causative one, but this time in a reversed sense. The comparison with the
snake is unequivocally phallic, corresponding completely with the tendency
in antiquity, which was to see in the symbol of the phallus the quintessence
of life and fruitfulness. The phallus is the source of life and libido, the great
creator and worker of miracles, and as such it received reverence
everywhere. We have, therefore, three designating symbols of the libido:
First, the comparison by analogy, as sun and fire. Second, the comparisons
based on causative relations, as A: Object comparison. The libido is
designated by its object, for example, the beneficent sun. B: The subject

comparison, in which the libido is designated by its place of origin or by
analogies of this, for example, by phallus or (analogous) snake.
To these two fundamental forms of comparison still a third is added, in
which the “tertium comparationis” is the activity; for example, the libido is
dangerous when fecundating like the bull—through the power of its passion
—like the lion, like the raging boar when in heat, like the ever-rutting ass,
and so on.
This activity comparison can belong equally well to the category of the
analogous or to the category of the causative comparisons. The possibilities
of comparison mean just as many possibilities for symbolic expression, and
from this basis all the infinitely varied symbols, so far as they are libido
images, may properly be reduced to a very simple root, that is, just to libido
and its fixed primitive qualities. This psychologic reduction and
simplification is in accordance with the historic efforts of civilization to
unify and simplify, to syncretize, the endless number of the gods. We come
across this desire as far back as the old Egyptians, where the unlimited
polytheism as exemplified in the numerous demons of places finally
necessitated simplification. All the various local gods, Amon of Thebes,
Horus of Edfu, Horus of the East, Chnum of Elephantine, Atum of
Heliopolis, and others,[143] became identified with the sun God Rê. In the
hymns to the sun the composite being Amon-Rê-Harmachis-Atum was
invoked as “the only god which truly lives.”[144]
Amenhotep IV (XVIII dynasty) went the furthest in this direction. He
replaced all former gods by the “living great disc of the sun,” the official
title reading:
“The sun ruling both horizons, triumphant in the horizon in his name; the glittering splendor which
is in the sun’s disc.”
“And, indeed,” Erman adds,[145] “the sun, as a God, should not be
honored, but the sun itself as a planet which imparts through its rays[146] the
infinite life which is in it to all living creatures.”
Amenhotep IV by his reform completed a work which is psychologically
important. He united all the bull,[147] ram,[148] crocodile[149] and pile-
dwelling[150] gods into the disc of the sun, and made it clear that their
various attributes were compatible with the sun’s attributes.[151] A similar
fate overtook the Hellenic and Roman polytheism through the syncretistic

efforts of later centuries. The beautiful prayer of Lucius[152] to the queen of
the Heavens furnishes an important proof of this:
“Queen of Heaven, whether thou art the genial Ceres, the prime parent of fruits;—or whether thou
art celestial Venus;—or whether thou art the sister of Phœbus;—or whether thou art Proserpina,
terrific with midnight howlings—with that feminine brightness of thine illuminating the walls of
every city.”[153]
This attempt to gather again into a few units the religious thoughts which
were divided into countless variations and personified in individual gods
according to their polytheistic distribution and separation makes clear the
fact that already at an earlier time analogies had formally arisen. Herodotus
is rich in just such references, not to mention the systems of the Hellenic-
Roman world. Opposed to the endeavor to form a unity there stands a still
stronger endeavor to create again and again a multiplicity, so that even in
the so-called severe monotheistic religions, as Christianity, for example, the
polytheistic tendency is irrepressible. The Deity is divided into three parts at
least, to which is added the feminine Deity of Mary and the numerous
company of the lesser gods, the angels and saints, respectively. These two
tendencies are in constant warfare. There is only one God with countless
attributes, or else there are many gods who are then simply known
differently, according to locality, and personify sometimes this, sometimes
that attribute of the fundamental thought, an example of which we have
seen above in the Egyptian gods.
With this we turn once more to Nietzsche’s poem, “The Beacon.” We
found the flame there used as an image of the libido, theriomorphically
represented as a snake (also as an image of the soul:[154] “This flame is mine
own soul”). We saw that the snake is to be taken as a phallic image of the
libido (upreared in impatience), and that this image, also an attribute of the
conception of the sun (the Egyptian sun idol), is an image of the libido in
the combination of sun and phallus. It is not a wholly strange conception,
therefore, that the sun’s disc is represented with a penis, as well as with
hands and feet. We find proof for this idea in a peculiar part of the Mithraic
liturgy: ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ ὁ καλούμενος αὐλός, ἡ ἀρχὴ τοῦ λειτουργοῦντος
ἀνέμου. Ὄψει γὰρ ἀπὸ τοῦ δίσκου ὡς αὐλὸν κρεμάμενον.[155]
This extremely important vision of a tube hanging down from the sun
would produce in a religious text, such as that of the Mithraic liturgy, a
strange and at the same time meaningless effect if it did not have the phallic
meaning. The tube is the place of origin of the wind. The phallic meaning

seems very faint in this idea, but one must remember that the wind, as well
as the sun, is a fructifier and creator. This has already been pointed out in a
footnote.[156] There is a picture by a Germanic painter of the Middle Ages of
the “conceptio immaculata” which deserves mention here. The conception
is represented by a tube or pipe coming down from heaven and passing
beneath the skirt of Mary. Into this flies the Holy Ghost in the form of a
dove for the impregnation of the Mother of God.[157]
Honegger discovered the following hallucination in an insane man
(paranoid dement): The patient sees in the sun an “upright tail” similar to an
erected penis. When he moves his head back and forth, then, too, the sun’s
penis sways back and forth in a like manner, and out of that the wind arises.
This strange hallucination remained unintelligible to us for a long time until
I became acquainted with the Mithraic liturgy and its visions. This
hallucination threw an illuminating light, as it appears to me, upon a very
obscure place in the text which immediately follows the passage previously
cited:
εἰς δὲ τὰ μέρη τὰ πρὸς λίβα ἀπέραντον οἷον ἀπηλιώτην. Ἐὰν ᾖ κεκληρώμενος εἰς δὲ τὰ μέρη τοῦ
ἀπηλιώτου ὁ ἕτερος, ὁμοίως εἰς τὰ μέρη τὰ ἐκείνου ὄψει τὴν ἀποφορὰν τοῦ ὁρμάτος.
Mead translates this very clearly:[158]
“And towards the regions westward, as though it were an infinite Eastwind. But if the other wind,
towards the regions of the East, should be in service, in the like fashion shalt thou see towards the
regions of that side the converse of the sight.”
In the original ὅραμα is the vision, the thing seen. ἀποφορά means
properly the carrying away. The sense of the text, according to this, might
be: the thing seen may be carried or turned sometimes here, sometimes
there, according to the direction of the wind. The ὅραμα is the tube, “the
place of origin of the wind,” which turns sometimes to the east, sometimes
to the west, and, one might add, generates the corresponding wind. The
vision of the insane man coincides astonishingly with this description of the
movement of the tube.[159]
The various attributes of the sun, separated into a series, appear one after
the other in the Mithraic liturgy. According to the vision of Helios, seven
maidens appear with the heads of snakes, and seven gods with the heads of
black bulls.
It is easy to understand the maiden as a symbol of the libido used in the
sense of causative comparison. The snake in Paradise is usually considered
as feminine, as the seductive principle in woman, and is represented as

feminine by the old artists, although properly the snake has a phallic
meaning. Through a similar change of meaning the snake in antiquity
becomes the symbol of the earth, which on its side is always considered
feminine. The bull is the well-known symbol for the fruitfulness of the sun.
The bull gods in the Mithraic liturgy were called κνωθακοφύλακες,
“guardians of the axis of the earth,” by whom the axle of the orb of the
heavens was turned. The divine man, Mithra, also had the same attributes;
he is sometimes called the “Sol invictus” itself, sometimes the mighty
companion and ruler of Helios; he holds in his right hand the “bear
constellation, which moves and turns the heavens.” The bull-headed gods,
equally ἱεροὶ καὶ ἄλκιμοι νεανίαι with Mithra himself, to whom the attribute
νεώτερος, “young one,” “the newcomer,” is given, are merely attributive
components of the same divinity. The chief god of the Mithraic liturgy is
himself subdivided into Mithra and Helios; the attributes of each of these
are closely related to the other. Of Helios it is said: ὄψει θεὸν νεώτερον
εὐειδῆ πυρινότριχα ἐν χιτῶνι λευκῷ καὶ χλαμύδι κοκκίνῃ, ἔχοντα πύρινον
στέφανον.[160]
Of Mithra it is said: ὄψει θεὸν ὑπερμεγέθη, φωτινὴν ἔχοντα τὴν ὄψιν,
νεώτερον, χρυσοκόμαν, ἐν χιτῶνι λευκῳ καὶ χρυσῳ στεφάνῳ καὶ ἀναξυρίσι,
κατέχοντα τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρὶ μόσχου ὦμόν χρύσεον, ὅς ἐστιν ἄρκτος ἡ κινοῦσα
καὶ ἀντιστρέφουσα τὸν οὐρανόν, κατὰ ὥραν ἀναπολεύουσα καὶ
καταπολεύουσα. ἔπειτα ὄψει αὐτοῦ ἐκ τῶν ὀμμάτων ἀστραπὰς καὶ ἐκ τοῦ
σώματος ἀστέρας ἁλλομένους.[161]
If we place fire and gold as essentially similar, then a great accord is
found in the attributes of the two gods. To these mystical pagan ideas there
deserve to be added the probably almost contemporaneous vision of
Revelation:
“And being turned, I saw seven golden candlesticks. And in the midst of the candlesticks[162] one
like unto the son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about at the breasts with a
golden girdle. And his head and his hair were white as white wool, white as snow, and his eyes were
as a flame of fire. And his feet like unto burnished brass, as if it had been refined in a furnace; and his
voice as the sound of many waters. And he had in his right hand seven stars,[163] and out of his mouth
proceeded a sharp two-edged sword,[164] and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his
strength.”—Rev. i: 12 ff.
“And I looked, and beheld a white cloud, and upon the cloud I saw one sitting like unto the son of
man, having on his head a golden crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle.”[165]—Rev. xiv: 14.
“And his eyes were as a flame of fire, and upon his head were many diadems. And he was arrayed
in a garment[166] sprinkled with blood.... And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon

white horses, clothed in fine linen,[167] white and pure. And out of his mouth proceeded a sharp
sword.”—Rev. xix: 12–15.
One need not assume that there is a direct dependency between the
Apocalypse and the Mithraic liturgy. The visionary images of both texts are
developed from a source, not limited to one place, but found in the soul of
many divers people, because the symbols which arise from it are too typical
for it to belong to one individual only. I put these images here to show how
the primitive symbolism of light gradually developed, with the increasing
depth of the vision, into the idea of the sun-hero, the “well-beloved.”[168]
The development of the symbol of light is thoroughly typical. In addition to
this, perhaps I might call to mind the fact that I have previously pointed out
this course with numerous examples,[169] and, therefore, I can spare myself
the trouble of returning to this subject.[170] These visionary occurrences are
the psychological roots of the sun-coronations in the mysteries. Its rite is
religious hallucination congealed into liturgical form, which, on account of
its great regularity, could become a generally accepted outer form. After all
this, it is easily understood how the ancient Christian Church, on one side,
stood in an especial bond to Christ as “sol novus,” and, on the other side,
had a certain difficulty in freeing itself from the earthly symbols of Christ.
Indeed Philo of Alexandria saw in the sun the image of the divine logos or
of the Deity especially (“De Somniis,” 1:85). In an Ambrosian hymn Christ
is invoked by “O sol salutis,” and so on. At the time of Marcus Aurelius,
Meliton, in his work,[171] περὶ λούτρου, called Christ the Ἥλιος ἀνατολης ...
μόνος ἥλιος οὗτος ἀνέτειλεν ἀπ’ οὐρανοῦ.[172]
Still more important is a passage from Pseudo-Cyprian:[173]
“O quam præclara providentia ut illo die quo factus est sol, in ipso die nasceretur Christus, v. Kal.
Apr. feria IV, et ideo de ipso ad plebem dicebat Malachias propheta: ‘Orietur vobis sol iustitiæ et
curatio est in pennis ejus,’ hic est sol iustitiæ cuius in pennis curatio præostendebatur.”[174][175]
In a work nominally attributed to John Chrysostomus, “De Solstitiis et
Aequinoctiis,”[176] occurs this passage:
“Sed et dominus nascitur mense Decembri hiemis tempore, VIII. Kal. Januarias, quando oleæ
maturæ præmuntur ut unctio, id est Chrisma, nascatur—sed et Invicti natalem appellant. Quis utique
tam invictus nisi dominus noster qui mortem subactam devicit? Vel quod dicant Solis esse natalem,
ipse est sol iustitiæ, de quo Malachias propheta dixit: ‘Dominus lucis ac noctis conditor et discretor
qui a propheta Sol iustitiæ cognominatus est.’”[177]
According to the testimony of Eusebius of Alexandria, the Christians also
shared in the worship of the rising sun, which lasted into the fifth century:
οὐαῖ τοῖς προσκυνοῦσι τὸν ἥλιον καὶ τὴν σελήνην καὶ τοὺς ἀστέρας. Πολλοὺς γὰρ οἶδα τοὺς
προσκυνοῦντας καὶ εὐχομένους εἰς τὸν ἥλιον. Ἤδη γὰρ ἀνατείλαντος τοῦ ἡλίου, προσεύχονται καὶ

λέγουσιν “Ἐλέησον ἡμᾶς” καὶ οὐ μόνον Ἡλιογνώσται καὶ αἱρετικοὶ τοῦτο ποιοῦσιν ἀλλὰ καὶ
χριστιανοὶ καὶ ἀφέντες τὴν πίστιν τοῖς αἱρετικοῖς συναμίγνυνται.[178]
Augustine preached emphatically to the Christians:
“Non est Dominus Sol factus sed per quem Sol factus est—ne quis carnaliter sapiens Solem istum
(Christum) intelligendum putaret.”
Art has preserved much of the remnants of sun-worship,[179] thus the
nimbus around the head of Christ and the halo of the saints in general. The
Christian legends also attribute many fire and light symbols to the saints.[180]
The twelve apostles, for example, are likened to the twelve signs of the
zodiac, and are represented, therefore, with a star over the head.[181]
It is not to be wondered at that the heathen, as Tertullian avows,
considered the sun as the Christian God. Among the Manichaeans God was
really the sun. One of the most remarkable works extant, where the Pagan,
Asiatic, Hellenic and Christian intermingle, is the Ἐξήγησις περὶ των ἐν
Περσίδι πραχθέντων, edited by Wirth.[182] This is a book of fables, but,
nevertheless, a mine for near-Christian phantasies, which gives a profound
insight into Christian symbolism. In this is found the following magical
dedication: Διὶ Ἡλίῳ θεῳ μεγάλῳ βασιλεῖ Ἰησοῦ—.[183] In certain parts of
Armenia the rising sun is still worshipped by Christians, that “it may let its
foot rest upon the faces of the worshippers.”[184] The foot occurs as an
anthropomorphic attribute, and we have already met the theriomorphic
attribute in the feathers and the sun phallus. Other comparisons of the sun’s
ray, as knife, sword, arrow, and so on, have also, as we have learned from
the psychology of the dream, a phallic meaning at bottom. This meaning is
attached to the foot as I here point out,[185] and also to the feathers, or hair,
of the sun, which signify the power or strength of the sun. I refer to the
story of Samson, and to that of the Apocalypse of Baruch, concerning the
phœnix bird, which, flying before the sun, loses its feathers, and, exhausted,
is strengthened again in an ocean bath at evening.
Under the symbol of “moth and sun” we have dug down into the historic
depths of the soul, and in doing this we have uncovered an old buried idol,
the youthful, beautiful, fire-encircled and halo-crowned sun-hero, who,
forever unattainable to the mortal, wanders upon the earth, causing night to
follow day; winter, summer; death, life; and who returns again in
rejuvenated splendor and gives light to new generations. The longing of the
dreamer concealed behind the moth stands for him.

The ancient pre-Asiatic civilizations were acquainted with a sun-worship
having the idea of a God dying and rising again (Osiris, Tammuz, Attis-
Adonis),[186] Christ, Mithra and his bull,[187] Phœnix and so on. The
beneficent power as well as the destroying power was worshipped in fire.
The forces of nature always have two sides, as we have already seen in the
God of Job. This reciprocal bond brings us back once more to Miss Miller’s
poem. Her reminiscences support our previous supposition, that the symbol
of moth and sun is a condensation of two ideas, about one of which we have
just spoken; the other is the moth and the flame. As the title of a play, about
the contents of which the author tells us absolutely nothing, “Moth and
Flame” may easily have the well-known erotic meaning of flying around
the flame of passion until one’s wings are burned. The passionate longing,
that is to say, the libido, has its two sides; it is power which beautifies
everything, and which under other circumstances destroys everything. It
often appears as if one could not accurately understand in what the
destroying quality of the creative power consists. A woman who gives
herself up to passion, particularly under the present-day condition of
culture, experiences the destructive side only too soon. One has only to
imagine one’s self a little away from the every-day moral conditions in
order to understand what feelings of extreme insecurity overwhelm the
individual who gives himself unconditionally over to Fate.
To be fruitful means, indeed, to destroy one’s self, because with the rise
of the succeeding generation the previous one has passed beyond its highest
point; thus our descendants are our most dangerous enemies, whom we
cannot overcome, for they will outlive us, and, therefore, without fail, will
take the power from our enfeebled hands. The anxiety in the face of the
erotic fate is wholly understandable, for there is something immeasurable
therein. Fate usually hides unknown dangers, and the perpetual hesitation of
the neurotic to venture upon life is easily explained by his desire to be
allowed to stand still, so as not to take part in the dangerous battle of life.
[188]
Whoever renounces the chance to experience must stifle in himself the
wish for it, and, therefore, commits a sort of self-murder. From this the
death phantasies which readily accompany the renunciation of the erotic
wish are made clear. In the poem Miss Miller has voiced these phantasies.
She adds further to the material with the following:
“I had been reading a selection from one of Byron’s poems which pleased me very much and made
a deep and lasting impression. Moreover, the rhythm of my last two verses, ‘For I the source, etc.,’

and the two lines of Byron’s are very similar.

‘Now let me die as I have lived in faith,
Nor tremble though the universe should quake.’”

This reminiscence with which the series of ideas is closed confirms the
death phantasies which follow from renunciation of the erotic wish. The
quotation comes—which Miss Miller did not mention—from an
uncompleted poem of Byron’s called “Heaven and Earth.”[189] The whole
verse follows:
“Still blessed be the Lord,
For what is passed,
For that which is;
For all are His,
From first to last—
Time—Space—Eternity—Life—Death—
The vast known and immeasurable unknown
He made and can unmake,
And shall I for a little gasp of breath
Blaspheme and groan?
No, let me die as I have lived in faith,
Nor quiver though the universe may quake!”

The words are included in a kind of praise or prayer, spoken by a
“mortal” who is in hopeless flight before the mounting deluge. Miss Miller
puts herself in the same situation in her quotation; that is to say, she readily
lets it be seen that her feeling is similar to the despondency of the unhappy
ones who find themselves hard pressed by the threatening mounting waters
of the deluge. With this the writer allows us a deep look into the dark abyss
of her longing for the sun-hero. We see that her longing is in vain; she is a
mortal, only for a short time borne upwards into the light by means of the
highest longing, and then sinking to death, or, much more, urged upwards
by the fear of death, like the people before the deluge, and in spite of the
desperate conflict, irretrievably given over to destruction. This is a mood
which recalls vividly the closing scene in “Cyrano de Bergerac”:[190]
Cyrano:

Oh, mais ... puisqu’elle est en chemin,
Je l’attendrai debout ... et l’épée à la main.

Que dites-vous?... C’est inutile? Je le sais.
Mais on ne se bat pas dans l’espoir du succès.
Non, non. C’est bien plus beau lorsque c’est inutile.

Je sais bien qu’à la fin vous me mettrez à bas....
We already know sufficiently well what longing and what impulse it is
that attempts to clear a way for itself to the light, but that it may be realized
quite clearly and irrevocably, it is shown plainly in the quotation “No, let
me die,” which confirms and completes all earlier remarks. The divine, the
“much-beloved,” who is honored in the image of the sun, is also the goal of
the longing of our poet.
Byron’s “Heaven and Earth” is a mystery founded on the following
passage from Genesis, chapter vi:2: “And it came to pass ... that the sons of
God saw the daughters of men that they were fair, and they took them wives
of all that they chose.” Byron offers as a further motif for his poem the
following passage from Coleridge: “And woman wailing for her Demon
lover.” Byron’s poem is concerned with two great events, one psychologic
and one telluric; the passion which throws down all barriers; and all the
terrors of the unchained powers of nature: a parallel which has already been
introduced into our earlier discussion. The angels Samiasa and Azaziel burn
with sinful love for the beautiful daughters of Cain, Anah and Aholibama,
and force a way through the barrier which is placed between mortal and
immortal. They revolt as Lucifer once did against God, and the archangel
Raphael raises his voice warningly:
“But man hath listened to his voice
And ye to woman’s—beautiful she is,
The serpent’s voice less subtle than her kiss.
The snake but vanquished dust; but she will draw
A second host from heaven to break heaven’s law.”

The power of God is threatened by the seduction of passion; a second fall
of angels menaces heaven. Let us translate this mythologic projection back
into the psychologic, from whence it originated. Then it would read: the
power of the good and reasonable ruling the world wisely is threatened by
the chaotic primitive power of passion; therefore passion must be
exterminated; that is to say, projected into mythology. The race of Cain and
the whole sinful world must be destroyed from the roots by the deluge. It is
the inevitable result of that sinful passion which has broken through all
barriers. Its counterpart is the sea and the waters of the deep and the floods
of rain,[191] the generating, fructifying and “maternal waters,” as the Indian
mythology refers to them. Now they leave their natural bounds and surge
over the mountain tops, engulfing all living things; for passion destroys

itself. The libido is God and Devil. With the destruction of the sinfulness of
the libido an essential portion of the libido would be destroyed. Through the
loss of the Devil, God himself suffered a considerable loss, somewhat like
an amputation upon the body of the Divinity. The mysterious hint in
Raphael’s lament concerning the two rebels, Samiasa and Azaziel, suggests
this.
“... Why,
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroyed,
Without involving ever some vast void
In the immortal ranks?...”

Love raises man, not only above himself, but also above the bounds of
his mortality and earthliness, up to divinity itself, and in the very act of
raising him it destroys him. Mythologically, this self-presumption finds its
striking expression in the building of the heaven-high tower of Babel,
which brings confusion to mankind.[192] In Byron’s poem it is the sinful
ambition of the race of Cain, for love of which it makes even the stars
subservient and leads away the sons of God themselves. If, indeed, longing
for the highest things—if I may speak so—is legitimate, then it lies in the
circumstances that it leaves its human boundaries, that of sinfulness, and,
therefore, destruction. The longing of the moth for the star is not absolutely
pure and transparent, but glows in sultry mist, for man continues to be man.
Through the excess of his longing he draws down the divine into the
corruption of his passion;[193] therefore, he seems to raise himself to the
Divine; but with that his humanity is destroyed. Thus the love of Anah and
Aholibama for their angels becomes the ruin of gods and men. The
invocation with which Cain’s daughters implore their angels is
psychologically an exact parallel to Miss Miller’s poem.
Anah:[194]

Seraph!
From thy sphere!
Whatever star[195] contains thy glory.

In the eternal depths of heaven
Albeit thou watchest with the ‘seven,’
Though through space infinite and hoary
Before thy bright wings worlds will be driven,

Yet hear!
Oh! think of her who holds thee dear!

And though she nothing is to thee,
Yet think that thou art all to her.

· · · · ·

Eternity is in thy years,
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes;
With me thou canst not sympathize,
Except in love, and there thou must
Acknowledge that more loving dust
Ne’er wept beneath the skies.
Thou walkest thy many worlds,[196] thou seest
The face of him who made thee great,
As he hath made of me the least
Of those cast out from Eden’s gate;

Yet, Seraph, dear!
Oh hear!
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die
Until I know what I must die in knowing,
That thou forgettest in thine eternity
Her whose heart death could not keep from o’erflowing
For thee, immortal essence as thou art,[197]
Great is their love who love in sin and fear;
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart
A war unworthy: to an Adamite
Forgive, my Seraph! that such thoughts appear.
For sorrow is our element....

· · · · ·

The hour is near
Which tells me we are not abandoned quite.
Appear! Appear!
Seraph!
My own Azaziel! be but here,
And leave the stars to their own light.

Aholibama:

I call thee, I await thee and I love thee.

· · · · ·

Though I be formed of clay,
And thou of beams[198]
More bright than those of day on Eden’s streams,
Thine immortality cannot repay
With love more warm than mine
My love. There is a ray[199]
In me, which though forbidden yet to shine,

I feel was lighted at thy God’s and mine.[200]
It may be hidden long: death and decay
Our mother Eve bequeathed us—but my heart
Defies it: though this life must pass away,
Is that a cause for thee and me to part?

· · · · ·

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow;
For thou hast ventured to share life with me,
And shall I shrink from thine eternity?
No, though the serpent’s sting[201] should pierce me through,
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil
Around me still.[202] And I will smile
And curse thee not, but hold
Thee in as warm a fold
As—but descend and prove
A mortal’s love
For an immortal....
The apparition of both angels which follows the invocation is, as always,
a shining vision of light.
Aholibama:

The clouds from off their pinions flinging
As though they bore to-morrow’s light.

Anah:

But if our father see the sight!

Aholibama:

He would but deem it was the moon
Rising unto some sorcerer’s tune
An hour too soon.

· · · · ·

Anah:

Lo! They have kindled all the west,
Like a returning sunset....
On Ararat’s late secret crest
A wild and many colored bow,
The remnant of their flashing path,
Now shines!...

At the sight of this many-colored vision of light, where both women are
entirely filled with desire and expectation, Anah makes use of a simile full

of presentiment, which suddenly allows us to look down once more into the
dismal dark depths, out of which for a moment the terrible animal nature of
the mild god of light emerges.
“... and now, behold! it hath
Returned to night, as rippling foam,
Which the leviathan hath lashed
From his unfathomable home,
When sporting on the face of the calm deep,
Subsides soon after he again hath dash’d
Down, down to where the ocean’s fountains sleep.”

Thus like the leviathan! We recall this overpowering weight in the scale
of God’s justice in regard to the man Job. There, where the deep sources of
the ocean are, the leviathan lives; from there the all-destroying flood
ascends, the all-engulfing flood of animal passion. That stifling,
compressing feeling[203] of the onward-surging impulse is projected
mythologically as a flood which, rising up and over all, destroys all that
exists, in order to allow a new and better creation to come forth from this
destruction.
Japhet:

The eternal will
Shall deign to expound this dream
Of good and evil; and redeem
Unto himself all times, all things;

And, gather’d under his almighty wings,
Abolish hell!
And to the expiated Earth
Restore the beauty of her birth.

Spirits:

And when shall take effect this wondrous spell?

Japhet:

When the Redeemer cometh; first in pain
And then in glory.

Spirits:

New times, new climes, new arts, new men, but still
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill,
Shall be amongst your race in different forms;
But the same mortal storms

Shall oversweep the future, as the waves
In a few hours the glorious giants’ graves.
The prophetic visions of Japhet have almost prophetic meaning for our
poetess; with the death of the moth in the light, evil is once more laid aside;
the complex has once again, even if in a censored form, expressed itself.
With that, however, the problem is not solved; all sorrow and every longing
begins again from the beginning, but there is “Promise in the Air”—the
premonition of the Redeemer, of the “Well-beloved,” of the Sun-hero, who
again mounts to the height of the sun and again descends to the coldness of
the winter, who is the light of hope from race to race, the image of the
libido.

PART II

CHAPTER I
ASPECTS OF THE LIBIDO

Before I enter upon the contents of this second part, it seems necessary to
cast a backward glance over the singular train of thought which the analysis
of the poem “The Moth to the Sun” has produced. Although this poem is
very different from the foregoing Hymn of Creation, closer investigation of
the “longing for the sun” has carried us into the realm of the fundamental
ideas of religion and astral mythology, which ideas are closely related to
those considered in the first poem. The creative God of the first poem,
whose dual nature, moral and physical, was shown especially clearly to us
by Job, has in the second poem a new qualification of astral-mythological,
or, to express it better, of astrological character. The God becomes the sun,
and in this finds an adequate natural expression quite apart from the moral
division of the God idea into the heavenly father and the devil. The sun is,
as Renan remarked, really the only rational representation of God, whether
we take the point of view of the barbarians of other ages or that of the
modern physical sciences. In both cases the sun is the parent God,
mythologically predominantly the Father God, from whom all living things
draw life; He is the fructifier and creator of all that lives, the source of
energy of our world. The discord into which the soul of man has fallen
through the action of moral laws[204] can be resolved into complete harmony
through the sun as the natural object which obeys no human moral law. The
sun is not only beneficial, but also destructive; therefore the zodiacal

representation of the August heat is the herd-devouring lion whom the
Jewish hero Samson[205] killed in order to free the parched earth from this
plague. Yet it is the harmonious and inherent nature of the sun to scorch,
and its scorching power seems natural to men. It shines equally on the just
and on the unjust, and allows useful living objects to flourish as well as
harmful ones. Therefore, the sun is adapted as is nothing else to represent
the visible God of this world. That is to say, that driving strength of our own
soul, which we call libido, and whose nature it is to allow the useful and
injurious, the good and the bad to proceed. That this comparison is no mere
play of words is taught us by the mystics. When by looking inwards
(introversion) and going down into the depths of their own being they find
“in their heart” the image of the Sun, they find their own love or libido,
which with reason, I might say with physical reason, is called the Sun; for
our source of energy and life is the Sun. Thus our life substance, as an
energic process, is entirely Sun. Of what special sort this “Sun energy” seen
inwardly by the mystic is, is shown by an example taken from the Hindoo
mythology.[206] From the explanation of Part III of the
“Shvetâshvataropanishad” we take the following quotation, which relates to
the Rudra:[207]
(2) “Yea, the one Rudra who all these worlds with ruling power doth rule, stands not for any
second. Behind those that are born he stands; at ending time ingathers all the worlds he hath evolved,
protector (he).
(3) “He hath eyes on all sides, on all sides surely hath faces, arms surely on all sides, on all sides
feet. With arms, with wings he tricks them out, creating heaven and earth, the only God.
(4) “Who of the gods is both the source and growth, the Lord of all, the Rudra. Mighty seer; who
brought the shining germ of old into existence—may he with reason pure conjoin us.”[208]
These attributes allow us clearly to discern the all-creator and in him the
Sun, which has wings and with a thousand eyes scans the world.[209]
The following passages confirm the text and join to it the idea most
important for us, that God is also contained in the individual creature:
(7) “Beyond this (world) the Brahman beyond, the mighty one, in every creature hid according to
its form, the one encircling Lord of all, Him having known, immortal they become.
(8) “I know this mighty man, Sun-like, beyond the darkness, Him (and him) only knowing, one
crosseth over death; no other path (at all) is there to go.
(11) “... spread over the universe is He the Lord therefore as all-pervader, He’s benign.”
The powerful God, the equal of the Sun, is in that one, and whoever
knows him is immortal.[210] Going on further with the text, we come upon a

new attribute, which informs us in what form and manner Rudra lived in
men.
(12) “The mighty monarch, He, the man, the one who doth the essence start towards that peace of
perfect stainlessness, lordly, exhaustless light.
(13) “The Man, the size of a thumb, the inner self, sits ever in the heart of all that’s born, by mind,
mind ruling in the heart, is He revealed. That they who know, immortal they become.
(14) “The Man of the thousands of heads (and) thousands of eyes (and) thousands of feet, covering
the earth on all sides, He stands beyond, ten finger-breadths.
(15) “The Man is verily this all, (both) what has been and what will be, Lord (too) of deathlessness
which far all else surpasses.”
Important parallel quotations are to be found in the “Kathopanishad,”
section 2, part 4.
(12) “The Man of the size of a thumb, resides in the midst within the self, of the past and the
future, the Lord.
(13) “The Man of the size of a thumb like flame free from smoke, of past and of future the Lord,
the same is to-day, to-morrow the same will He be.”
Who this Tom-Thumb is can easily be divined—the phallic symbol of the
libido. The phallus is this hero dwarf, who performs great deeds; he, this
ugly god in homely form, who is the great doer of wonders, since he is the
visible expression of the creative strength incarnate in man. This
extraordinary contrast is also very striking in “Faust” (the mother scene):
Mephistopheles:

I’ll praise thee ere we separate: I see
Thou knowest the devil thoroughly:
Here take this key.

Faust:

That little thing!

Mephistopheles:

Take hold of it, not undervaluing!

Faust:

It glows, it shines, increases in my hand!

Mephistopheles:

How much it is worth, thou soon shalt understand,
The key will scent the true place from all others!
Follow it down!—’twill lead thee to the Mothers![211]

Here the devil again puts into Faust’s hand the marvellous tool, a phallic
symbol of the libido, as once before in the beginning the devil, in the form
of the black dog, accompanied Faust, when he introduced himself with the
words:
“Part of that power, not understood,
Which always wills the bad and always creates the good.”

United to this strength, Faust succeeded in accomplishing his real life
task, at first through evil adventure and then for the benefit of humanity, for
without the evil there is no creative power. Here in the mysterious mother
scene, where the poet unveils the last mystery of the creative power to the
initiated, Faust has need of the phallic magic wand (in the magic strength of
which he has at first no confidence), in order to perform the greatest of
wonders, namely, the creation of Paris and Helen. With that Faust attains
the divine power of working miracles, and, indeed, only by means of this
small, insignificant instrument. This paradoxical impression seems to be
very ancient, for even the Upanishads could say the following of the dwarf
god:
(19) “Without hands, without feet, He moveth, He graspeth: Eyeless He seeth, (and) earless He
heareth: He knoweth what is to be known, yet is there no knower of Him. Him call the first, mighty
the Man.
(20) “Smaller than small, (yet) greater than great in the heart of this creature the self doth repose ...
etc.”
The phallus is the being, which moves without limbs, which sees without
eyes, which knows the future; and as symbolic representative of the
universal creative power existent everywhere immortality is vindicated in it.
It is always thought of as entirely independent, an idea current not only in
antiquity, but also apparent in the pornographic drawings of our children
and artists. It is a seer, an artist and a worker of wonders; therefore it should
not surprise us when certain phallic characteristics are found again in the
mythological seer, artist and sorcerer. Hephaestus, Wieland the smith, and
Mani, the founder of Manicheism, whose followers were also famous, have
crippled feet. The ancient seer Melampus possessed a suggestive name
(Blackfoot),[212] and it seems also to be typical for seers to be blind.
Dwarfed stature, ugliness and deformity have become especially typical for
those mysterious chthonian gods, the sons of Hephaestus, the Cabiri,[213] to
whom great power to perform miracles was ascribed. The name signifies
“powerful,” and the Samothracian cult is most intimately united with that of

the ithyphallic Hermes, who, according to the account of Herodotus, was
brought to Attica by the Pelasgians. They are also called μεγάλοι θεοί, the
great gods. Their near relations are the “Idaean dactyli” (finger or Idaean
thumb),[214] to whom the mother of the gods had taught the blacksmith’s art.
(“The key will scent the true place from all others! follow it down!—’twill
lead thee to the Mothers!”) They were the first leaders, the teachers of
Orpheus, and invented the Ephesian magic formulas and the musical
rhythms.[215] The characteristic disparity which is shown above in the
Upanishad text, and in “Faust,” is also found here, since the gigantic
Hercules passed as an Idaean dactyl.
The colossal Phrygians, the skilled servants of Rhea,[216] were also
Dactyli. The Babylonian teacher of wisdom, Oannes,[217] was represented in
a phallic fish form.[218] The two sun heroes, the Dioscuri, stand in relation to
the Cabiri;[219] they also wear the remarkable pointed head-covering (Pileus)
which is peculiar to these mysterious gods,[220] and which is perpetuated
from that time on as a secret mark of identification. Attis (the elder brother
of Christ) wears the pointed cap, just as does Mithra. It has also become
traditional for our present-day chthonian infantile gods,[221] the brownies
(Penates), and all the typical kind of dwarfs. Freud[222] has already called our
attention to the phallic meaning of the hat in modern phantasies. A further
significance is that probably the pointed cap represents the foreskin. In
order not to go too far afield from my theme, I must be satisfied here
merely to present the suggestion. But at a later opportunity I shall return to
this point with detailed proof.
The dwarf form leads to the figure of the divine boy, the puer eternus, the
young Dionysus, Jupiter Anxurus, Tages,[223] and so on. In the vase painting
of Thebes, already mentioned, a bearded Dionysus is represented as
ΚΑΒΕΙΡΟΣ, together with a figure of a boy as Παῖς, followed by a
caricatured boy’s figure designated as ΠΡΑΤΟΛΑΟΣ and then again a
caricatured man, which is represented as ΜΙΤΟΣ.[224] Μίτος really means
thread, but in orphic speech it stands for semen. It was conjectured that this
collection corresponded to a group of statuary in the sanctuary of a cult.
This supposition is supported by the history of the cult as far as it is known;
it is an original Phœnician cult of father and son;[225] of an old and young
Cabir who were more or less assimilated with the Grecian gods. The double
figures of the adult and the child Dionysus lend themselves particularly to
this assimilation. One might also call this the cult of the large and small

man. Now, under various aspects, Dionysus is a phallic god in whose
worship the phallus held an important place; for example, in the cult of the
Argivian Bull—Dionysus. Moreover, the phallic herme of the god has given
occasion for a personification of the phallus of Dionysus, in the form of the
god Phales, who is nothing else but a Priapus. He is called ἑταῖρος or
σύγκωμος Βάκχου[226].[227] Corresponding to this state of affairs, one cannot
very well fail to recognize in the previously mentioned Cabiric
representation, and in the added boy’s figure, the picture of man and his
penis.[228] The previously mentioned paradox in the Upanishad text of large
and small, of giant and dwarf, is expressed more mildly here by man and
boy, or father and son.[229] The motive of deformity which is used constantly
by the Cabiric cult is present also in the vase picture, while the parallel
figures to Dionysus and Παῖς are the caricatured Μίτος and Πρατόλαος.
Just as formerly the difference in size gave occasion for division, so does
the deformity here.[230]
Without first bringing further proof to bear, I may remark that from this
knowledge especially strong sidelights are thrown upon the original
psychologic meaning of the religious heroes. Dionysus stands in an intimate
relation with the psychology of the early Asiatic God who died and rose
again from the dead and whose manifold manifestations have been brought
together in the figure of Christ into a firm personality enduring for
centuries. We gain from our premise the knowledge that these heroes, as
well as their typical fates, are personifications of the human libido and its
typical fates. They are imagery, like the figures of our nightly dreams—the
actors and interpreters of our secret thoughts. And since we, in the present
day, have the power to decipher the symbolism of dreams and thereby
surmise the mysterious psychologic history of development of the
individual, so a way is here opened to the understanding of the secret
springs of impulse beneath the psychologic development of races. Our
previous trains of thought, which demonstrate the phallic side of the
symbolism of the libido, also show how thoroughly justified is the term
“libido.”[231] Originally taken from the sexual sphere, this word has become
the most frequent technical expression of psychoanalysis, for the simple
reason that its significance is wide enough to cover all the unknown and
countless manifestations of the Will in the sense of Schopenhauer. It is
sufficiently comprehensive and rich in meaning to characterize the real
nature of the psychical entity which it includes. The exact classical

significance of the word libido qualifies it as an entirely appropriate term.
Libido is taken in a very wide sense in Cicero:[232]
“(Volunt ex duobus opinatis) bonis (nasci) Libidinem et Lætitiam; ut sit lætitia præsentium
bonorum: libido futurorum.—Lætitia autem et Libido in bonorum opinione versantur, cum Libido ad
id, quod videtur bonum, illecta et inflammata rapiatur.—Natura enim omnes ea, quæ bona videntur,
sequuntur, fugiuntque contraria. Quamobrem simul objecta species cuiuspiam est, quod bonum
videatur, ad id adipiscendum impellit ipsa natura. Id cum constanter prudenterque fit, ejusmodi
appetitionem stoici βούλησιν appellant, nos appellamus voluntatem; eam illi putant in solo esse
sapiente, quam sic definiunt; voluntas est quæ quid cum ratione desiderat: quæ autem ratione adversa
incitata est vehementius, ea libido est, vel cupiditas effrenata, quæ in omnibus stultis invenitur.”[233]
The meaning of libido here is “to wish,” and in the stoical distinction of
will, dissolute desire. Cicero[234] used “libido” in a corresponding sense:
“Agere rem aliquam libidine, non ratione.”[235]

In the same sense Sallust says:
“Iracundia pars est libidinis.”

In another place in a milder and more general sense, which completely
approaches the analytical use:
“Magisque in decoris armis et militaribus equis, quam in scortis et conviviis libidinem
habebant.”[235]
Also:
“Quod si tibi bona libido fuerit patriæ, etc.”

The use of libido is so general that the phrase “libido est scire” merely
had the significance of “I will, it pleases me.” In the phrase “aliquam libido
urinæ lacessit” libido had the meaning of urgency. The significance of
sexual desire is also present in the classics.
This general classical application of the conception agrees with the
corresponding etymological context of the word, libido or lubido (with
libet, more ancient lubet), it pleases me, and libens or lubens = gladly,
willingly. Sanskrit, lúbhyati = to experience violent longing, lôbhayati =
excites longing, lubdha-h = eager, lôbha-h = longing, eagerness. Gothic =
liufs, and Old High German liob = love. Moreover, in Gothic, lubains was
represented as hope; and Old High German, lobôn = to praise, lob =
commendation, praise, glory; Old Bulgarian, ljubiti = to love, ljuby = love;
Lithuanian, liáupsinti = to praise.[236] It can be said that the conception of
libido as developed in the new work of Freud and of his school has

functionally the same significance in the biological territory as has the
conception of energy since the time of Robert Mayer in the physical realm.
[237]
It may not be superfluous to say something more at this point
concerning the conception of libido after we have followed the formation of
its symbol to its highest expression in the human form of the religious hero.

CHAPTER II
THE CONCEPTION AND THE GENETIC THEORY OF
LIBIDO

The chief source of the history of the analytic conception of libido is
Freud’s “Three Contributions to the Sexual Theory.” There the term libido
is conceived by him in the original narrow sense of sexual impulse, sexual
need. Experience forces us to the assumption of a capacity for displacement
of the libido, because functions or localizations of non-sexual force are
undoubtedly capable of taking up a certain amount of libidinous sexual
impetus, a libidinous afflux.[238] Functions or objects could, therefore, obtain
sexual value, which under normal circumstances really have nothing to do
with sexuality.[239] From this fact results the Freudian comparison of the
libido with a stream, which is divisible, which can be dammed up, which
overflows into branches, and so on.[240] Freud’s original conception does not
interpret “everything sexual,” although this has been asserted by critics, but
recognizes the existence of certain forces, the nature of which are not well
known; to which Freud, however, compelled by the notorious facts which
are evident to any layman, grants the capacity to receive “affluxes of
libido.” The hypothetical idea at the basis is the symbol of the
“Triebbündel”[241] (bundle of impulses), wherein the sexual impulse figures
as a partial impulse of the whole system, and its encroachment into the
other realms of impulse is a fact of experience. The theory of Freud,
branching off from this interpretation, according to which the motor forces
of a neurotic system correspond precisely to their libidinous additions to
other (non-sexual) functional impulses, has been sufficiently proven as
correct, it seems to me, by the work of Freud and his school.[242] Since the
appearance of the “Three Contributions,” in 1905, a change has taken
place[243] in the libido conception; its field of application has been widened.
An extremely clear example of this amplification is this present work.
However, I must state that Freud, as well as myself, saw the need of
widening the conception of libido. It was paranoia, so closely related to

dementia præcox, which seemed to compel Freud to enlarge the earlier
limits of the conception. The passage in question, which I will quote here,
word for word, reads:[244]
“A third consideration which presents itself, in regard to the views developed here, starts the query
as to whether we should accept as sufficiently effectual the universal receding of the libido from the
outer world, in order to interpret from that, the end of the world: or whether in this case, the firmly
rooted possession of the ‘I’ must not suffice to uphold the rapport with the outer world. Then one
must either let that which we call possession of the libido (interest from erotic sources) coincide with
interest in general, or else take into consideration the possibility that great disturbance in the
disposition of the libido can also induce a corresponding disturbance in the possession of the ‘I.’
Now, these are the problems, which we are still absolutely helpless and unfitted to answer. Things
would be different could we proceed from a safe fund of knowledge of instinct. But the truth is, we
have nothing of that kind at our disposal. We understand instinct as the resultant of the reaction of the
somatic and the psychic. We see in it the psychical representation of organic forces and take the
popular distinction between the ‘I’ impulse and the sexual impulse, which appears to us to be in
accord with the biological double rôle of the individual being who aspires to his own preservation as
well as to the preservation of the species. But anything beyond this is a structure, which we set up,
and also willingly let fall again in order to orient ourselves in the confusion of the dark processes of
the soul; we expect particularly, from the psychoanalytic investigations into diseased soul processes,
to have certain decisions forced upon us in regard to questions of the theory of instinct. This
expectation has not yet been fulfilled on account of the still immature and limited investigations in
these fields. At present the possibility of the reaction of libido disturbance upon the possession of the
‘I’ can be shown as little as the reverse; the secondary or induced disturbances of the libido processes
through abnormal changes in the ‘I.’ It is probable that processes of this sort form the distinctive
character of the psychoses. The conclusions arising from this, in relation to paranoia, are at present
uncertain. One cannot assert that the paranoiac has completely withdrawn his interest from the outer
world, nor withdrawn into the heights of repression, as one sometimes sees in certain other forms of
hallucinatory psychoses. He takes notice of the outer world, he takes account of its changes, he is
stirred to explanations by their influence, and therefore I consider it highly probable that the changed
relation to the world is to be explained, wholly or in great part, by the deficiency of the libido
interest.”
In this passage Freud plainly touches upon the question whether the well-
known longing for reality of the paranoic dement (and the dementia præcox
patients),[245] to whom I have especially called attention in my book, “The
Psychology of Dementia Præcox,”[246] is to be traced back to the withdrawal
of the “libidinous affluxes” alone, or whether this coincides with the so-
called objective interest in general. It is hardly to be assumed that the
normal “fonction du réel” (Janet)[247] is maintained only through affluxes of
libido or erotic interest. The fact is that in very many cases reality
disappears entirely, so that not a trace of psychological adaptation or
orientation can be recognized. Reality is repressed under these
circumstances and replaced by the contents of the complex. One must of
necessity say that not only the erotic interest but the interest in general has

disappeared, that is to say, the whole adaptation to reality has ceased. To
this category belong the stuporose and catatonic automatons.
I have previously made use of the expression “psychic energy” in my
“Psychology of Dementia Præcox” because I was unable to establish the
theory of this psychosis upon the conception of the displacement of the
affluxes of libido. My experience, at that time chiefly psychiatric, did not
enable me to understand this theory. However, the correctness of this theory
in regard to neuroses, strictly speaking the transference neuroses, was
proven to me later after increased experience in the field of hysteria and
compulsion neuroses. In the territory of these neuroses it is mainly a
question whether any portion of the libido which is spared through the
specific repression becomes introverted and regressive into earlier paths of
transference; for example, the path of the parental transference.[248] With
that, however, the former non-sexual psychologic adaptation to the
environment remains preserved so far as it does not concern the erotic and
its secondary positions (symptoms). The reality which is lacking to the
patients is just that portion of the libido to be found in the neurosis. In
dementia præcox, on the contrary, not merely that portion of libido which is
saved in the well-known specific sexual repression is lacking for reality, but
much more than one could write down to the account of sexuality in a strict
sense. The function of reality is lacking to such a degree that even the
motive power must be encroached upon in the loss. The sexual character of
this must be disputed absolutely,[249] for reality is not understood to be a
sexual function. Moreover, if that were so, the introversion of the libido in
the strict sense must have as a result a loss of reality in the neuroses, and,
indeed, a loss which could be compared with that of dementia præcox.
These facts have rendered it impossible for me to transfer Freud’s theory of
libido to dementia præcox, and, therefore, I am of the opinion that
Abraham’s investigation[250] is hardly tenable theoretically, from the
standpoint of the Freudian theory of libido. If Abraham believes that
through the withdrawal of the libido from the outer world the paranoid
system or the schizophrenic symptomatology results, then this assumption
is not justified from the standpoint of the knowledge of that time, because a
mere libido introversion and regression leads, speedily, as Freud has clearly
shown, into the neuroses, and, strictly speaking, into the transference
neuroses, and not into dementia præcox. Therefore, the transference of the
libido theory to dementia præcox is impossible, because this illness

produces a loss of reality which cannot be explained by the deficiency of
the libido defined in this narrow sense.
It affords me especial satisfaction that our teacher also, when he laid his
hand on the delicate material of the paranoic psychology, was forced to
doubt the applicability of the conception of libido held by him at that time.
The sexual definition of this did not permit me to understand those
disturbances of function, which affect the vague territory of the hunger
instinct just as much as that of the sexual instinct. For a long time the theory
of libido seemed to me inapplicable to dementia præcox. With increasing
experience in analytical work, however, I became aware of a gradual
change in my conception of libido. In place of the descriptive definition of
the “Three Contributions” there gradually grew up a generic definition of
the libido, which rendered it possible for me to replace the expression
“psychic energy” by the term “libido.” I was forced to ask myself whether
indeed the function of reality to-day does not consist only in its smaller part
of libido sexualis and in the greater part of other impulses? It is still a very
important question whether phylogenetically the function of reality is not, at
least in great part, of sexual origin. To answer this question directly in
regard to the function of reality is not possible, but we shall attempt to come
to an understanding indirectly.
A fleeting glance at the history of evolution is sufficient to teach us that
countless complicated functions to which to-day must be denied any sexual
character were originally pure derivations from the general impulse of
propagation. During the ascent through the animal kingdom an important
displacement in the fundamentals of the procreative instinct has taken place.
The mass of the reproductive products with the uncertainty of fertilization
has more and more been replaced by a controlled impregnation and an
effective protection of the offspring. In this way part of the energy required
in the production of eggs and sperma has been transposed into the creation
of mechanisms for allurement and for protection of the young. Thus we
discover the first instincts of art in animals used in the service of the
impulse of creation, and limited to the breeding season. The original sexual
character of these biological institutions became lost in their organic
fixation and functional independence. Even if there can be no doubt about
the sexual origin of music, still it would be a poor, unæsthetic
generalization if one were to include music in the category of sexuality. A
similar nomenclature would then lead us to classify the cathedral of

Cologne as mineralogy because it is built of stones. It can be a surprise only
to those to whom the history of evolution is unknown to find how few
things there really are in human life which cannot be reduced in the last
analysis to the instinct of procreation. It includes very nearly everything, I
think, which is beloved and dear to us. We spoke just now of libido as the
creative impulse and at the same time we allied ourselves with the
conception which opposes libido to hunger in the same way that the instinct
of the preservation of the species is opposed to the instinct of self-
preservation. In nature, this artificial distinction does not exist. Here we see
only a continuous life impulse, a will to live which will attain the creation
of the whole species through the preservation of the individual. Thus far
this conception coincides with the idea of the Will in Schopenhauer, for we
can conceive Will objectively, only as a manifestation of an internal desire.
This throwing of psychological perceptions into material reality is
characterized philosophically as “introjection.” (Ferenczi’s conception of
“introjection” denoted the reverse, that is, the taking of the outer world into
the inner world.)[251] Naturally, the conception of the world was distorted by
introjection. Freud’s conception of the principle of desire is a voluntary
formulation of the idea of introjection, while his once more voluntarily
conceived “principle of reality” corresponds functionally to that which I
designate as “corrective of reality,” and R. Avenarius[252] designates as
“empiriokritische Prinzipialkoordination.” The conception of power owes
its existence to this very introjection; this has already been said expressively
by Galileo in his remark that its origin is to be sought in the subjective
perception of the muscular power of the individual. Because we have
already arrived at the daring assumption that the libido, which was
employed originally in the exclusive service of egg and seed production,
now appears firmly organized in the function of nest-building, and can no
longer be employed otherwise; similarly this conception forces us to relate
it to every desire, including hunger. For now we can no longer make any
essential distinction between the will to build a nest and the will to eat. This
view brings us to a conception of libido, which extends over the boundaries
of the physical sciences into a philosophical aspect—to a conception of the
will in general. I must give this bit of psychological “Voluntarismus” into
the hands of the philosophers for them to manage. For the rest I refer to the
words of Schopenhauer[253] relating to this. In connection with the
psychology of this conception (by which I understand neither

metapsychology nor metaphysics) I am reminded here of the cosmogenic
meaning of Eros in Plato and Hesiod,[254] and also of the orphic figure of
Phanes, the “shining one,” the first created, the “father of Eros.” Phanes has
also orphically the significance of Priapus; he is a god of love, bisexual and
similar to the Theban Dionysus Lysios.[255] The orphic meaning of Phanes is
similar to that of the Indian Kâma, the god of love, which is also the
cosmogenic principle. To Plotinus, of the Neo-Platonic school, the world-
soul is the energy of the intellect.[256] Plotinus compares “The One,” the
creative primal principle, with light in general; the intellect with the Sun
( ♂ ), the world-soul with the moon ( ♀ ). In another comparison Plotinus
compares “The One” with the Father, the intellect with the Son.[257] The
“One” designated as Uranus is transcendent. The son as Kronos has
dominion over the visible world. The world-soul (designated as Zeus)
appears as subordinate to him. The “One,” or the Usia of the whole
existence is designated by Plotinus as hypostatic, also as the three forms of
emanation, also μία οὐσία ἐν τρισὶν ὑποστάσεσιν.[258] As Drews observed,
this is also the formula of the Christian Trinity (God the Father, God the
Son, and God the Holy Ghost) as it was decided upon at the councils of
Nicea and Constantinople.[259] It may also be noticed that certain early
Christian sectarians attributed a maternal significance to the Holy Ghost
(world-soul, moon). (See what follows concerning Chi of Timæus.)
According to Plotinus, the world-soul has a tendency toward a divided
existence and towards divisibility, the conditio sine qua non of all change,
creation and procreation (also a maternal quality). It is an “unending all of
life” and wholly energy; it is a living organism of ideas, which attain in it
effectiveness and reality.[260] The intellect is its procreator, its father, which,
having conceived it, brings it to development in thought.[261]
“What lies enclosed in the intellect, comes to development in the world-soul as logos, fills it with
meaning and makes it as if intoxicated with nectar.”[262]
Nectar is analogous to soma, the drink of fertility and of life, also to
sperma. The soul is fructified by the intellect; as oversoul it is called
heavenly Aphrodite, as the undersoul the earthly Aphrodite. “It knows the
birth pangs,”[263] and so on. The bird of Aphrodite, the dove, is not without
good cause the symbol of the Holy Ghost.
This fragment of the history of philosophy, which may easily be
enlarged, shows the significance of the endopsychic perception of the libido
and of its symbolism in human thought.

In the diversity of natural phenomena we see the desire, the libido, in the
most diverse applications and forms. We see the libido in the stage of
childhood almost wholly occupied in the instinct of nutrition, which takes
care of the upbuilding of the body. With the development of the body there
are successively opened new spheres of application for the libido. The last
sphere of application, and surpassing all the others in its functional
significance, is sexuality, which seems at first almost bound up with the
function of nutrition. (Compare with this the influence on procreation of the
conditions of nutrition in lower animals and plants.) In the territory of
sexuality, the libido wins that formation, the enormous importance of which
has justified us in the use of the term libido in general. Here the libido
appears very properly as an impulse of procreation, and almost in the form
of an undifferentiated sexual primal libido, as an energy of growth, which
clearly forces the individual towards division, budding, etc. (The clearest
distinction between the two forms of libido is to be found among those
animals in whom the stage of nutrition is separated from the sexual stage by
a chrysalis stage.)
From that sexual primal libido which produced millions of eggs and
seeds from one small creature derivatives have been developed with the
great limitation of the fecundity; derivatives in which the functions are
maintained by a special differentiated libido. This differentiated libido is
henceforth desexualized because it is dissociated from its original function
of egg and sperma production; nor is there any possibility of restoring it to
its original function. Thus, in general, the process of development consists
in an increasing transformation of the primal libido which only produced
products of generation to the secondary functions of allurement and
protection of the young. This now presupposes a very different and very
complicated relation to reality, a true function of reality, which, functionally
inseparable, is bound up with the needs of procreation. Thus the altered
mode of procreation carries with it as a correlate a correspondingly
heightened adaptation to reality.[264]
In this way we attain an insight into certain primitive conditions of the
function of reality. It would be radically wrong to say that its compelling
power is a sexual one. It was a sexual one to a large extent. The process of
transformation of the primal libido into secondary impulses always took
place in the form of affluxes of sexual libido, that is to say, sexuality
became deflected from its original destination and a portion of it turned,

little by little, increasing in amount, into the phylogenetic impulse of the
mechanisms of allurement and of protection of the young. This diversion of
the sexual libido from the sexual territory into associated functions is still
taking place.[265] Where this operation succeeds without injury to the
adaptation of the individual it is called sublimation. Where the attempt does
not succeed it is called repression.
The descriptive standpoint of psychology accepts the multiplicity of
instincts, among which is the sexual instinct, as a special phenomenon;
moreover, it recognizes certain affluxes of libido to non-sexual instincts.
Quite otherwise is the genetic standpoint. It regards the multiplicity of
instincts as issuing from a relative unity, the primal libido;[266] it recognizes
that definite amounts of the primal libido are split off, as it were, associated
with the newly formed functions and finally merged in them. As a result of
this it is impossible, from the genetic standpoint, to hold to the strictly
limited conception of libido of the descriptive standpoint; it leads inevitably
to a broadening of the conception. With this we come to the theory of libido
that I have surreptitiously introduced into the first part of this work for the
purpose of making this genetic conception familiar to the reader. The
explanation of this harmless deceit I have saved until the second part.
For the first time, through this genetic idea of libido, which in every way
surpasses the descriptive sexual, the transference was made possible of the
Freudian libido theory into the psychology of mental disease. The passage
quoted above shows how the present Freudian conception of libido collides
with the problem of the psychoses.[267] Therefore, when I speak of libido, I
associate with it the genetic conception which contains not only the
immediate sexual but also an amount of desexualized primal libido. When I
say a sick person takes his libido away from the outer world, in order to
take possession of the inner world with it, I do not mean that he takes away
merely the affluxes from the function of reality, but he takes energy away,
according to my view, from those desexualized instincts which regularly
and properly support the function of reality.
With this alteration in the libido conception, certain parts of our
terminology need revision as well. As we know, Abraham has undertaken
the experiment of transferring the Freudian libido theory to dementia
præcox and has conceived the characteristic lack of rapport and the
cessation of the function of reality as autoerotism. This conception needs

revision. Hysterical introversion of the libido leads to autoerotism, since the
patient’s erotic afflux of libido designed for the function of adaptation is
introverted, whereby his ego is occupied by the corresponding amount of
erotic libido. The schizophrenic, however, shuns reality far more than
merely the erotic afflux would account for; therefore, his inner condition is
very different from that of the hysteric. He is more than autoerotic, he
builds up an intra-psychic equivalent for reality, for which purpose he has
necessarily to employ other dynamics than that afforded by the erotic
afflux. Therefore, I must grant to Bleuler the right to reject the conception
of autoerotism, taken from the study of hysterical neuroses, and there
legitimate, and to replace it by the conception of autismus.[268] I am forced
to say that this term is better fitted to facts than autoerotism. With this I
acknowledge my earlier idea of the identity of autismus (Bleuler) and
autoerotism (Freud) as unjustified, and, therefore, retract it.[269] This
thorough revision of the conception of libido has compelled me to this.
From these considerations it follows necessarily that the descriptive
psychologic conception of libido must be given up in order for the libido
theory to be applied to dementia præcox. That it is there applicable is best
shown in Freud’s brilliant investigation of Schreber’s phantasies. The
question now is whether this genetic conception of libido proposed by me is
suitable for the neuroses. I believe that this question may be answered
affirmatively. “Natura non fecit saltum”—it is not merely to be expected but
it is also probable that at least temporary functional disturbances of various
degrees appear in the neuroses, which transcend the boundaries of the
immediate sexual; in any case, this occurs in psychotic episodes. I consider
the broadening of the conception of libido which has developed through the
most recent analytic work as a real advance which will prove of especial
advantage in the important field of the introversion psychoses. Proofs of the
correctness of my assumption are already at hand. It has become apparent
through a series of researches of the Zurich School, which are now
published in part,[270] that the phantastic substitution products which take the
place of the disturbed function of reality bear unmistakable traces of archaic
thought. This confirmation is parallel to the postulate asserted above,
according to which reality is deprived, not merely of an immediate
(individual) amount of libido, but also of an already differentiated or
desexualized quantity of libido, which, among normal people, has belonged
to the function of reality ever since prehistoric times. A dropping away of

the last acquisition of the function of reality (or adaptation) must of
necessity be replaced by an earlier mode of adaptation. We find this
principle already in the doctrines of the neuroses, that is, that a repression
resulting from the failure of the recent transference is replaced by an old
way of transference, namely, through a regressive revival of the parent
imago. In the transference neurosis (hysterical), where merely a part of the
immediate sexual libido is taken away from reality by the specific sexual
repression, the substituted product is a phantasy of individual origin and
significance, with only a trace of those archaic traits found in the phantasies
of those mental disorders in which a portion of the general human function
of reality organized since antiquity has broken off. This portion can be
replaced only by a generally valid archaic surrogate. We owe a simple and
clear example of this proposition to the investigation of Honegger.[271] A
paranoic of good intelligence who has a clear idea of the spherical form of
the earth and its rotation around the sun replaces the modern astronomical
views by a system worked out in great detail, which one must call archaic,
in which the earth is a flat disc over which the sun travels.[272] (I am
reminded of the sun-phallus mentioned in the first part of this book, for
which we are also indebted to Honegger.) Spielrein has likewise furnished
some very interesting examples of archaic definitions which begin in
certain illnesses to overlay the real meanings of the modern word. For
example, Spielrein’s patient had correctly discovered the mythological
significance of alcohol, the intoxicating drink, to be “an effusion of
seed.”[273] She also had a symbolism of boiling which I must place parallel
to the especially important alchemistic vision of Zosimos,[274] who found
people in boiling water within the cavity of the altar.[275] This patient used
earth in place of mother, and also water to express mother.[276] I refrain from
further examples because future work of the Zurich School will furnish
abundant evidence of this sort.

My foregoing proposition of the replacement of the disturbed function of
reality by an archaic surrogate is supported by an excellent paradox of
Spielrein’s. She says: “I often had the illusion that these patients might be
simply victims of a folk superstition.” As a matter of fact, patients substitute
phantasies for reality, phantasies similar to the actually incorrect mental
products of the past, which, however, were once the view of reality. As the

Zosimos vision shows, the old superstitions were symbols[277] which
permitted transitions to the most remote territory. This must have been very
expedient for certain archaic periods, for by this means convenient bridges
were offered to lead a partial amount of libido over into the mental realm.
Evidently Spielrein thinks of a similar biological meaning of the symbols
when she says:[278]
“Thus a symbol seems to me to owe its origin in general to the tendency of a complex for
dissolution in the common totality of thought.... The complex is robbed by that of the personal
element.... This tendency towards dissolution (transformation) of every individual complex is the
motive for poetry, painting, for every sort of art.”
When here we replace the formal conception “complex” by the
conception of the quantity of libido (the total effect of the complex), which,
from the standpoint of the libido theory, is a justified measure, then does
Spielrein’s view easily agree with mine. When primitive man understands
in general what an act of generation is, then, according to the principle of
the path of least resistance, he never can arrive at the idea of replacing the
generative organs by a sword-blade or a shuttle; but this is the case with
certain Indians, who explain the origin of mankind by the union of the two
transference symbols. He then must be compelled to devise an analogous
thing in order to bring a manifest sexual interest upon an asexual
expression. The propelling motive of this transition of the immediate sexual
libido to the non-sexual representation can, in my opinion, be found only in
a resistance which opposes primitive sexuality.
It appears as if, by this means of phantastic analogy formation, more
libido would gradually become desexualized, because increasingly more
phantasy correlates were put in the place of the primitive achievement of
the sexual libido. With this an enormous broadening of the world idea was
gradually developed because new objects were always assimilated as sexual
symbols. It is a question whether the human consciousness has not been
brought to its present state entirely or in great part in this manner. It is
evident, in any case, that an important significance in the development of
the human mind is due to the impulse towards the discovery of analogy. We
must agree thoroughly with Steinthal when he says that an absolutely
overweening importance must be granted to the little phrase “Gleich wie”
(even as) in the history of the development of thought. It is easy to believe
that the carryover of the libido to a phantastic correlate has led primitive
man to a number of the most important discoveries.

CHAPTER III
THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE LIBIDO. A POSSIBLE
SOURCE OF PRIMITIVE HUMAN DISCOVERIES

In the following pages I will endeavor to picture a concrete example of
the transition of the libido. I once treated a patient who suffered from a
depressive catatonic condition. The case was one of only a slight
introversion psychosis; therefore, the existence of many hysterical features
was not surprising. In the beginning of the analytic treatment, while telling
of a very painful occurrence she fell into a hysterical-dreamy state, in which
she showed all signs of sexual excitement. For obvious reasons she lost the
knowledge of my presence during this condition. The excitement led to a
masturbative act (frictio femorum). This act was accompanied by a peculiar
gesture. She made a very violent rotary motion with the forefinger of the
left hand on the left temple, as if she were boring a hole there. Afterwards
there was complete amnesia for what had happened, and there was nothing
to be learned about the queer gesture with her hand. Although this act can
easily be likened to a boring into the mouth, nose or ear, now transferred to
the temple, it belongs in the territory of infantile ludus sexualis[279]—to the
preliminary exercise preparatory to sexual activity. Without really
understanding it, this gesture, nevertheless, seemed very important to me.
Many weeks later I had an opportunity to speak to the patient’s mother, and
from her I learned that her daughter had been a very exceptional child.
When only two years old she would sit with her back to an open cupboard
door for hours and rhythmically beat her head against the door[280]—to the
distraction of the household. A little later, instead of playing as other
children, she began to bore a hole with her finger in the plaster of the wall
of the house. She did this with little turning and scraping movements, and
kept herself busy at this occupation for hours. She was a complete puzzle to
her parents. From her fourth year she practised onanism. It is evident that in
this early infantile activity the preliminary stage of the later trouble may be
found. The especially remarkable features in this case are, first, that the

child did not carry out the action on its own body, and, secondly, the
assiduity with which it carried on the action.[281] One is tempted to bring
these two facts into a causal relationship and to say, because the child does
not accomplish this action on her own body, perhaps that is the reason of
the assiduity, for by boring into the wall she never arrives at the same
satisfaction as if she executed the activity onanistically on her own body.
The very evident onanistic boring of the patient can be traced back to a
very early stage of childhood, which is prior to the period of local onanism.
That time is still psychologically very obscure, because individual
reproductions and memories are lacking to a great extent, the same as
among animals. The race characteristics (manner of life) predominate
during the entire life of the animal, whereas among men the individual
character asserts itself over the race type. Granting the correctness of this
remark, we are struck with the apparently wholly incomprehensible
individual activity of this child at this early age. We learn from her later life
history that her development, which is, as is always the case, intimately
interwoven with parallel external events, has led to that mental disturbance
which is especially well known on account of its individuality and the
originality of its productions, i. e. dementia præcox. The peculiarity of this
disturbance, as we have pointed out above, depends upon the predominance
of the phantastic form of thought—of the infantile in general. From this
type of thinking proceed all those numerous contacts with mythological
products, and that which we consider as original and wholly individual
creations are very often creations which are comparable with nothing but
those of antiquity. I believe that this comparison can be applied to all
formations of this remarkable illness, and perhaps also to this special
symptom of boring. We have already seen that the onanistic boring of the
patient dated from a very early stage of childhood, that is to say, it was
reproduced from that period of the past. The sick woman fell back for the
first time into the early onanism only after she had been married many
years, and following the death of her child, with whom she had identified
herself through an overindulgent love. When the child died the still healthy
mother was overcome by early infantile symptoms in the form of scarcely
concealed fits of masturbation, which were associated with this very act of
boring. As already observed, the primary boring appeared at a time which
preceded the infantile onanism localized in the genitals. This fact is of
significance in so far as this boring differs thereby from a similar later

practice which appeared after the genital onanism. The later bad habits
represent, as a rule, a substitution for repressed genital masturbation, or for
an attempt in this direction. As such these habits (finger-sucking, biting the
nails, picking at things, boring into the ears and nose, etc.) may persist far
into adult life as regular symptoms of a repressed amount of libido.
As has already been shown above, the libido in youthful individuals at
first manifests itself in the nutritional zone, when food is taken in the act of
suckling with rhythmic movements and with every sign of satisfaction.
With the growth of the individual and the development of his organs the
libido creates for itself new avenues to supply its need of activity and
satisfaction. The primary model of rhythmic activity, producing pleasure
and satisfaction, must now be transferred to the zone of other functions,
with sexuality as its final goal. A considerable part of the “hunger libido” is
transferred into the “sexual libido.” This transition does not take place
suddenly at the time of puberty, as is generally supposed, but very gradually
in the course of the greater part of childhood. The libido can free itself only
with difficulty and very slowly from that which is peculiar to the function
of nutrition, in order to enter into the peculiarity of the sexual function. Two
periods are to be distinguished in this state of transition, so far as I can
judge—the epoch of suckling and the epoch of the displaced rhythmic
activity. Suckling still belongs to the function of nutrition, but passes
beyond it, however, in that it is no longer the function of nutrition, but
rhythmic activity, with pleasure and satisfaction as a goal, without the
taking of nourishment. Here the hand enters as an auxiliary organ. In the
period of the displaced rhythmic activity the hand appears still more clearly
as an auxiliary organ; the gaining of pleasure leaves the mouth zone and
turns to other regions. The possibilities are now many. As a rule, other
openings of the body become the objects of the libido interest; then the
skin, and special portions of that. The activity expressed in these parts,
which can appear as rubbing, boring, picking, and so on, follows a certain
rhythm and serves to produce pleasure. After longer or shorter tarryings of
the libido at these stations, it passes onward until it reaches the sexual zone,
and there, for the first time, can be occasion for the beginning of onanistic
attempts. In its migration the libido takes more than a little of the function
of nutrition with it into the sexual zone, which readily accounts for the
numerous and innate correlations between the functions of nutrition and
sexuality. If, after the occupation of the sexual zone, an obstacle arises

against the present form of application of the libido, then there occurs,
according to the well-known laws, a regression to the nearest station lying
behind, to the two above-mentioned periods. It is now of special importance
that the epoch of the displaced rhythmic activity coincides in a general way
with the time of the development of the mind and of speech. I might
designate the period from birth until the occupation of the sexual zone as
the presexual stage of development. This generally occurs between the third
and fifth year, and is comparable to the chrysalis stage in butterflies. It is
distinguished by the irregular commingling of the elements of nutrition and
of sexual functions. Certain regressions follow directly back to the
presexual stage, and, judging from my experience, this seems to be the rule
in the regression of dementia præcox. I will give two brief examples. One
case concerns a young girl who developed a catatonic state during her
engagement. When she saw me for the first time, she came up suddenly,
embraced me, and said, “Papa, give me something to eat.” The other case
concerns a young maidservant who complained that people pursued her
with electricity and that this caused a queer feeling in her genitals, “as if it
ate and drank down there.”
These regressive phenomena show that even from the distance of the
modern mind those early stages of the libido can be regressively reached.
One may assume, therefore, that in the earliest states of human development
this road was much more easily travelled than it is to-day. It becomes then a
matter of great interest to learn whether traces of this have been preserved
in history.
We owe our knowledge of the ethnologic phantasy of boring to the
valuable work of Abraham,[282] who also refers us to the writings of Adalbert
Kuhn.[283] Through this investigation we learn that Prometheus, the fire-
bringer, may be a brother of the Hindoo Pramantha, that is to say, of the
masculine fire-rubbing piece of wood. The Hindoo fire-bringer is called
Mâtariçvan, and the activity of the fire preparation is always designated in
the hieratic text by the verb “manthâmi,”[284] which means shaking, rubbing,
bringing forth by rubbing. Kuhn has put this verb in connection with the
Greek μανθάνω, which means “to learn,” and has explained this conceptual
relationship.[285] The “tertium comparationis” might lie in the rhythm, the
movement to and fro in the mind. According to Kuhn, the root “manth” or
“math” must be traced from μανθάνω (μάθημα, μάθησις) to προ-μηθέομαι
to Προμηθεύς,[286] who is the Greek fire-robber. Through an unauthorized

Sanskrit word “pramâthyus,” which comes by way of “pramantha,” and
which possesses the double meaning of “Rubber” and “Robber,” the
transition to Prometheus was effected. With that, however, the prefix “pra”
caused special difficulty, so that the whole derivation was doubted by a
series of authors, and was held, in part, as erroneous. On the other hand, it
was pointed out that as the Thuric Zeus bore the especially interesting
cognomen Προ-μανθεύς, thus Προ-μηθεύς might not be an original Indo-
Germanic stem word that was related to the Sanskrit “pramantha,” but
might represent only a cognomen. This interpretation is supported by a
gloss of Hesychius, Ἰθάς: ὁ τῶν Τιτάνων κήρυξ Προμηθεύς.[287] Another
gloss of Hesychius explains ἰθαίνομαι (ιαίνω) as θερμαίνομαι, through
which Ἰθάς attains the meaning of “the flaming one,” analogous to Αἴθων
or Φλεγύας.[288] The relation of Prometheus to pramantha could scarcely be
so direct as Kuhn conjectures. The question of an indirect relation is not
decided with that. Above all, Προμηθεύς is of great significance as a
surname for Ἰθάς, since the “flaming one” is the “fore-thinker.” (Pramati =
precaution is also an attribute of Agni, although pramati is of another
derivation.) Prometheus, however, belongs to the line of Phlegians which
was placed by Kuhn in uncontested relationship to the Indian priest family
of Bhṛgu.[289] The Bhṛgu are like Mâtariçvan (the “one swelling in the
mother”), also fire-bringers. Kuhn quotes a passage, according to which
Bhṛgu also arises from the flame like Agni. (“In the flame Bhṛgu originated.
Bhṛgu roasted, but did not burn.”) This view leads to a root related to
Bhṛgu, that is to say, to the Sanskrit bhrây = to light, Latin fulgeo and Greek
φλέγω (Sanskrit bhargas = splendor, Latin fulgur). Bhṛgu appears,
therefore, as “the shining one.” Φλεγύας means a certain species of eagle,
on account of its burnished gold color. The connection with φλέγειν, which
signifies “to burn,” is clear. The Phlegians are also the fire eagles.[290]
Prometheus also belongs to the Phlegians. The path from Pramantha to
Prometheus passes not through the word, but through the idea, and,
therefore, we should adopt this same meaning for Prometheus as that which
Pramantha attains from the Hindoo fire symbolism.[291]
The Pramantha, as the tool of Manthana (the fire sacrifice), is considered
purely sexual in the Hindoo; the Pramantha as phallus, or man; the bored
wood underneath as vulva, or woman.[292] The resulting fire is the child, the
divine son Agni. The two pieces of wood are called in the cult Purûravas
and Urvaçî, and were thought of personified as man and woman. The fire

was born from the genitals of the woman.[293] An especially interesting
representation of fire production, as a religious ceremony (manthana), is
given by Weber:[294]
“A certain sacrificial fire was lit by the rubbing together of two sticks; one piece of wood is taken
up with the words: ‘Thou art the birthplace of the fire,’ and two blades of grass are placed upon it;
‘Ye are the two testicles,’ to the ‘adhârarani’ (the underlying wood): ‘Thou art Urvaçî’; then the
utarârani (that which is placed on top) is anointed with butter. ‘Thou art Power.’ This is then placed
on the adhârarani. ‘Thou art Purûravas’ and both are rubbed three times. ‘I rub thee with the
Gâyatrîmetrum: I rub thee with the Trishtubhmeṭrum: I rub thee with the Jagatîmetrum.’”
The sexual symbolism of this fire production is unmistakable. We see
here also the rhythm, the metre in its original place as sexual rhythm, rising
above the mating call into music. A song of the Rigveda[295] conveys the
same interpretation and symbolism:
“Here is the gear for function, here tinder made ready for the spark.
Bring thou the matron:[296] we will rub Agni in ancient fashion forth.
In the two fire-sticks Jâtavedas lieth, even as the well-formed germ in pregnant women;
Agni who day by day must be exalted by men who watch and worship with oblations;
Lay this with care on that which lies extended: straight hath she borne the steer when made
prolific.
With his red pillar—radiant in his splendor—in our skilled task is born the son of Ilâ.”[297]—
Book III. xxix: 1–3.

Side by side with the unequivocal coitus symbolism we see that the
Pramantha is also Agni, the created son. The Phallus is the son, or the son is
the Phallus. Therefore, Agni in the Vedic mythology has the threefold
character. With this we are once more connected with the above-mentioned
Cabiric Father-Son-Cult. In the modern German language we have
preserved echoes of the primitive symbols. A boy is designated as “bengel”
(short, thick piece of wood). In Hessian as “stift” or “bolzen” (arrow,[298]
wooden peg or stump). The Artemisia Abrotanum, which is called in
German “Stabwurz” (stick root), is called in English “Boy’s Love.” (The
vulgar designation of the penis as “boy” was remarked even by Grimm and
others.) The ceremonial production of fire was retained in Europe as late as
the nineteenth century as a superstitious custom. Kuhn mentions such a case
even in the year 1828, which occurred in Germany. The solemn, magic
ceremony was called the “Nodfyr”—“The fire of need”[299]—and the charm
was chiefly used against cattle epidemics. Kuhn cites from the chronicle of
Lanercost of the year 1268 an especially noteworthy case of the
“Nodfyr,”[300] the ceremonies of which plainly reveal the fundamental
phallic meaning:

“Pro fidei divinæ integritate servanda recolat lector, quod cum hoc anno in Laodonia pestis
grassaretur in pecudes armenti, quam vocant usetati Lungessouht, quidam bestiales, habitu claustrales
non animo, docebant idiotas patriæ ignem confrictione de lignis educere et simulacrum Priapi
statuere, et per hæc bestiis succurrere. Quod cum unus laicus Cisterciensis apud Fentone fecisset ante
atrium aulæ, ac intinctis testiculis canis in aquam benedictam super animalis sparsisset, etc.”[301]
These examples, which allow us to recognize a clear sexual symbolism in
the generation of fire, prove, therefore, since they originate from different
times and different peoples, the existence of a universal tendency to credit
to fire production not only a magical but also a sexual significance. This
ceremonial or magic repetition of this very ancient, long-outlived
observance shows how insistently the human mind clings to the old forms,
and how deeply rooted is this very ancient reminiscence of fire boring. One
might almost be inclined to see in the sexual symbolism of fire production a
relatively late addition to the priestly lore. This may, indeed, be true for the
ceremonial elaboration of the fire mysteries, but whether originally the
generation of fire was in general a sexual action, that is to say, a “coitus-
play,” is still a question. That similar things occur among very primitive
people we learn from the Australian tribe of the Watschandies,[302] who in
the spring perform the following magic ceremonies of fertilization: They
dig a hole in the ground, so formed and surrounded with bushes as to
counterfeit a woman’s genitals. They dance the night long around this hole;
in connection with this they hold spears in front of themselves in a manner
to recall the penis in erection. They dance around the hole and thrust their
spears into the ditch, while they cry to it, “Pulli nira, pulli nira, wataka!”
(Non fossa, non fossa, sed cunnus!) Such obscene dances appear among
other primitive races as well.[303]
In this spring incantation are contained the elements of the coitus play.[304]
This play is nothing but a coitus game, that is to say, originally this play
was simply a coitus in the form of sacramental mating, which for a long
time was a mysterious element among certain cults, and reappeared in sects.
[305]
In the ceremonies of Zinzendorf’s followers echoes of the coitus
sacrament may be recognized; also in other sects.
One can easily think that just as the above-mentioned Australian
bushmen perform the coitus play in this manner the same performance
could be enacted in another manner, and, indeed, in the form of fire
production. Instead of through two selected human beings, the coitus was
represented by two substitutes, by Purûravas and Urvaçi, by Phallus and
Vulva, by borer and opening. Just as the primitive thought behind other

customs is really the sacramental coition so here the primal tendency is
really the act itself. For the act of fertilization is the climax—the true
festival of life, and well worthy to become the nucleus of a religious
mystery. If we are justified in concluding that the symbolism of the hole in
the earth used by the Watschandies for the fertilization of the earth takes the
place of the coitus, then the generation of fire could be considered in the
same way as a substitute for coitus; and, indeed, it might be further
concluded as a consequence of this reasoning that the invention of fire-
making is also due to the need of supplying a symbol for the sexual act.[306]
Let us return, for a moment, to the infantile symptom of boring. Let us
imagine a strong adult man carrying on the boring with two pieces of wood
with the same perseverance and the energy corresponding to that of this
child. He may very easily create fire by this play. But of greatest
significance in this work is the rhythm.[307] This hypothesis seems to me
psychologically possible, although it should not be said with this that only
in this way could the discovery of fire occur. It can result just as well by the
striking together of flints. It is scarcely possible that fire was created in only
one way. All I want to establish here is merely the psychologic process, the
symbolic indications of which point to the possibility that in such a way
was fire invented or prepared.
The existence of the primitive coitus play or rite seems to me sufficiently
proven. The only thing that is obscure is the energy and emphasis of the
ritual play. It is well known that those primitive rites were often of very
bloody seriousness, and were performed with an extraordinary display of
energy, which appears as a great contrast to the well-known indolence of
primitive humanity. Therefore, the ritual activity entirely loses the character
of play, and wins that of purposeful effort. If certain Negro races can dance
the whole night long to three tones in the most monotonous manner, then,
according to our idea, there is in this an absolute lack of the character of
play pastime; it approaches nearer to exercise. There seems to exist a sort of
compulsion to transfer the libido into such ritual activity. If the basis of the
ritual activity is the sexual act, we may assume that it is really the
underlying thought and object of the exercise. Under these circumstances,
the question arises why the primitive man endeavors to represent the sexual
act symbolically and with effort, or, if this wording appears to be too
hypothetical, why does he exert energy to such a degree only to accomplish
practically useless things, which apparently do not especially amuse him?

[308]
It may be assumed that the sexual act is more desirable to primitive man
than such absurd and, moreover, fatiguing exercises. It is hardly possible
but that a certain compulsion conducts the energy away from the original
object and real purpose, inducing the production of surrogates. The
existence of a phallic or orgiastic cult does not indicate eo ipso a
particularly lascivious life any more than the ascetic symbolism of
Christianity means an especially moral life. One honors that which one does
not possess or that which one is not. This compulsion, to speak in the
nomenclature formulated above, removes a certain amount of libido from
the real sexual activity, and creates a symbolic and practically valid
substitute for what is lost. This psychology is confirmed by the above-
mentioned Watschandie ceremony; during the entire ceremony none of the
men may look at a woman. This detail again informs us from whence the
libido is to be diverted. But this gives rise to the pressing question, Whence
comes this compulsion? We have already suggested above that the primitive
sexuality encounters a resistance which leads to a side-tracking of the libido
on to substitution actions (analogy, symbolism, etc.). It is unthinkable that it
is a question of any outer opposition whatsoever, or of a real obstacle, since
it occurs to no savage to catch his elusive quarry with ritual charms; but it is
a question of an internal resistance; will opposes will; libido opposes libido,
since a psychologic resistance as an energic phenomenon corresponds to a
certain amount of libido. The psychologic compulsion for the
transformation of the libido is based on an original division of the will. I
will return to this primal splitting of the libido in another place. Here let us
concern ourselves only with the problem of the transition of the libido. The
transition takes place, as has been repeatedly suggested by means of
shifting to an analogy. The libido is taken away from its proper place and
transferred to another substratum.
The resistance against sexuality aims, therefore, at preventing the sexual
act; it also seeks to crowd the libido away from the sexual function. We see,
for example, in hysteria, how the specific repression blocks the real path of
transference; therefore, the libido is obliged to take another path, and that
an earlier one, namely, the incestuous road which ultimately leads to the
parents. Let us speak, however, of the incest prohibition, which hindered the
very first sexual transference. Then the situation changes in so far that no
earlier way of transference is left, except that of the presexual stage of
development, where the libido was still partly in the function of nutrition.

By a regression to the presexual material the libido becomes quasi-
desexualized. But as the incest prohibition signifies only a temporary and
conditional restriction of the sexuality, thus only that part of the libido
which is best designated as the incestuous component is now pushed back
to the presexual stage. The repression, therefore, concerns only that part of
the sexual libido which wishes to fix itself permanently upon the parents.
The sexual libido is only withdrawn from the incestuous component,
repressed upon the presexual stage, and there, if the operation is successful,
desexualized, by which this amount of libido is prepared for an asexual
application. However, it is to be assumed that this operation is
accomplished only with difficulty, because the incestuous libido, so to
speak, must be artificially separated from the sexual libido, with which, for
ages, through the whole animal kingdom, it was indistinguishably united.
The regression of the incestuous component must, therefore, take place, not
only with great difficulty, but also carry with it into the presexual stage a
considerable sexual character. The consequence of this is that the resulting
phenomena, although stamped with the character of the sexual act, are,
nevertheless, not really sexual acts de facto; they are derived from the
presexual stage, and are maintained by the repressed sexual libido, therefore
possess a double significance. Thus the fire boring is a coitus (and, to be
sure, an incestuous one), but a desexualized one, which has lost its
immediate sexual worth, and is, therefore, indirectly useful to the
propagation of the species. The presexual stage is characterized by
countless possibilities of application, because the libido has not yet formed
definite localizations. It therefore appears intelligible that an amount of
libido which reaches this stage through regression is confronted with
manifold possibilities of application. Above all, it is met with the possibility
of a purely onanistic activity. But as the matter in question in the regressive
component of libido is sexual libido, the ultimate object of which is
propagation, therefore it goes to the external object (Parents); it will also
introvert with this destination as its essential character. The result, therefore,
is that the purely onanistic activity turns out to be insufficient, and another
object must be sought for, which takes the place of the incest object. The
nurturing mother earth represents the ideal example of such an object. The
psychology of the presexual stage contributes the nutrition component; the
sexual libido the coitus idea. From this the ancient symbols of agriculture
arise. In the work of agriculture hunger and incest intermingle. The ancient

cults of mother earth and all the superstitions founded thereon saw in the
cultivation of the earth the fertilization of the mother. The aim of the action
is desexualized, however, for it is the fruit of the field and the nourishment
contained therein. The regression resulting from the incest prohibition
leads, in this case, to the new valuation of the mother; this time, however,
not as a sexual object, but as a nourisher.
The discovery of fire seems to be due to a very similar regression to the
presexual stage, more particularly to the nearest stage of the displaced
rhythmic manifestation. The libido, introverted from the incest prohibition
(with the more detailed designation of the motor components of coitus),
when it reaches the presexual stage, meets the related infantile boring, to
which it now gives, in accordance with its realistic destination, an actual
material. (Therefore the material is fittingly called “materia,” as the object
is the mother as above.) As I sought to show above, the action of the
infantile boring requires only the strength and perseverance of an adult man
and suitable “material” in order to generate fire. If this is so, it may be
expected that analogous to our foregoing case of onanistic boring the
generation of fire originally occurred as such an act of quasi-onanistic
activity, objectively expressed. The demonstration of this can never be
actually furnished, but it is thinkable that somewhere traces of this original
onanistic preliminary exercise of fire production have been preserved. I
have succeeded in finding a passage in a very old monument of Hindoo
literature which contains this transition of the sexual libido through the
onanistic phase in the preparation of fire. This passage is found in
Brihadâranyaka-Upanishad:[309]
“In truth, he (Âtman)[310] was as large as a woman and a man, when they embrace each other.
This, his own self, he divided into two parts, out of which husband and wife were formed.[311] With
her, he copulated; from this humanity sprang. She, however, pondered: ‘How may he unite with me
after he has created me from himself? Now I shall hide!’ Then she became a cow; he, however,
became a bull and mated with her. From that sprang the horned cattle. Then she became a mare; he,
however, became a stallion; she became a she-ass; he, an ass, and mated with her. From these sprang
the whole-hoofed animals. She became a goat; he became a buck; she became an ewe; he became a
ram, and mated with her. Thus were created goats and sheep. Thus it happened that all that mates,
even down to the ants, he created—then he perceived: ‘Truly I myself am Creation, for I have created
the whole world!’ Thereupon he rubbed his hands (held before the mouth) so that he brought forth
fire from his mouth, as from the mother womb, and from his hands.”
We meet here a peculiar myth of creation which requires a psychologic
interpretation. In the beginning the libido was undifferentiated and bisexual;
[312]
this was followed by differentiation into a male and a female

component. From then on man knows what he is. Now follows a gap in the
coherence of the thought where belongs that very resistance which we have
postulated above for the explanation of the urge for sublimation. Next
follows the onanistic act of rubbing or boring (here finger-sucking)
transferred from the sexual zone, from which proceeds the production of
fire.[313] The libido here leaves its characteristic manifestation as sexual
function and regresses to the presexual stage, where, in conformity with the
above explanation, it occupies one of the preliminary stages of sexuality,
thereby producing, in the view expressed in the Upanishad, the first human
art, and from there, as suggested by Kuhn’s idea of the root “manth,”
perhaps the higher intellectual activity in general. This course of
development is not strange to the psychiatrist, for it is a well-known
psychopathological fact that onanism and excessive activity of phantasy are
very closely related. (The sexualizing-autonomizing of the mind through
autoerotism[314] is so familiar a fact that examples of that are superfluous.)
The course of the libido, as we may conclude from these studies, originally
proceeded in a similar manner as in the child, only in a reversed sequence.
The sexual act was pushed out of its proper zone and was transferred into
the analogous mouth zone[315]—the mouth receiving the significance of the
female genitals; the hand and the fingers, respectively, receiving the phallic
meaning.[316] In this manner the regressively reoccupied activity of the
presexual stage is invested with the sexual significance, which, indeed, it
already possessed, in part, before, but in a wholly different sense. Certain
functions of the presexual stage are found to be permanently suitable, and,
therefore, are retained later on as sexual functions. Thus, for example, the
mouth zone is retained as of erotic importance, meaning that its valuation is
permanently fixed. Concerning the mouth, we know that it also has a sexual
meaning among animals, inasmuch as, for example, stallions bite mares in
the sexual act; also, cats, cocks, etc. A second significance of the mouth is
as an instrument of speech, it serves essentially in the production of the
mating call, which mostly represents the developed tones of the animal
kingdom. As to the hand, we know that it has the important significance of
the contrectation organ (for example, among frogs). The frequent erotic use
of the hand among monkeys is well known. If there exists a resistance
against the real sexuality, then the accumulated libido is most likely to
cause a hyperfunction of those collaterals which are most adapted to
compensate for the resistance, that is to say, the nearest functions which

serve for the introduction of the act;[317] on one side the function of the hand,
on the other that of the mouth. The sexual act, however, against which the
opposition is directed is replaced by a similar act of the presexual stage, the
classic case being either finger-sucking or boring. Just as among apes the
foot can on occasions take the place of the hand, so the child is often
uncertain in the choice of the object to suck, and puts the big toe in the
mouth instead of the finger. This last movement belongs to a Hindoo rite,
only the big toe was not put in the mouth, but held against the eye.[318]
Through the sexual significance of the hand and mouth these organs, which
in the presexual stage served to obtain pleasure, are invested with a
procreating power which is identical with the above-mentioned destination,
which aims at the external object, because it concerns the sexual or creating
libido. When, through the actual preparation of fire, the sexual character of
the libido employed in that is fulfilled, then the mouth zone remains without
adequate expression; only the hand has now reached its real, purely human
goal in its first art.
The mouth has, as we saw, a further important function, which has just as
much sexual relation to the object as the hand, that is to say, the production
of the mating call. In opening up the autoerotic ring (hand-mouth),[319]
where the phallic hand became the fire-producing tool, the libido which was
directed to the mouth zone was obliged to seek another path of functioning,
which naturally was found in the already existing love call. The excess of
libido entering here must have had the usual results, namely, the stimulation
of the newly possessed function; hence an elaboration of the mating call.
We know that from the primitive sounds human speech has developed.
Corresponding to the psychological situation, it might be assumed that
language owes its real origin to this moment, when the impulse, repressed
into the presexual stage, turns to the external in order to find an equivalent
object there. The real thought as a conscious activity is, as we saw in the
first part of this book, a thinking with positive determination towards the
external world, that is to say, a “speech thinking.” This sort of thinking
seems to have originated at that moment. It is very remarkable that this
view, which was won by the path of reasoning, is again supported by old
tradition and other mythological fragments.
In Aitareyopanishad[320] the following quotation is to be found in the
doctrine of the development of man: “Being brooded-o’er, his mouth

hatched out, like as an egg; from out his mouth (came) speech, from speech,
the fire.” In Part II, where it is depicted how the newly created objects
entered man, it reads: “Fire, speech becoming, entered in the mouth.” These
quotations allow us to plainly recognize the intimate connection between
fire and speech.[321] In Brihadâranyaka-Upanishad is to be found this
passage:
“‘Yayñavalkya,’ thus he spake, ‘when after the death of this man his speech entereth the fire, his
breath into the wind, his eye into the sun, etc.’”
A further quotation from the Brihadâranyaka-Upanishad reads:
“But when the sun is set, O Yayñavalkya, and the moon has set, and the fire is extinguished, what
then serves man as light? Then speech serves him as light; then, by the light of speech he sits, and
moves, he carries on his work, and he returns home. But when the sun is set, O Yayñavalkya, and the
moon is set, and the fire extinguished, and the voice is dumb, what then serves man as light? Then he
serves himself (Atman) as light; then, by the light of himself, he sits and moves, carries on his work
and returns home.”
In this passage we notice that fire again stands in the closest relation to
speech. Speech itself is called a “light,” which, in its turn, is reduced to the
“light” of the Atman, the creating psychic force, the libido. Thus the Hindoo
metapsychology conceives speech and fire as emanations of the inner light
from which we know that it is libido. Speech and fire are its forms of
manifestation, the first human arts, which have resulted from its
transformation. This common psychologic origin seems also to be indicated
by certain results of philology. The Indo-Germanic root bhâ designates the
idea of “to lighten, to shine.” This root is found in Greek, φάω, φαίνω,
φάος[322]; in old Icelandic bán = white, in New High German bohnen = to
make shining. The same root bhâ also designates “to speak”; it is found in
Sanskrit bhan = to speak, Armenian ban = word, in New High German
bann = to banish, Greek φᾱ-μί, ἔφαν, φấτις.[323] Latin fâ-ri, fânum.
The root bhelso, with the meanings “to ring, to bark,” is found in Sanskrit
bhas = to bark and bhâs = to talk, to speak; Lithuanian balsas = voice, tone.
Really bhel-sô = to be bright or luminous. Compare Greek φάλος = bright,
Lithuanian bálti = to become white, Middle High German blasz = pale.
The root lâ, with the meaning of “to make sound, to bark,” is found in
Sanskrit las, lásati = to resound; and las, lásati = to radiate, to shine.
The related root lesô, with the meaning “desire,” is also found in Sanskrit
las, lásati = to play; lash, láshati = to desire. Greek λάσταυρος = lustful,
Gothic lustus, New High German Lust, Latin lascivus.

A further related root, lásô = to shine, to radiate, is found in las, lásati =
to radiate, to shine.
This group unites, as is evident, the meanings of “to desire, to play, to
radiate, and to sound.” A similar archaic confluence of meanings in the
primal libido symbolism (as we are perhaps justified in calling it) is found
in that class of Egyptian words which are derived from the closely related
roots ben and bel and the reduplication benben and belbel. The original
significance of these roots is “to burst forth, to emerge, to extrude, to well
out,” with the associated idea of bubbling, boiling and roundness. Belbel,
accompanied by the sign of the obelisk, of originally phallic nature, means
source of light. The obelisk itself had besides the names of techenu and men
also the name benben, more rarely berber and belbel.[324] The libido
symbolism makes clear this connection, it seems to me.
The Indo-Germanic root vel, with the meaning “to wave, to undulate”
(fire), is found in Sanskrit ulunka = burning, Greek ἀλέα, Attic ἁλέα =
warmth of the sun, Gothic vulan = to undulate, Old High German and
Middle High German walm = heat, glow.
The related Indo-Germanic root vélkô, with the meaning of “to lighten, to
glow,” is found in Sanskrit ulkă = firebrand, Greek Ϝελχᾶνος = Vulcan. This
same root vel means also “to sound”; in Sanskrit vâní = tone, song, music.
Tschech volati = to call.
The root svénô = to sound, to ring, is found in Sanskrit svan, svánati = to
rustle, to sound; Zend qanañt, Latin sonâre, Old Iranian senm, Cambrian
sain, Latin sonus, Anglo-Saxon svinsian = to resound. The related root
svénos = noise, sound, is found in Vedic svánas = noise, Latin sonor,
sonorus. A further related root is svonós = tone, noise; in Old Iranian son =
word.
The root své (n), locative svéni, dative sunéi, means sun; in Zend qeñg =
sun. (Compare above svénô, Zend qanañt); Gothic sun-na, sunnô.[325] Here
Goethe has preceded us:
“The sun orb sings in emulation,
’Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round:
His path predestined through Creation,
He ends with step of thunder sound.”
—Faust. Part I.

“Hearken! Hark! the hours careering!
Sounding loud to spirit-hearing,

See the new-born Day appearing!
Rocky portals jarring shatter,
Phœbus’ wheels in rolling clatter,
With a crash the Light draws near!
Pealing rays and trumpet-blazes,
Eye is blinded, ear amazes;
The Unheard can no one hear!
Slip within each blossom-bell,
Deeper, deeper, there to dwell,—
In the rocks, beneath the leaf!
If it strikes you, you are deaf.”
—Faust. Part II.
We also must not forget the beautiful verse of Hölderlin:
“Where art thou? Drunken, my soul dreams
Of all thy rapture. Yet even now I hearken
As full of golden tones the radiant sun youth
Upon his heavenly lyre plays his even song
To the echoing woods and hills.”

Just as in archaic speech fire and the speech sounds (the mating call,
music) appear as forms of emanation of the libido, thus light and sound
entering the psyche become one: libido.
Manilius expresses it in his beautiful verses:
“Quid mirum noscere mundum
Si possunt homines, quibus est et mundus in ipsis
Exemplumque dei quisque est in imagine parva?
An quoquam genitos nisi cælo credere fas est
Esse homines?
Stetit unus in arcem
Erectus capitis victorque ad sidera mittit sidereos oculos.”[326]

The idea of the Sanskrit têjas suggests the fundamental significance of
the libido for the conception of the world in general. I am indebted to Dr.
Abegg, in Zurich, a thorough Sanskrit scholar, for the compilation of the
eight meanings of this word.
Têjas signifies:
1. Sharpness, cutting edge.
2. Fire, splendor, light, glow, heat.
3. Healthy appearance, beauty.
4. The fiery and color-producing power of the human organism (thought to be in the bile).
5. Power, energy, vital force.
6. Passionate nature.
7. Mental, also magic, strength; influence, position, dignity.

8. Sperma.
This gives us a dim idea of how, for primitive thought, the so-called
objective world was, and had to be, a subjective image. To this thought
must be applied the words of the “Chorus Mysticus”:
“All that is perishable
Is only an allegory.”

The Sanskrit word for fire is agnis (the Latin ignis);[327] the fire
personified is the god Agni, the divine mediator,[328] whose symbol has
certain points of contact with that of Christ. In Avesta and in the Vedas the
fire is the messenger of the gods. In the Christian mythology certain parts
are closely related with the myth of Agni. Daniel speaks of the three men in
the fiery furnace:
“Then Nebuchadnezar, the King, was astonished, and rose up in haste and spake, and said unto his
counsellors: ‘Did not we cast three men bound into the midst of the fire?’
“They answered and said: ‘True, O King!’
“He answered and said: ‘Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have
no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.’”
In regard to that the “Biblia pauperum” observes (according to an old
German incunabulum of 1471):
“One reads in the third chapter of the prophet Daniel that Nebuchadnezar, the King, caused three
men to be placed in a glowing furnace and that the king often went there, looked in, and that he saw
with the three, a fourth, who was like the Son of God. The three signify for us, the Holy Trinity and
the fourth, the unity of the being. Christ, too, in His explanation designated the person of the Trinity
and the unity of the being.”
According to this mystic interpretation, the legend of the three men in the
fiery furnace appears as a magic fire ceremony by means of which the Son
of God reveals himself. The Trinity is brought together with the unity, or, in
other words, through coitus a child is produced. The glowing furnace (like
the glowing tripod in “Faust”) is a mother symbol, where the children are
produced.[329] The fourth in the fiery furnace appears as Christ, the Son of
God, who has become a visible God in the fire. The mystic trinity and unity
are sexual symbols. (Compare with that the many references in Inman:
“Ancient Pagan and Modern Christian Symbolism.”) It is said of the
Saviour of Israel (the Messiah) and of his enemies, Isaiah x:17:
“And the light of Israel shall be for a fire, and his Holy One for a flame.”
In a hymn of the Syrian Ephrem it is said of Christ: “Thou who art all
fire, have mercy upon me.”

Agni is the sacrificial flame, the sacrificer, and the sacrificed, as Christ
himself. Just as Christ left behind his redeeming blood, φάρμακον
ἀθανασίας,[330] in the stimulating wine, so Agni is the Soma, the holy drink
of inspiration, the mead of immortality.[331] Soma and Fire are entirely
identical in Hindoo literature, so that in Soma we easily rediscover the
libido symbol, through which a series of apparently paradoxical qualities of
the Soma are immediately explained. As the old Hindoos recognized in fire
an emanation of the inner libido fire, so too they recognized, in the
intoxicating drink (Firewater, Soma-Agni, as rain and fire), an emanation of
libido. The Vedic definition of Soma as seminal fluid confirms this
interpretation.[332] The Soma significance of fire, similar to the significance
of the body of Christ in the Last Supper (compare the Passover lamb of the
Jews, baked in the form of a cross), is explained by the psychology of the
presexual stage, where the libido was still in part the function of nutrition.
The “Soma” is the “nourishing drink,” the mythological characterization of
which runs parallel to fire in its origin; therefore, both are united in Agni.
The drink of immortality was stirred by the Hindoo gods like fire. Through
the retreat of the libido into the presexual stage it becomes clear why so
many gods were either defined sexually or were devoured.
As was shown by our discussion of fire preparation, the fire tool did not
receive its sexual significance as a later addition, but the sexual libido was
the motor power which led to its discovery, so that the later teachings of the
priests were nothing but confirmations of its actual origin. Other primitive
discoveries probably have acquired their sexual symbolism in the same
manner, being also derived from the sexual libido.
In the previous statements, which were based on the Pramantha of the
Agni sacrifice, we have concerned ourselves only with one significance of
the word manthâmi or mathnâmi, that is to say, with that which expresses
the movement of rubbing. As Kuhn shows, however, this word also
possesses the meaning of tearing off, taking away by violence, robbing.[333]
As Kuhn points out, this significance is already extant in the Vedic text. The
legend of its discovery always expresses the production of fire as a robbery.
(In this far it belongs to the motive widely spread over the earth of the
treasure difficult to attain.) The fact that in many places and not alone in
India the preparation of fire is represented as having its origin in robbery,
seems to point to a widely spread thought, according to which the
preparation of fire was something forbidden, something usurped or

criminal, which could be obtained only through stratagem or deeds of
violence (mostly through stratagem).[334] When onanism confronts the
physician as a symptom it does so frequently under the symbol of secret
pilfering, or crafty imposition, which always signifies the concealed
fulfilment of a forbidden wish.[335] Historically, this train of thought
probably implies that the ritual preparation of fire was employed with a
magic purpose, and, therefore, was pursued by official religions; then it
became a ritual mystery,[336] guarded by the priests and surrounded with
secrecy. The ritual laws of the Hindoos threaten with severe punishment
him who prepares fire in an incorrect manner. The fact alone that something
is mysterious means the same as something done in concealment; that
which must remain secret, which one may not see nor do; also something
which is surrounded by severe punishment of body and soul; therefore,
presumably, something forbidden which has received a license as a religious
rite. After all has been said about the genesis of the preparation of fire, it is
no longer difficult to guess what is the forbidden thing; it is onanism. When
I stated before that it might be lack of satisfaction which breaks up the
autoerotic ring of the displaced sexual activity transferred to the body itself,
and thus opens wider fields of culture, I did not mention that this loosely
closed ring of the displaced onanistic activity could be much more firmly
closed, when man makes the other great discovery, that of true onanism.[337]
With that the activity is started in the proper place, and this, under certain
circumstances, may mean a satisfaction sufficient for a long time, but at the
expense of cheating sexuality of its real purpose. It is a fraud upon the
natural development of things, because all the dynamic forces which can
and should serve the development of culture are withdrawn from it through
onanism, since, instead of the displacement, a regression to the local sexual
takes place, which is precisely the opposite of that which is desirable.
Psychologically, however, onanism is a discovery of a significance not to be
undervalued. One is protected from fate, since no sexual need then has the
power to give one up to life. For with onanism one has the greatest magic in
one’s hands; one needs only to phantasy, and with that to masturbate, then
one possesses all the pleasure of the world, and is no longer compelled to
conquer the world of one’s desires through hard labor and wrestling with
reality.[338] Aladdin rubs his lamp and the obedient genii stand at his bidding;
thus the fairy tale expresses the great psychologic advantage of the easy

regression to the local sexual satisfaction. Aladdin’s symbol subtly confirms
the ambiguity of the magic fire preparation.
The close relation of the generation of fire to the onanistic act is
illustrated by a case, the knowledge of which I owe to Dr. Schmid, in Cery,
that of an imbecile peasant youth who set many incendiary fires. At one of
these conflagrations he drew suspicion to himself by his behavior. He stood
with his hands in his trouser pockets in the door of an opposite house and
gazed with apparent delight at the fire. Under examination in the insane
asylum, he described the fire in great detail, and made suspicious
movements in his trouser pockets with his hands. The physical examination
undertaken at once showed that he had masturbated. Later he confessed that
he had masturbated at the time when he had enjoyed the fire which he had
enkindled himself.
The preparation of fire in itself is a perfectly ordinary useful custom,
employed everywhere for many centuries, which in itself involved nothing
more mysterious than eating and drinking. However, there was always a
tendency from time to time to prepare fire in a ceremonious and mysterious
manner (exactly as with ritual eating and drinking), which was to be carried
out in an exactly prescribed way and from which no one dared differ. This
mysterious tendency associated with the technique is the second path in the
onanistic regression, always present by the side of culture. The strict rules
applied to it, the zeal of the ceremonial preparations and the religious awe
of the mysteries next originate from this source; the ceremonial, although
apparently irrational, is an extremely ingenious institution from the
psychologic standpoint, for it represents a substitute for the possibility of
onanistic regression accurately circumscribed by law. The law cannot apply
to the content of the ceremony, for it is really quite indifferent for the ritual
act, whether it is carried out in this way or in that way. On the contrary, it is
very essential whether the restrained libido is discharged through a sterile
onanism or transposed into the path of sublimation. These severe measures
of protection apply primarily to onanism.[339]
I am indebted to Freud for a further important reference to the onanistic
nature of the fire theft, or rather the motive of the treasure difficult of
attainment (to which fire theft belongs). Mythology contains repeated
formulas which read approximately as follows: The treasure must be
plucked or torn off from a taboo tree (Paradise tree, Hesperides); this is a

forbidden and dangerous act. The clearest example of this is the old
barbaric custom in the service of Diana of Aricia: only he can become a
priest of the goddess who, in her sacred grove, dares to tear off
(“abzureissen”) a bough. The tearing off has been retained in vulgar speech
(besides “abreiben,” rubbing) as a symbol of the act of onanism. Thus
“reiben,” to rub, is like “reissen,” to break off, both of which are contained
in manthami and united apparently only through the myth of the fire theft
bound up in the act of onanism in a deeper stratum wherein “reiben,”
properly speaking, “reissen,” is employed, but in a transferred sense.
Therefore, it might perhaps be anticipated that in the deepest stratum,
namely, the incestuous, which precedes the autoerotic stage,[340] the two
meanings coincide, which, through lack of mythological tradition, can
perhaps be traced through etymology only.

CHAPTER IV
THE UNCONSCIOUS ORIGIN OF THE HERO

Prepared by the previous chapters, we approach the personification of the
libido in the form of a conqueror, a hero or a demon. With this, symbolism
leaves the impersonal and neuter realm, which characterizes the astral and
meteorologic symbol, and takes human form: the figure of a being changing
from sorrow to joy, from joy to sorrow, and which, like the sun, sometimes
stands in its zenith, sometimes is plunged in darkest night, and arises from
this very night to new splendor.[341] Just as the sun, guided by its own
internal laws, ascends from morn till noon, and passing beyond the noon
descends towards evening, leaving behind its splendor, and then sinks
completely into the all-enveloping night, thus, too, does mankind follow his
course according to immutable laws, and also sinks, after his course is
completed, into night, in order to rise again in the morning to a new cycle in
his children. The symbolic transition from sun to man is easy and
practicable. The third and last creation of Miss Miller’s also takes this
course. She calls this piece “Chiwantopel,” a “hypnagogic poem.” She
gives us the following information about the circumstances surrounding the
origin of this phantasy:
“After an evening of care and anxiety, I lay down to sleep at about half past eleven. I felt excited
and unable to sleep, although I was very tired. There was no light in the room. I closed my eyes, and
then I had the feeling that something was about to happen. The sensation of a general relaxation came
over me, and I remained as passive as possible. Lines appeared before my eyes,—sparks and shining
spirals, followed by a kaleidoscopic review of recent trivial occurrences.”
The reader will regret with me that we cannot know the reason for her
cares and anxieties. It would have been of great importance for what
follows to have information on this point. This gap in our knowledge is the
more to be deplored because, between the first poem in 1898 and the time
of the phantasy here discussed (1902), four whole years have passed. All
information is lacking regarding this period, during which the great problem
surely survived in the unconscious. Perhaps this lack has its advantages in
that our interest is not diverted from the universal applicability of the

phantasy here produced by sympathy in regard to the personal fate of the
author. Therefore, something is obviated which often prevents the analyst in
his daily task from looking away from the tedious toil of detail to that wider
relation which reveals each neurotic conflict to be involved with human fate
as a whole.
The condition depicted by the author here corresponds to such a one as
usually precedes an intentional somnambulism[342] often described by
spiritualistic mediums. A certain inclination to listen to these low nocturnal
voices must be assumed; otherwise such fine and hardly perceptible inner
experiences pass unnoticed. We recognize in this listening a current of the
libido leading inward and beginning to flow towards a still invisible,
mysterious goal. It seems that the libido has suddenly discovered an object
in the depths of the unconscious which powerfully attracts it. The life of
man, turned wholly to the external by nature, does not ordinarily permit
such introversion; there must, therefore, be surmised a certain exceptional
condition, that is to say, a lack of external objects, which compels the
individual to seek a substitute for them in his own soul. It is, however,
difficult to imagine that this rich world has become too poor to offer an
object for the love of human atoms; nor can the world and its objects be
held accountable for this lack. It offers boundless opportunities for every
one. It is rather the incapacity to love which robs mankind of his
possibilities. This world is empty to him alone who does not understand
how to direct his libido towards objects, and to render them alive and
beautiful for himself, for Beauty does not indeed lie in things, but in the
feeling that we give to them. That which compels us to create a substitute
for ourselves is not the external lack of objects, but our incapacity to
lovingly include a thing outside of ourselves. Certainly the difficulties of
the conditions of life and the adversities of the struggle for existence may
oppress us, yet even adverse external situations would not hinder the giving
out of the libido; on the contrary, they may spur us on to the greatest
exertions, whereby we bring our whole libido into reality. Real difficulties
alone will never be able to force the libido back permanently to such a
degree as to give rise, for example, to a neurosis. The conflict, which is the
condition of every neurosis, is lacking. The resistance, which opposes its
unwillingness to the will, alone has the power to produce that pathogenic
introversion which is the starting point of every psychogenic disturbance.
The resistance against loving produces the inability to love. Just as the

normal libido is comparable to a steady stream which pours its waters
broadly into the world of reality, so the resistance, dynamically considered,
is comparable, not so much to a rock rearing up in the river bed which is
flooded over or surrounded by the stream, as to a backward flow towards
the source. A part of the soul desires the outer object; another part, however,
harks back to the subjective world, where the airy and fragile palaces of
phantasy beckon. One can assume the dualism of the human will for which
Bleuler, from the psychiatric point of view, has coined the word
“ambitendency”[343] as something generally present, bearing in mind that
even the most primitive motor impulse is in opposition; as, for example, in
the act of extension, the flexor muscles also become innervated. This
normal ambitendency, however, never leads to an inhibition or prevention
of the intended act, but is the indispensable preliminary requirement for its
perfection and coördination. For a resistance disturbing to this act to arise
from this harmony of finely attuned opposition an abnormal plus or minus
would be needed on one or the other side. The resistance originates from
this added third.[344] This applies also to the duality of the will, from which
so many difficulties arise for mankind. The abnormal third frees the pair of
opposites, which are normally most intimately united, and causes their
manifestation in the form of separate tendencies; it is only thus that they
become willingness and unwillingness, which interfere with each other. The
Bhagavad-Gîtâ says, “Be thou free of the pairs of opposites.”[345] The
harmony thus becomes disharmony. It cannot be my task here to investigate
whence the unknown third arises, and what it is. Taken at the roots in the
case of our patients, the “nuclear complex” (Freud) reveals itself as the
incest problem. The sexual libido regressing to the parents appears as the
incest tendency. The reason this path is so easily travelled is due to the
enormous indolence of mankind, which will relinquish no object of the past,
but will hold it fast forever. The “sacrilegious backward grasp” of which
Nietzsche speaks reveals itself, stripped of its incest covering, as an original
passive arrest of the libido in its first object of childhood. This indolence is
also a passion, as La Rochefoucauld[346] has brilliantly expressed it:
“Of all passions, that which is least known to ourselves is indolence: it is the most ardent and
malignant of them all, although its violence may be insensible, and the injuries it causes may be
hidden; if we will consider its power attentively, we will see that it makes itself, upon all occasions,
mistress of our sentiments, of our interests, and of our pleasures; it is the anchor, which has the power
to arrest the largest vessels; it is a calm more dangerous to the most important affairs than rocks and
the worst tempest. The repose of indolence is a secret charm of the soul which suddenly stops the
most ardent pursuits and the firmest resolutions; finally to give the true idea of this passion, one must

say that indolence is like a beatitude of the soul which consoles it for all its losses and takes the place
of all its possessions.”
This dangerous passion, belonging above all others to primitive man,
appears under the hazardous mask of the incest symbol, from which the
incest fear must drive us away, and which must be conquered, in the first
place, under the image of the “terrible mother.”[347] It is the mother of
innumerable evils, not the least of which are neurotic troubles. For,
especially from the fogs of the arrested remnants of the libido, arise the
harmful phantasmagoria which so veil reality that adaptation becomes
almost impossible. However, we will not investigate any further in this
place the foundations of the incest phantasies. The preliminary suggestion
of my purely psychologic conception of the incest problem may suffice. We
are here only concerned with the question whether resistance which leads to
introversion in our author signifies a conscious external difficulty or not. If
it were an external difficulty, then, indeed, the libido would be violently
dammed back, and would produce a flood of phantasies, which can best be
designated as schemes, that is to say, plans as to how the obstacles could be
overcome. They would be very concrete ideas of reality which seek to pave
the way for solutions. It would be a strenuous meditation, indeed, which
would be more likely to lead to anything rather than to a hypnagogic poem.
The passive condition depicted above in no way fits in with a real external
obstacle, but, precisely through its passive submission, it indicates a
tendency which doubtless scorns real solutions and prefers phantastic
substitutes. Ultimately and essentially we are, therefore, dealing with an
internal conflict, perhaps after the manner of those earlier conflicts which
led to the two first unconscious creations. We, therefore, are forced to
conclude that the external object cannot be loved, because a predominant
amount of libido prefers a phantastic object, which must be brought up from
the depths of the unconscious as a compensation for the missing reality.
The visionary phenomena, produced in the first stages of introversion,
are grouped among the well-known phenomena[348] of hypnagogic vision.
They form, as I explained in an earlier paper, the foundation of the true
visions of the symbolic autorevelations of the libido, as we may now
express it.
Miss Miller continues:
“Then I had the impression that some communication was immediately impending. It seemed to
me as if there were re-echoed in me the words, ‘Speak, O Lord, for Thy servant listens; open Thou
mine ears!’”

This passage very clearly describes the intention; the expression
“communication” is even a current term in spiritualistic circles. The
Biblical words contain a clear invocation or “prayer,” that is to say, a wish
(libido) directed towards divinity (the unconscious complex). The prayer
refers to Samuel, i:3, where Samuel at night was three times called by God,
but believed that it was Eli calling, until the latter informed him that it was
God himself who spoke, and that he must answer if his name was called
again—“Speak, O Lord, for Thy Servant hears!” The dreamer uses these
words really in an inverse sense, namely, in order to produce God with
them. With that she directs her desires, her libido, into the depths of her
unconscious.
We know that, although individuals are widely separated by the
differences in the contents of their consciousness, they are closely alike in
their unconscious psychology. It is a significant impression for one working
in practical psychoanalysis when he realizes how uniform are the typical
unconscious complexes. Difference first arises from individualization. This
fact gives to an essential portion of the Schopenhauer and Hartmann
philosophies a deep psychologic justification.[349] The very evident
uniformity of the unconscious mechanism serves as a psychologic
foundation for these philosophic views. The unconscious contains the
differentiated remnants of the earlier psychologic functions overcome by
the individual differentiation. The reaction and products of the animal
psyche are of a generally diffused uniformity and solidity, which, among
men, may be discovered apparently only in traces. Man appears as
something extraordinarily individual in contrast with animals.
This might be a tremendous delusion, because we have the appropriate
tendency always to recognize only the difference of things. This is
demanded by the psychologic adaptation which, without the most minute
differentiation of the impressions, would be absolutely impossible. In
opposition to this tendency we have ever the greatest difficulty in
recognizing in their common relations the things with which we are
occupied in every-day life. This recognition becomes much easier with
things which are more remote from us. For example, it is almost impossible
for a European to differentiate the faces in a Chinese throng, although the
Chinese have just as individual facial formations as the Europeans, but the
similarity of their strange facial expression is much more evident to the
remote onlooker than their individual differences. But when we live among

the Chinese then the impression of their uniformity disappears more and
more, and finally the Chinese become individuals also. Individuality
belongs to those conditional actualities which are greatly overrated
theoretically on account of their practical significance. It does not belong to
those overwhelmingly clear and therefore universally obtrusive general
facts upon which a science must primarily be founded. The individual
content of consciousness is, therefore, the most unfavorable object
imaginable for psychology, because it has veiled the universally valid until
it has become unrecognizable. The essence of consciousness is the process
of adaptation which takes place in the most minute details. On the other
hand, the unconscious is the generally diffused, which not only binds the
individuals among themselves to the race, but also unites them backwards
with the peoples of the past and their psychology. Thus the unconscious,
surpassing the individual in its generality, is, in the first place, the object of
a true psychology, which claims not to be psychophysical.
Man as an individual is a suspicious phenomenon, the right of whose
existence from a natural biological standpoint could be seriously contested,
because, from this point of view, the individual is only a race atom, and has
a significance only as a mass constituent. The ethical standpoint, however,
gives to the human being an individual tendency separating him from the
mass, which, in the course of centuries, led to the development of
personality, hand in hand with which developed the hero cult, and has led to
the modern individualistic cult of personages. The attempts of rationalistic
theology to keep hold of the personal Jesus as the last and most precious
remnant of the divinity which has vanished beyond the power of the
imagination corresponds to this tendency. In this respect the Roman
Catholic Church was more practical, because she met the general need of
the visible, or at least historically believed hero, through the fact that she
placed upon the throne of worship a small but clearly perceptible god of the
world, namely, the Roman Pope, the Pater patrum, and at the same time the
Pontifex Maximus of the invisible upper or inner God. The sensuous
demonstrability of God naturally supports the religious process of
introversion, because the human figure essentially facilitates the
transference, for it is not easy to imagine something lovable or venerable in
a spiritual being. This tendency, everywhere present, has been secretly
preserved in the rationalistic theology with its Jesus historically insisted
upon. This does not mean that men loved the visible God; they love him,

not as he is, for he is merely a man, and when the pious wished to love
humanity they could go to their neighbors and their enemies to love them.
Mankind wishes to love in God only their ideas, that is to say, the ideas
which they project into God. By that they wish to love their unconscious,
that is, that remnant of ancient humanity and the centuries-old past in all
people, namely, the common property left behind from all development
which is given to all men, like the sunshine and the air. But in loving this
inheritance they love that which is common to all. Thus they turn back to
the mother of humanity, that is to say, to the spirit of the race, and regain in
this way something of that connection and of that mysterious and
irresistible power which is imparted by the feeling of belonging to the herd.
It is the problem of Antæus, who preserves his gigantic strength only
through contact with mother earth. This temporary withdrawal into one’s
self, which, as we have already seen, signifies a regression to the childish
bond to the parent, seems to act favorably, within certain limits, in its effect
upon the psychologic condition of the individual. It is in general to be
expected that the two fundamental mechanisms of the psychoses,
transference and introversion, are to a wide extent extremely appropriate
methods of normal reaction against complexes; transference as a means of
escaping from the complex into reality; introversion as a means of
detaching one’s self from reality through the complex.
After we have informed ourselves about the general purposes of prayer,
we are prepared to hear more about the vision of our dreamer. After the
prayer, “the head of a sphinx with an Egyptian headdress” appeared, only to
vanish quickly. Here the author was disturbed, so that for a moment she
awoke. This vision recalls the previously mentioned phantasy of the
Egyptian statue, whose rigid gesture is entirely in place here as a
phenomenon of the so-called functional category. The light stages of the
hypnosis are designated technically as “Engourdissement” (stiffening). The
word Sphinx in the whole civilized world signifies the same as riddle: a
puzzling creature who proposes riddles, like the Sphinx of Oedipus,
standing at the portal of his fate like a symbolic proclamation of the
inevitable. The Sphinx is a semi-theriomorphic representation of that
“mother image” which may be designated as the “terrible mother,” of whom
many traces are found in mythology. This interpretation is correct for
Oedipus. Here the question is opened. The objection will be raised that
nothing except the word “Sphinx” justifies the allusion to the Sphinx of

Oedipus. On account of the lack of subjective materials, which in the Miller
text are wholly lacking in regard to this vision, an individual interpretation
would also be excluded. The suggestion of an “Egyptian” phantasy (Part I,
Chapter II) is entirely insufficient to be employed here. Therefore we are
compelled, if we wish to venture at all upon an understanding of this vision,
to direct ourselves—perhaps in all too daring a manner—to the available
ethnographic material under the assumption that the unconscious of the
present-day man coins its symbols as was done in the most remote past. The
Sphinx, in its traditional form, is a half-human, half-animal creature, which
we must, in part, interpret in the way that is applicable to such phantastic
products. The reader is directed to the deductions in the first part of this
volume where the theriomorphic representations of the libido were
discussed. This manner of representation is very familiar to the analyst,
through the dreams and phantasies of neurotics (and of normal men). The
impulse is readily represented as an animal, as a bull, horse, dog, etc. One
of my patients, who had questionable relations with women, and who began
the treatment with the fear, so to speak, that I would surely forbid him his
sexual adventures, dreamed that I (his physician) very skilfully speared to
the wall a strange animal, half pig, half crocodile. Dreams swarm with such
theriomorphic representations of the libido. Mixed beings, such as are in
this dream, are not rare. A series of very beautiful illustrations, where
especially the lower half of the animal was represented theriomorphically,
has been furnished by Bertschinger.[350] The libido which was represented
theriomorphically is the “animal” sexuality which is in a repressed state.
The history of repression, as we have seen, goes back to the incest problem,
where the first motives for moral resistance against sexuality display
themselves. The objects of the repressed libido are, in the last degree, the
images of father and mother; therefore the theriomorphic symbols, in so far
as they do not symbolize merely the libido in general, have a tendency to
present father and mother (for example, father represented by a bull, mother
by a cow). From these roots, as we pointed out earlier, might probably arise
the theriomorphic attributes of the Divinity. In as far as the repressed libido
manifests itself under certain conditions, as anxiety, these animals are
generally of a horrible nature. In consciousness we are attached by all
sacred bonds to the mother; in the dream she pursues us as a terrible animal.
The Sphinx, mythologically considered, is actually a fear animal, which
reveals distinct traits of a mother derivate. In the Oedipus legend the Sphinx

is sent by Hera, who hates Thebes on account of the birth of Bacchus;
because Oedipus conquers the Sphinx, which is nothing but fear of the
mother, he must marry Jocasta, his mother, for the throne and the hand of
the widowed queen of Thebes belonged to him who freed the land from the
plague of the Sphinx. The genealogy of the Sphinx is rich in allusions to the
problem touched upon here. She is a daughter of Echnida, a mixed being; a
beautiful maiden above, a hideous serpent below. This double creature
corresponds to the picture of the mother; above, the human, lovely and
attractive half; below, the horrible animal half, converted into a fear animal
through the incest prohibition. Echnida is derived from the All-mother, the
mother Earth, Gaea, who, with Tartaros, the personified underworld (the
place of horrors), brought her forth. Echnida herself is the mother of all
terrors, of the Chimaera, Scylla, Gorgo, of the horrible Cerberus, of the
Nemean Lion, and of the eagle who devoured the liver of Prometheus;
besides this she gave birth to a number of dragons. One of her sons is
Orthrus, the dog of the monstrous Geryon, who was killed by Hercules.
With this dog, her son, Echnida, in incestuous intercourse, produced the
Sphinx. These materials will suffice to characterize that amount of libido
which led to the Sphinx symbol. If, in spite of the lack of subjective
material, we may venture to draw an inference from the Sphinx symbol of
our author, we must say that the Sphinx represents an original incestuous
amount of libido detached from the bond to the mother. Perhaps it is better
to postpone this conclusion until we have examined the following visions.
After Miss Miller had concentrated herself again, the vision developed
further:
“Suddenly an Aztec appeared, absolutely clear in every detail; the hands spread open, with large
fingers, the head in profile, armored, headdress similar to the feather ornaments of the American
Indian. The whole was somewhat suggestive of Mexican sculpture.”
The ancient Egyptian character of the Sphinx is replaced here by
American antiquity—by the Aztec. The essential idea is neither Egypt nor
Mexico, for the two could not be interchanged; but it is the subjective factor
which the dreamer produces from her own past. I have frequently observed
in the analysis of Americans that certain unconscious complexes, i.e.
repressed sexuality, are represented by the symbol of a Negro or an Indian;
for example, when a European tells in his dream, “Then came a ragged,
dirty individual,” for Americans and for those who live in the tropics it is a
Negro. When with Europeans it is a vagabond or a criminal, with

Americans it is a Negro or an Indian which represents the individual’s own
repressed sexual personality, and the one considered inferior. It is also
desirable to go into the particulars of this vision, as there are various things
worthy of notice. The feather cap, which naturally had to consist of eagles’
feathers, is a sort of magic charm. The hero assumes at the same time
something of the sun-like character of this bird when he adorns himself
with its feathers, just as the courage and strength of the enemy are
appropriated in swallowing his heart or taking his scalp. At the same time,
the feather crest is a crown which is equivalent to the rays of the sun. The
historical importance of the Sun identification has been seen in the first
part.[351]
Especial interest attaches to the hand, which is described as “open,” and
the fingers, which are described as “large.” It is significant that it is the
hand upon which the distinct emphasis falls. One might rather have
expected a description of the facial expression. It is well known that the
gesture of the hand is significant; unfortunately, we know nothing about
that here. Nevertheless, a parallel phantasy might be mentioned, which also
puts the emphasis upon hands. A patient in a hypnagogic condition saw his
mother painted on a wall, like a painting in a Byzantine church. She held
one hand up, open wide, with fingers spread apart. The fingers were very
large, swollen into knobs on the ends, and each surrounded by a small halo.
The immediate association with this picture was the fingers of a frog with
sucking discs at the ends. Then the similarity to the penis. The ancient
setting of this mother picture is also of importance. Evidently the hand had,
in this phantasy, a phallic meaning. This interpretation was confirmed by a
further very remarkable phantasy of the same patient. He saw something
like a “sky-rocket” ascending from his mother’s hand, which at a closer
survey becomes a shining bird with golden wings, a golden pheasant, as it
then occurs to his mind. We have seen in the previous chapter that the hand
has actually a phallic, generative meaning, and that this meaning plays a
great part in the production of fire. In connection with this phantasy, there is
but one observation to make: fire was bored with the hand; therefore it
comes from the hand; Agni, the fire, was worshipped as a golden-winged
bird.[352] It is extremely significant that it is the mother’s hand. I must deny
myself the temptation to enter more deeply into this. Let it be sufficient to
have pointed out the possible significance of the hand of the Aztec by
means of these parallel hand phantasies. We have mentioned the mother

suggestively with the Sphinx. The Aztec taking the place of the Sphinx
points, through his suggestive hand, to parallel phantasies in which the
phallic hand really belongs to the mother. Likewise we encounter an antique
setting in parallel phantasies. The significance of the antique, which
experience has shown to be the symbol for “infantile,” is confirmed by Miss
Miller in this connection in the annotation to her phantasies, for she says:
“In my childhood, I took a special interest in the Aztec fragments and in the history of Peru and of
the Incas.”
Through the two analyses of children which have been published we
have attained an insight into the child’s small world, and have seen what
burning interests and questions secretly surround the parents, and that the
parents are, for a long time, the objects of the greatest interest.[353] We are,
therefore, justified in suspecting that the antique setting applies to the
“ancients,” that is to say, the parents, and that consequently this Aztec has
something of the father or mother in himself. Up to this time indirect hints
point only to the mother, which is nothing remarkable in an American girl,
because Americans, as a result of the extreme detachment from the father,
are characterized by a most enormous mother complex, which again is
connected with the especial social position of woman in the United States.
This position brings about a special masculinity among capable women,
which easily makes possible the symbolizing into a masculine figure.[354]
After this vision, Miss Miller felt that a name formed itself “bit by bit,”
which seemed to belong to this Aztec—“the son of an Inca of Peru.” The
name is “Chi-wan-to-pel.” As the author intimated, something similar to
this belonged to her childish reminiscences. The act of naming is, like
baptism, something exceedingly important for the creation of a personality,
because, since olden times, a magic power has been attributed to the name,
with which, for example, the spirit of the dead can be conjured. To know
the name of any one means, in mythology, to have power over that one. As
a well-known example I mention the fairy tale of “Rumpelstilzchen.” In an
Egyptian myth, Isis robs the Sun god Rê permanently of his power by
compelling him to tell her his real name. Therefore, to give a name means
to give power, invest with a definite personality.[355] The author observed, in
regard to the name itself, that it reminded her very much of the impressive
name Popocatepetl, a name which belongs to unforgettable school
memories, and, to the greatest indignation of the patient, very often emerges
in an analysis in a dream or phantasy and brings with it that same old joke

which one heard in school, told oneself and later again forgot. Although one
might hesitate to consider this unhallowed joke as of psychologic
importance, still one must inquire for the reason of its being. One must also
put, as a counter question, Why is it always Popocatepetl and not the
neighboring Iztaccihuatl, or the even higher and just as clear Orizaba? The
last has certainly the more beautiful and more easily pronounced name.
Popocatepetl is impressive because of its onomatopoetic name. In English
the word is “to pop” (popgun), which is here considered as onomatopoesy;
in German the words are Hinterpommern, Pumpernickel; Bombe; Petarde
(le pet = flatus). The frequent German word Popo (Podex) does not indeed
exist in English, but flatus is designated as “to poop” in childish speech.
The act of defecation is often designated as “to pop.” A joking name for the
posterior part is “the bum.” (Poop also means the rear end of a ship.) In
French, pouf! is onomatopoetic; pouffer = platzen (to explode), la poupe =
rear end of ship, le poupard = the baby in arms, la poupée = doll. Poupon is
a pet name for a chubby-faced child. In Dutch pop, German Puppe and
Latin puppis = doll; in Plautus, however, it is also used jokingly for the
posterior part of the body; pupus means child; pupula = girl, little dollie.
The Greek word ποππύζω designates a cracking, snapping or blowing
sound. It is used of kissing; by Theocritus also of the associated noise of
flute blowing. The etymologic parallels show a remarkable relationship
between the part of the body in question and the child. This relationship we
will mention here, only to let it drop at once, as this question will claim our
attention later.
One of my patients in his childhood had always connected the act of
defecation with a phantasy that his posterior was a volcano and a violent
eruption took place, explosion of gases and gushings forth of lava. The
terms for the elemental occurrences of nature are originally not at all
poetical; one thinks, for example, of the beautiful phenomenon of the
meteor, which the German language most unpoetically calls
“Sternschnuppe” (the smouldering wick of a star). Certain South American
Indians call the shooting star the “urine of the stars.” According to the
principle of the least resistance, expressions are taken from the nearest
source available. (For example, the transference of the metonymic
expression of urination as Schiffens, “to rain.”)
Now it seems to be very obscure why the mystical figure of Chiwantopel,
whom Miss Miller, in a note, compares to the control spirit of the

spiritualistic medium,[356] is found in such a disreputable neighborhood that
his nature (name) was brought into relation with this particular part of the
body. In order to understand this possibility, we must realize that when we
produce from the unconscious the first to be brought forth is the infantile
material long lost in memory. One must, therefore, take the point of view of
that time in which this infantile material was still on the surface. If now a
much-honored object is related in the unconscious to the anus, then one
must conclude that something of a high valuation was expressed thereby.
The question is only whether this corresponds to the psychology of the
child. Before we enter upon this question, it must be stated that the anal
region is very closely connected with veneration. One thinks of the
traditional fæces of the Great Mogul. An Oriental tale has the same to say of
Christian knights, who anointed themselves with the excrement of the pope
and cardinals in order to make themselves formidable. A patient who is
characterized by a special veneration for her father had a phantasy that she
saw her father sitting upon the toilet in a dignified manner, and people
going past greeted him effusively.[357] The association of the anal relations
by no means excludes high valuation or esteem, as is shown by these
examples, and as is easily seen from the intimate connection of fæces and
gold.[358] Here the most worthless comes into the closest relation with the
most valuable. This also happens in religious valuations. I discovered (at
that time to my great astonishment) that a young patient, very religiously
trained, represented in a dream the Crucified on the bottom of a blue-
flowered chamber pot, namely, in the form of excrements. The contrast is so
enormous that one must assume that the valuations of childhood must
indeed be very different from ours. This is actually the truth. Children bring
to the act of defecation and the products of this an esteem and interest[359]
which later on is possible only to the hypochondriac. We do not
comprehend this interest until we learn that the child very early connects
with it a theory of propagation.[360] The libido afflux probably accounts for
the enormous interest in this act. The child sees that this is the way in which
something is produced, in which something comes out. The same child
whom I reported in the little brochure “Über Konflikte der kindlichen
Seele,” and who had a well-developed anal theory of birth, like little Hans,
whom Freud made known to us, later contracted a habit of staying a long
time on the toilet. Once the father grew impatient, went to the toilet and
called, “Do come out of there; what are you making?” Whereupon the

answer came from within, “A little wagon and two ponies.” The child was
making a little wagon and two ponies, that is to say, things which at that
time she especially wished for. In this way one can make what one wishes,
and the thing made is the thing wished for. The child wishes earnestly for a
doll or, at heart, for a real child. (That is, the child practised for his future
biological task, and in the way in which everything in general is produced
he made the doll[361] himself as representative of the child or of the thing
wished for in general.[362]) From a patient I have learned a parallel phantasy
of her childhood. In the toilet there was a crevice in the wall. She
phantasied that from this crevice a fairy would come out and present her
with everything for which she wished. The “locus” is known to be the place
of dreams where much was wished for and created which later would no
longer be suspected of having this place of origin. A pathological phantasy
in place here is told us by Lombroso,[363] concerning two insane artists. Each
of them considered himself God and the ruler of the world. They created or
produced the world by making it come forth from the rectum, just as the
egg of birds originates in the egg canal. One of these two artists was
endowed with a true artistic sense. He painted a picture in which he was just
in the act of creation; the world came forth from his anus; the membrum
was in full erection; he was naked, surrounded by women, and with all
insignia of his power. The excrement is in a certain sense the thing wished
for, and on that account it receives the corresponding valuation. When I first
understood this connection, an observation made long ago, and which
disturbed me greatly because I never rightly understood it, became clear to
me. It concerned an educated patient who, under very tragic circumstances,
had to be separated from her husband and child, and was brought into the
insane asylum. She exhibited a typical apathy and slovenliness which was
considered as affective mental deterioration. Even at that time I doubted this
deterioration, and was inclined to regard it as a secondary adjustment. I
took especial pains to ascertain how I could discover the existence of the
affect in this case. Finally, after more than three hours’ hard work, I
succeeded in finding a train of thought which suddenly brought the patient
into a completely adequate and therefore strongly emotional state. At this
moment the affective connection with her was completely reëstablished.
That happened in the forenoon. When I returned at the appointed time in the
evening to the ward to see her she had, for my reception, smeared herself
from head to foot with excrement, and cried laughingly, “Do I please you

so?” She had never done that before; it was plainly destined for me. The
impression which I received was one of a personal affront and, as a result of
this, I was convinced for years after of the affective deterioration of such
cases. Now we understand this act as an infantile ceremony of welcome or a
declaration of love.
The origin of Chiwantopel, that is to say, an unconscious personality,
therefore means, in the sense of the previous explanation, “I make, produce,
invent him myself.” It is a sort of human creation or birth by the anal route.
The first people were made from excrement, potter’s earth, or clay. The
Latin lutum, which really means “moistened earth,” also has the transferred
meaning of dirt. In Plautus it is even a term of abuse, something like “You
scum.” The birth from the anus also reminds us of the motive of “throwing
behind oneself.” A well-known example is the oracular command, which
Deucalion and Pyrrha, who were the only survivors from the great flood,
received. They were to throw behind them the bones of the great mother.
They then threw behind them stones, from which mankind sprang.
According to a tradition, the Dactyli in a similar manner sprang from dust,
which the nymph Anchiale threw behind her. There is also humorous
significance attached to the anal products. The excrements are often
considered in popular humor as a monument or memorial (which plays a
special part in regard to the criminal in the form of grumus merdæ); every
one knows the humorous story of the man who, led by the spirit through
labyrinthian passages to a hidden treasure, after he had shed all his pieces of
clothing, deposited excrement as a last guide post on his road. In a more
distant past a sign of this kind possessed as great a significance as the dung
of animals to indicate the direction taken. Simple monuments (“little stone
figures”) have taken the place of this perishable mark.
It is noteworthy that Miss Miller quotes another case, where a name
suddenly obtruded itself, parallel to the emerging into consciousness of
Chiwantopel, namely, A-ha-ma-ra-ma, with the feeling that it dealt with
something Assyrian.[364] As a possible source of this, there occurred to her
“Asurabama, who made cuneiform bricks,”[365] those imperishable
documents made from clay: the monuments of the most ancient history. If it
were not emphasized that the bricks are “cuneiform,” then it might mean
ambiguously “wedged-shaped bricks,” which is more suggestive of our
interpretation than that of the author.

Miss Miller remarks that besides the name “Asurabama” she also thought
of “Ahasuerus” or “Ahasverus.” This phantasy leads to a very different
aspect of the problem of the unconscious personality. While the previous
materials betrayed to us something of the infantile theory of creation, this
phantasy opens up a vista into the dynamics of the unconscious creation of
personality. Ahasver is, as is well known, the Wandering Jew; he is
characterized by endless and restless wanderings until the end of the world.
The fact that the author has thought of this particular name justifies us in
following this trail. The legend of Ahasver, the first literary traces of which
belong to the thirteenth century, seems to be of Occidental origin, and
belongs to those ideas which possess indestructible vital energy. The figure
of the Wandering Jew has undergone more literary elaboration than the
figure of Faust, and nearly all of this work belongs to the last century. If the
figure is not called Ahasver, still it is there under another name, perhaps as
Count of St. Germain, the mysterious Rosicrucian, whose immortality was
assured, and whose temporary residence (the land) was equally known.[366]
Although the stories about Ahasver cannot be traced back any earlier than
the thirteenth century, the oral tradition can reach back considerably further,
and it is not an impossibility that a bridge to the Orient exists. There is the
parallel figure of Chidr, or “al Chadir,” the “ever-youthful Chidher”
celebrated in song by Rueckert. The legend is purely Islamitic. The peculiar
feature, however, is that Chidher is not only a saint, but in Sufic circles[367]
rises even to divine significance. In view of the severe monotheism of
Islam, one is inclined to think of Chidher as a pre-Islamitic Arabian divinity
who would hardly be officially recognized by the new religion, but might
have been tolerated on political grounds. But there is nothing to prove that.
The first traces of Chidher are found in the commentaries of the Koran,
Buchâri and Tabare and in a commentary to a noteworthy passage of the
eighteenth sura of the Koran. The eighteenth sura is entitled “the cave,” that
is, after the cave of the seven sleepers, who, according to the legend, slept
there for 309 years, and thus escaped persecution, and awoke in a new era.
Their legend is recounted in the eighteenth sura, and divers reflections were
associated with it. The wish-fulfilment idea of the legend is very clear. The
mystic material for it is the immutable model of the Sun’s course. The Sun
sets periodically, but does not die. It hides in the womb of the sea or in a
subterranean cave,[368] and in the morning is “born again,” complete. The
language in which this astronomic occurrence is clothed is one of clear

symbolism; the Sun returns into the mother’s womb, and after some time is
again born. Of course, this event is properly an incestuous act, of which, in
mythology, clear traces are still retained, not the least of which is the
circumstance that the dying and resurrected gods are the lovers of their own
mothers or have generated themselves through their own mothers. Christ as
the “God becoming flesh” has generated himself through Mary; Mithra has
done the same. These Gods are unmistakable Sun-gods, for the Sun also
does this, in order to again renew himself. Naturally, it is not to be assumed
that astronomy came first and these conceptions of gods afterwards; the
process was, as always, inverted, and it is even true that primitive magic
charms of rebirth, baptism, superstitious usages of all sorts, concerning the
cure of the sick, etc., were projected into the heavens. These youths were
born from the cave (the womb of mother earth), like the Sun-gods, in a new
era, and this was the way they vanquished death. In this far they were
immortal. It is now interesting to see how the Koran comes, after long
ethical contemplations in the course of the same sura, to the following
passage, which is of especial significance for the origin of the Chidher
myth. For this reason I quote the Koran literally:
“Remember when Moses said to his servant, ‘I will not stop till I reach the confluence of the two
seas, or for eighty years will I journey on.’
“But when they reached their confluence they forgot their fish, and it took its way in the sea at
will.
“And when they had passed on, Moses said to his servant, ‘Bring us our morning meal, for now we
have incurred weariness from this our journey.’
“He said, ‘What thinkest thou? When we repaired to the rock for rest, then verily I forgot the fish;
and none but Satan made me forget it, so as not to mention it; and it hath taken its way in the sea in a
wondrous sort.’
“He said, ‘It is this we were in quest of.’ So they both went back retracing their footsteps.
“Then found they one of our servants to whom we had vouchsafed our mercy, and whom we had
instructed with our knowledge;[369]
“Moses said to him, ‘Shall I follow thee that thou teach me, for guidance of that which thou hast
been taught?’
“He said, ‘Verily, thou canst by no means have patience with me; and how canst thou be patient in
matters whose meaning thou comprehendest not?’”—Trans. Rodwell, page 188.
Moses now accompanies the mysterious servant of God, who does divers
things which Moses cannot comprehend; finally, the Unknown takes leave
of Moses, and speaks to him as follows:
“They will ask thee of Dhoulkarnein (the two-horned).[370] Say: ‘I will recite to you an account of
him.’

“Verily, we established his power upon the earth and we gave him a means to accomplish every
end, so he followed his way;
“Until when he reached the setting of the sun, he found it to set in a miry forest; and hard by, he
found a people....”
Now follows a moral reflection; then the narrative continues:
“Then he followed his course further until he came to the place where the sun rises....”
If now we wish to know who is the unknown servant of God, we are told
in this passage he is Dhulqarnein, Alexander, the Sun; he goes to the place
of setting and he goes to the place of rising. The passage about the
unknown servant of God is explained by the commentaries in a well-
defined legend. The servant is Chidher, “the verdant one,” the never-tiring
wanderer, who roams for hundreds and thousands of years over lands and
seas, the teacher and counsellor of pious men; the one wise in divine
knowledge—the immortal.[371] The authority of the Tabari associates
Chidher with Dhulqarnein; Chidher is said to have reached the “stream of
life” as a follower of Alexander, and both unwittingly had drunk of it, so
that they became immortal. Moreover, Chidher is identified by the old
commentators with Elias, who also did not die, but who was taken to
Heaven in a fiery chariot. Elias is Helios.[372] It is to be observed that
Ahasver also owes his existence to an obscure place in the holy Christian
scriptures. This place is to be found in Matthew xvi:28. First comes the
scene where Christ appoints Peter as the rock of his church, and nominates
him the governor of his power.[373] After that follows the prophecy of his
death, and then comes the passage:
“Verily, I say unto you, there be some standing here, which shall not taste of death till they see the
Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”
Here follows the scene of the transfiguration:
“And was transfigured before them: and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as
the light.
“And behold there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him.
“Then answered Peter and said unto Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if thou wilt, let us
make here three tabernacles; one for thee and one for Moses and one for Elias.’”[374]
From these passages it appears that Christ stands on the same plane as
Elias, without being identified with him,[375] although the people consider
him as Elias. The ascension places Christ as identical with Elias. The
prophecy of Christ shows that there exist aside from himself one or more
immortals who shall not die until Parousai. According to John xxi: 22nd
verse, the boy John was considered as one of these immortals, and in the

legend he is, in fact, not dead but merely sleeping in the ground until
Parousai, and breathes so that the dust swirls round his grave.[376] As is
evident, there are passable bridges from Christ by way of Elias to Chidher
and Ahasuerus. It is said in an account of this legend[377] that Dhulqarnein
led his friend Chidher to the “source of life” in order to have him drink of
immortality.[378] Alexander also bathed in the stream of life and performed
the ritual ablutions. As I previously mentioned in a footnote, according to
Matthew xvii: 12th verse, John the Baptist is Elias, therefore primarily
identical with Chidher. Now, however, it is to be noted that in the Arabian
legend Chidher appears rather as a companion or accompanied (Chidher
with Dhulqarnein or with Elias, “like unto them”; or identified with
them[379]). There are therefore, two similar figures who resemble each other,
but who, nevertheless, are distinct. The analogous situation in the Christian
legend is found in the scene by the Jordan where John leads Christ to the
“source of life.” Christ is there, the subordinate, John the superior, similar
to Dhulqarnein and Chidher, or Chidher and Moses, also Elias. The latter
relation especially is such that Vollers compares Chidher and Elias, on the
one side, with Gilgamesh and his mortal brother Eabani; on the other side,
with the Dioscuri, one of whom is immortal, the other mortal. This relation
is also found in Christ and John the Baptist,[380] on the one hand, and Christ
and Peter, on the other. The last-named parallel only finds its explanation
through comparison with the Mithraic mysteries, where the esoteric
contents are revealed to us through monuments. Upon the Mithraic marble
relief of Klagenfurt[381] it is represented how with a halo Mithra crowns
Helios, who either kneels before him or else floats up to him from below.
Mithra is represented on a Mithraic monument of Osterburken as holding in
his right hand the shoulder of the mystic ox above Helios, who stands
bowed down before him, the left hand resting on a sword hilt. A crown lies
between them on the ground. Cumont observes about this scene that it
probably represents the divine prototype of the ceremony of the initiation
into the degree of Miles, in which a sword and a crown were conferred
upon the mystic. Helios is, therefore, appointed the Miles of Mithra. In a
general way, Mithra seems to occupy the rôle of patron to Helios, which
reminds us of the boldness of Hercules towards Helios. Upon his journey
towards Geryon, Helios burns too hotly; Hercules, full of anger, threatens
him with his never-failing arrows. Therefore, Helios is compelled to yield,
and lends to the hero his Sun ship, with which he was accustomed to

journey across the sea. Thus Hercules returns to Erythia, to the cattle herds
of Geryon.[382] On the monument at Klagenfurt, Mithra is furthermore
represented pressing Helios’s hand, either in farewell or as a ratification. In
a further scene Mithra mounts the Chariot of Helios, either for the ascension
or the “Sea Journey.”[383] Cumont is of the opinion that Mithra gives to
Helios a sort of ceremonious investiture and consecrates him with his divine
power by crowning him with his own hands. This relation corresponds to
that of Christ to Peter. Peter, through his symbol, the cock, has the character
of a sun-god. After the ascension (or sea journey) of Christ, he is the visible
pontiff of the divinity; he suffers, therefore, the same death (crucifixion) as
Christ, and becomes the great Roman deity (Sol invictus), the conquering,
triumphant Church itself, embodied in the Pope. In the scene of Malchus he
is always shown as the miles of Christ, to whom the sword is granted, and
as the rock upon which the Church is founded. The crown[384] is also given
to him who possesses the power to bind and to set free. Thus, Christ, like
the Sun, is the visible God, whereas the Pope, like the heir of the Roman
Cæsars, is solis invicti comes. The setting sun appoints a successor whom
he invests with the power of the sun.[385] Dhulqarnein gives Chidher eternal
life. Chidher communicates his wisdom to Moses.[386] There even exists a
report according to which the forgetful servant of Joshua drinks from the
well of life, whereupon he becomes immortal, and is placed in a ship by
Chidher and Moses, as a punishment, and is cast out to sea, once more a
fragment of a sun myth, the motive of the “sea journey.”[387]
The primitive symbol, which designates that portion of the Zodiac in
which the Sun, with the Winter Solstice, again enters upon the yearly
course, is the goat, fish sign, the αἰγωκέρως. The Sun mounts like a goat to
the highest mountain, and later goes into the water as a fish. The fish is the
symbol of the child,[388] for the child before his birth lives in the water like a
fish, and the Sun, because it plunges into the sea, becomes equally child and
fish. The fish, however, is also a phallic symbol,[389] also a symbol for the
woman.[390] Briefly stated, the fish is a libido symbol, and, indeed, as it
seems predominately for the renewal of the libido.
The journey of Moses with his servant is a life-journey (eighty years).
They grow old and lose their life force (libido), that is, they lose the fish
which “pursues its course in a marvellous manner to the sea,” which means
the setting of the sun. When the two notice their loss, they discover at the
place where the “source of life” is found (where the dead fish revived and

sprang into the sea) Chidher wrapped in his mantle,[391] sitting on the
ground. According to another version, he sat on an island in the sea, or “in
the wettest place on earth,” that is, he was just born from the maternal
depths. Where the fish vanished Chidher, “the verdant one,” was born as a
“son of the deep waters,” his head veiled, a Cabir, a proclaimer of divine
wisdom; the old Babylonian Oannes-Ea, who was represented in the form
of a fish, and daily came from the sea as a fish to teach the people wisdom.
[392]
His name was brought into connection with John’s. With the rising of
the renewed sun all that lived in darkness, as water-animal or fish,
surrounded by all terrors of night and death,[393] became as the shining fiery
firmament of the day. Thus the words of John the Baptist[394] gain especial
meaning:
“I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance, but he that cometh after me is mightier than I,
whose shoes I am not worthy to bear; he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost and with fire.”
With Vollers we may also compare Chidher and Elias (Moses and his
servant Joshua) with Gilgamesh and his brother Eabani. Gilgamesh
wandered through the world, driven by anxiety and longing, to find
immortality. His path led him across the seas to the wise Utnapishtim
(Noah), who knew how to cross the waters of death. There Gilgamesh had
to dive down to the bottom of the sea for the magical herb which was to
lead him back to the land of men. When he had come again to his native
land a serpent stole the magic plant from him (the fish again slid into the
sea). But on the return from the land of the blessed an immortal mariner
accompanied him, who, banished by a curse of Utnapishtim, was forbidden
to return to the land of the blessed. Gilgamesh’s journey had lost its purpose
on account of the loss of the magic herb; instead he is accompanied by an
immortal, whose fate, indeed, we cannot learn from the fragments of the
epic. This banished immortal is the model for Ahasver, as Jensen[395] aptly
remarked.
Again we encounter the motive of the Dioscuri, mortal and immortal,
setting and rising sun. This motive is also represented as if projected from
the hero.
The Sacrificium Mithriacum (the sacrifice of the bull) is in its religious
representation very often flanked by the two Dadophores, Cautes and
Cautopates, one with a raised and the other with a lowered torch. They
represent brothers who reveal their character through the symbolic position
of the torch. Cumont connects them, not without meaning, with the

sepulchral “erotes” who as genii with the reversed torches have traditional
meaning. The one is supposed to stand for death and the other for life. I
cannot refrain from mentioning the similarity between the Sacrificium
Mithriacum (where the sacrificed bull in the centre is flanked on both sides
by Dadophores) to the Christian sacrifice of the lamb (ram). The Crucified
is also traditionally flanked by the two thieves, one of whom ascends to
Paradise, while the other descends to Hell.[396] The idea of the mortal and
the immortal seems to have passed also into the Christian worship. Semitic
gods are often represented as flanked by two Paredroi; for example, Baal of
Edessa, accompanied by Aziz and Monimoz (Baal as the Sun, accompanied
by Mars and Mercury, as expressed in astronomical teachings). According
to the Chaldean view, the gods are grouped into triads. In this circle of ideas
belongs also the Trinity, the idea of the triune God, in which Christ must be
considered in his unity with the Father and the Holy Ghost. So, too, do the
two thieves belong inwardly to Christ. The two Dadophores are, as Cumont
points out, nothing but offshoots[397] from the chief figure of Mithra, to
whom belongs a mysterious threefold character. According to an account of
Dionysus Areopagita, the magicians celebrated a festival, “τοῦ τριπλασίου
Μίθρου.”[398][399] An observation likewise referring to the Trinity is made by
Plutarch concerning Ormuzd: τρὶς ἑαυτὸν αὐξήσας ἀπέστησε τοῦ ἡλίου.[400]
The Trinity, as three different states of the unity, is also a Christian thought.
In the very first place this suggests a sun myth. An observation by
Macrobius 1:18 seems to lend support to this idea:
“Hæ autem ætatum diversitates ad solem referuntur, ut parvulus videatur hiemali solstitio, qualem
Aegyptii proferunt ex adyto die certa, ... æquinoctio vernali figura iuvenis ornatur. Postea statuitur
ætas ejus plenissima effigie barbæ solstitio æstivo ... exunde per diminutiones veluti senescenti
quarta forma deus figuratur.”[401][402]
As Cumont observes, Cautes and Cautapates occasionally carry in their
hands the head of a bull, and a scorpion.[403] Taurus and Scorpio are
equinoctial signs, which clearly indicate that the sacrificial scene refers
primarily to the Sun cycle; the rising Sun, which sacrifices itself at the
summer solstice, and the setting Sun. In the sacrificial scene the symbol of
the rising and setting Sun was not easily represented; therefore, this idea
was removed from the sacrificial image.
We have pointed out above that the Dioscuri represent a similar idea,
although in a somewhat different form; the one sun is always mortal, the
other immortal. As this entire sun mythology is merely a psychologic

projection to the heavens, the fundamental thesis probably is as follows;
just as man consists of a mortal and immortal part, so the sun is a pair of
brothers,[404] one being mortal, the other immortal. This thought lies at the
basis of all theology in general. Man is, indeed, mortal, but there are some
who are immortal, or there is something in us which is immortal. Thus the
gods, “a Chidher or a St. Germain,” are our immortal part, which, though
incomprehensible, dwells among us somewhere.
Comparison with the sun teaches us over and over again that the gods are
libido. It is that part of us which is immortal, since it represents that bond
through which we feel that in the race we are never extinguished.[405] It is
life from the life of mankind. Its springs, which well up from the depths of
the unconscious, come, as does our life in general, from the root of the
whole of humanity, since we are indeed only a twig broken off from the
mother and transplanted.
Since the divine in us is the libido,[406] we must not wonder that we have
taken along with us in our theology ancient representations from olden
times, which give the triune figure to the God. We have taken this
τριπλάσιον Θεόν[407] from the phallic symbolism, the originality of which
may well be uncontested.[408] The male genitals are the basis for this Trinity.
It is an anatomical fact that one testicle is generally placed somewhat higher
than the other, and it is also a very old, but, nevertheless, still surviving,
superstition that one testicle generates a boy and the other a girl.[409] A late
Babylonian bas-relief from Lajard’s[410] collection seems to be in accordance
with this view. In the middle of the image stands an androgynous god
(masculine and feminine face[411]); upon the right, male side, is found a
serpent, with a sun halo round its head; upon the left, female side, there is
also a serpent, with the moon above its head. Above the head of the god
there are three stars. This ensemble would seem to confirm the Trinity[412] of
the representation. The Sun serpent at the right side is male; the serpent at
the left side is female (signified by the moon). This image possesses a
symbolic sexual suffix, which makes the sexual significance of the whole
obtrusive. Upon the male side a rhomb is found—a favorite symbol of the
female genitals; upon the female side there is a wheel or felly. A wheel
always refers to the Sun, but the spokes are thickened and enlarged at the
ends, which suggests phallic symbolism. It seems to be a phallic wheel,
which was not unknown in antiquity. There are obscene bas-reliefs where
Cupid turns a wheel of nothing but phalli.[413] It is not only the serpent

which suggests the phallic significance of the Sun; I quote one especially
marked case, from an abundance of proof. In the antique collection at
Verona I discovered a late Roman mystic inscription in which are the
following representations:

These symbols are easily read: Sun—Phallus, Moon—Vagina (Uterus).
This interpretation is confirmed by another figure of the same collection.
There the same representation is found, only the vessel[414] is replaced by the
figure of a woman. The impressions on coins, where in the middle a palm is
seen encoiled by a snake, flanked by two stones (testicles), or else in the
middle a stone encircled by a snake; to the right a palm, to the left a shell
(female genitals[415]), should be interpreted in a similar manner. In Lajard’s
“Researches” (“The Cult of Venus”) there is a coin of Perga, where Artemis
of Perga is represented by a conical stone (phallic) flanked by a man
(claimed to be Men) and by a female figure (claimed to be Artemis). Men
(the so-called Lunus) is found upon an Attic bas-relief apparently with the
spear but fundamentally a sceptre with a phallic significance, flanked by
Pan with a club (phallus) and a female figure.[416] The traditional
representation of the Crucified flanked by John and Mary is closely
associated with this circle of ideas, precisely as is the Crucified with the
thieves. From this we see how, beside the Sun, there emerges again and
again the much more primitive comparison of the libido with the phallus.
An especial trace still deserves mention here. The Dadophor Cautapates,
who represents Mithra, is also represented with the cock[417] and the
pineapple. But these are the attributes of the Phrygian god Men, whose cult
was widely diffused. Men was represented with Pileus,[418] the pineapple
and the cock, also in the form of a boy, just as the Dadophores are boyish
figures. (This last-named property relates them with Men to the Cabiri.)
Men has a very close connection with Attis, the son and lover of Cybele. In
the time of the Roman Cæsars, Men and Attis were entirely identified, as
stated above. Attis also wears the Pileus like Men, Mithra and the
Dadophores. As the son and lover of his mother he again leads us to the
source of this religion-creating incest libido, namely, to the mother. Incest

leads logically to ceremonial castration in the Attic-Cybele cult, for the
Hero, driven insane by his mother, mutilates himself.[419] I must at present
forego entering more deeply into this matter, because the incest problem is
to be discussed at the close. Let this suggestion suffice—that from different
directions the analysis of the libido symbolism always leads back again to
the mother incest. Therefore, we may surmise that the longing of the libido
raised to God (repressed into the unconscious) is a primitive, incestuous one
which concerns the mother. Through renouncing the virility to the first
beloved, the mother, the feminine element becomes extremely predominant;
hence the strongly androgynous character of the dying and resurrected
Redeemer. That these heroes are nearly always wanderers[420] is a
psychologically clear symbolism. The wandering is a representation of
longing,[421] of the ever-restless desire, which nowhere finds its object, for,
unknown to itself, it seeks the lost mother. The wandering association
renders the Sun comparison easily intelligible; also, under this aspect, the
heroes always resemble the wandering Sun, which seems to justify the fact
that the myth of the hero is a sun myth. But the myth of the hero, however,
is, as it appears to me, the myth of our own suffering unconscious, which
has an unquenchable longing for all the deepest sources of our own being;
for the body of the mother, and through it for communion with infinite life
in the countless forms of existence. Here I must introduce the words of the
Master who has divined the deepest roots of Faustian longings:
“Unwilling, I reveal a loftier mystery.—
In solitude are throned the Goddesses,
No Space around them, Place and Time still less:
Only to speak of them embarrasses.
They are THE MOTHERS!

“Goddesses unknown to ye,
The Mortals,—named by us unwillingly.
Delve in the deepest depths must thou to reach them:
’Tis thine own fault that we for help beseech them.

“Where is the way?

“No way! To the Unreachable,
Ne’er to be trodden! A way to the Unbeseechable,
Never to be besought! Art thou prepared?
There are no locks, no latches to be lifted!
Through endless solitudes shalt thou be drifted!
Hast thou through solitudes and deserts dared?
And hadst thou swum to farthest verge of ocean

And there the boundless space beheld,
Still hadst thou seen wave after wave in motion,
Even though impending doom thy fear compelled.
Thou hadst seen something—in the beryl dim
Of peace-lulled seas, the sportive dolphins swim;
Hadst seen the flying clouds, sun, moon and star;
Nought shalt thou see in endless Void afar—
Not hear thy footstep fall, nor meet
A stable spot to rest thy feet.

“Here, take this key!
The Key will scent the true place from all others;
Follow it down! ‘Twill lead thee to the Mothers.

“Descend then! I could also say: Ascend!
’Twere all the same. Escape from the Created
To shapeless forms in liberated spaces!
Enjoy what long ere this was dissipated!
There whirls the press, like clouds on clouds unfolding;
Then with stretched arm swing high the key thou’rt holding!

“At last a blazing tripod,[422] tells thee this,
That there the utterly deepest bottom is.
Its light to thee will then the Mothers show,
Some in their seats, the others stand or go,
At their own will: Formation, Transformation,
The Eternal Mind’s eternal recreation,
Forms of all Creatures,—there are floating free.
They’ll see thee not! for only wraiths they see.
So pluck up heart,—the danger then is great.
Go to the tripod ere thou hesitate,
And touch it with the key.”

CHAPTER V
SYMBOLISM OF THE MOTHER AND OF REBIRTH

The vision following the creation of the hero is described by Miss Miller
as a “throng of people.” This representation is known to us from dream
interpretation as being, above all, the symbol of mystery.[423] Freud thinks
that this choice of symbol is determined on account of its possibility of
representing the idea. The bearer of the mystery is placed in opposition to
the multitude of the ignorant. The possession of the mystery cuts one off
from intercourse with the rest of mankind. For a very complete and smooth
rapport with the surroundings is of great importance for the management of
the libido and the possession of a subjectively important secret generally
creates a great disturbance. It may be said that the whole art of life shrinks
to the one problem of how the libido may be freed in the most harmless way
possible. Therefore, the neurotic derives special benefit in treatment when
he can at last rid himself of his various secrets. The symbol of the crowd of
people, chiefly the streaming and moving mass, is, as I have often seen,
substituted for the great excitement in the unconscious, especially in
persons who are outwardly calm.
The vision of the “throng” develops further; horses emerge; a battle is
fought. With Silberer, I might accept the significance of this vision as
belonging, first of all, in the “functional category,” because, fundamentally,
the conception of the intermingling crowds is nothing but the symbol of the
present onrush of the mass of thought; likewise the battle, and possibly the
horses, which illustrate the movement. The deeper significance of the
appearance of the horses will be seen for the first time in the further course
of our treatment of the mother symbolism. The following vision has a more
definite and significantly important character. Miss Miller sees a City of
Dreams (“Cité de Rêves”). The picture is similar to one she saw a short
time before on the cover of a magazine. Unfortunately, we learn nothing
further about it. One can easily imagine under this “Cité de Rêves” a
fulfilled wish dream, that is to say, something very beautiful and greatly

longed for; a sort of heavenly Jerusalem, as the poet of the Apocalypse has
dreamed it. The city is a maternal symbol, a woman who fosters the
inhabitants as children. It is, therefore, intelligible that the two mother
goddesses, Rhea and Cybele, both wear the wall crown. The Old Testament
treats the cities of Jerusalem, Babel, etc., as women (Isaiah xlvii:1–5):
“Come down and sit in the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, sit on the ground: there is no
throne, O daughter of the Chaldeans; for thou shalt no more be called tender and delicate. Take the
millstones and grind meal; uncover thy locks, make bare the leg, uncover the thigh, pass over the
rivers. That thy nakedness shall be uncovered, yea, thy shame shall be seen; sit thou silent, and get
thee into darkness, O daughter of the Chaldeans; for thou shalt no more be called the lady of the
kingdoms.”
Jeremiah says of Babel (I:12):
“Your mother shall be sore confounded; she that bare you shall be ashamed.”
Strong, unconquered cities are virgins; colonies are sons and daughters.
Cities are also whores. Isaiah says of Tyre (xxiii:16):
“Take an harp, go about the city, thou harlot; thou hast been forgotten.”
And:
“How does it come to pass that the virtuous city has become an harlot?”
We come across a similar symbolism in the myth of Ogyges, the mythical
king who rules in Egyptian Thebes and whose wife was appropriately
named Thebe. The Bœotian Thebes founded by Cadmus received on that
account a surname, “Ogygian.” This surname was also given to the great
flood, as it was called “Ogygian” because it occurred under Ogyges. This
coincidence will be found later on to be hardly accidental. The fact that the
city and the wife of Ogyges bear the same name indicates that somewhere a
relation must exist between the city and the woman, which is not difficult to
understand, for the city is identical with the woman. We meet a similar idea
in Hindoo lore where Indra appears as the husband of Urvara, but Urvara
means “the fertile land.” In a similar way the occupancy of a country by the
king was understood as marriage with the ploughed land. Similar
representations must have prevailed in Europe as well. Princes had to
guarantee, for example, a good harvest at their accession. The Swedish
King Domaldi was actually killed on account of the failure of the harvest
(Ynglinga sâga 18). In the Rama sâga the hero Rama marries Sîtâ, the
furrow of the field.[424] To the same group of ideas belongs the Chinese
custom of the Emperor ploughing a furrow at his ascension to the throne.
This idea of the soil being feminine also embraces the idea of continual
companionship with the woman, a physical communication. Shiva, the

Phallic God, is, like Mahadeva and Parwati, male and female. He has even
given one-half of his body to his consort Parwati as a dwelling place.[425]
Inman[426] gives us a drawing of a Pundite of Ardanari-Iswara; one-half of
the god is masculine, the other half feminine, and the genitals are in
continuous cohabitation. The motive of continuous cohabitation is
expressed in a well-known lingam symbol, which is to be found everywhere
in Indian temples; the base is a female symbol, and within that is the
phallus.[427] The symbol approaches very closely the Grecian mystic phallic
basket and chests. (Compare with this the Eleusinian mysteries.) The chest
or box is here a female symbol, that is, the mother’s womb. This is a very
well-known conception in the old mythologies.[428] The chest, basket or little
basket, with its precious contents, was thought of as floating on the water; a
remarkable inversion of the natural fact that the child floats in the amniotic
fluid and that this is in the uterus.
This inversion brings about a great advantage for sublimation, for it
creates enormous possibilities of application for the myth-weaving
phantasy, that is to say, for the annexation to the sun cycle. The Sun floats
over the sea like an immortal god, which every evening is immersed in the
maternal water and is born again renewed in the morning. Frobenius says:
“Perhaps in connection with the blood-red sunrise, the idea occurs that here a birth takes place, the
birth of a young son; the question then arises inevitably, whence comes the paternity? How has the
woman become pregnant? And since this woman symbolizes the same idea as the fish, which means
the sea, (because we proceed from the assumption that the Sun descends into the sea as well as arises
from it) thus the curious primitive answer is that this sea has previously swallowed the old Sun.
Consequently the resulting myth is, that the woman (sea) has formerly devoured the Sun and now
brings a new Sun into the world, and thus she has become pregnant.”
All these sea-going gods are sun symbols. They are enclosed in a chest or
an ark for the “night journey on the sea” (Frobenius), often together with a
woman (again an inversion of the actual situation, but in support of the
motive of continuous cohabitation, which we have met above). During the
night journey on the sea the Sun-god is enclosed in the mother’s womb,
oftentimes threatened by dangers of all kinds. Instead of many individual
examples, I will content myself with reproducing the scheme which
Frobenius has constructed from numberless myths of this sort:

Frobenius gives the following legend to illustrate this:
“A hero is devoured by a water monster in the West (to devour). The animal carries him within him
to the East (sea journey). Meanwhile, he kindles a fire in the belly of the monster (to set on fire) and
since he feels hungry he cuts off a piece of the hanging heart (to cut off the heart). Soon after he
notices that the fish glides upon the dry land (to land); he immediately begins to cut open the animal
from within outwards (to open) then he slides out (to slip out). In the fish’s belly, it had been so hot,
that all his hair had fallen out (heat-hair). The hero frequently frees all who were previously devoured
(to devour all) and all now slide out (slip out).”
A very close parallel is Noah’s journey during the flood, in which all
living creatures die; only he and the life guarded by him are brought to a
new birth. In a Melapolynesian legend (Frobenius) it is told that the hero in
the belly of the King Fish took his weapon and cut open the fish’s belly.
“He slid out and saw a splendor, and he sat down and reflected. ‘I wonder
where I am,’ he said. Then the sun rose with a bound and turned from one
side to the other.” The Sun has again slipped out. Frobenius mentions from
the Ramayana the myth of the ape Hanuman, who represents the Sun-hero.
The sun in which Hanuman hurries through the air throws a shadow upon
the sea. The sea monster notices this and through this draws Hanuman
toward itself; when the latter sees that the monster is about to devour him,
he stretches out his figure immeasurably; the monster assumes the same
gigantic proportions. As he does that Hanuman becomes as small as a
thumb, slips into the great body of the monster and comes out on the other
side. In another part of the poem it is said that he came out from the right
ear of the monster (like Rabelais’ Gargantua, who also was born from the
mother’s ear). “Hanuman thereupon resumes his flight, and finds a new
obstacle in another sea monster, which is the mother of Rahus, the sun-
devouring demon. The latter draws Hanuman’s shadow[429] to her in the

same way. Hanuman again has recourse to the earlier stratagem, becomes
small and slips into her body, but hardly is he there than he grows to a
gigantic mass, swells up, tears her, kills her, and in that way makes his
escape.”
Thus we understand why the Indian fire-bringer Mâtariçvan is called “the
one swelling in the mother”; the ark (little box, chest, cask, vessel, etc.) is a
symbol of the womb, just as is the sea, into which the Sun sinks for rebirth.
From this circle of ideas we understand the mythologic statements about
Ogyges; he it is who possesses the mother, the City, who is united with the
mother; therefore under him came the great flood, for it is a typical
fragment of the sun myth that the hero, when united with the woman
attained with difficulty, is exposed in a cask and thrown into the sea, and
then lands for a new life on a distant shore. The middle part, the “night
journey on the sea” in the ark, is lacking in the tradition of Ogyges.[430] But
the rule in mythology is that the typical parts of a myth can be united in all
conceivable variations, which adds greatly to the extraordinary difficulty of
the interpretation of a particular myth without knowledge of all the others.
The meaning of this cycle of myths mentioned here is clear; it is the longing
to attain rebirth through the return to the mother’s womb, that is to say, to
become as immortal as the sun. This longing for the mother is frequently
expressed in our holy scriptures.[431] I recall, particularly the place in the
epistle to the Galatians, where it is said (iv:26):
(26) “But Jerusalem which is above is free, which is the mother of us all.
(27) “For it is written, Rejoice, thou barren that beareth not: break forth and cry, thou that travailest
not: for the desolate hath many more children than she which hath an husband.
(28) “Now we, brethren, as Isaac was, are the children of promise.
(29) “But as he that was born after the flesh persecuted him that was born after the spirit, even so it
is now.
(30) “Nevertheless, what sayeth the scripture? Cast out the bondwoman and her son; for the son of
a bondwoman shall not be heir with the son of a freewoman.
(31) “So, then, brethren, we are not children of the bondwoman, but of the free.”
Chapter v:
(1) “Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free.”
The Christians are the children of the City Above, a symbol of the
mother, not sons of the earthly city-mother, who is to be cast out; for those
born after the flesh are opposed to those born after the spirit, who are not
born from the mother in the flesh, but from a symbol for the mother. One
must again think of the Indians at this point, who say the first people

proceeded from the sword-hilt and a shuttle. The religious thought is bound
up with the compulsion to call the mother no longer mother, but City,
Source, Sea, etc. This compulsion can be derived from the need to manifest
an amount of libido bound up with the mother, but in such a way that the
mother is represented by or concealed in a symbol. The symbolism of the
city we find well-developed in the revelations of John, where two cities
play a great part, one of which is insulted and cursed by him, the other
greatly desired. We read in Revelation (xvii:1):
(1) “Come hither: I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth on many
waters.
(2) “With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication and the inhabitants of the earth
have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication.
(3) “So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit on a scarlet
colored beast, full of the names of blasphemy, and having seven heads and ten horns.
(4) “And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colors, and decked with gold and precious
stones and pearls, having a golden cup[432] in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her
fornication.
(5) “And upon her forehead was a name written: Mystery. Babylon the great. The Mother of
Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.
(6) “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of
Jesus: and when I saw her I wondered with a great admiration.”
Here follows an interpretation of the vision unintelligible to us, from
which we can only emphasize the point that the seven heads[433] of the
dragon means the seven hills upon which the woman sits. This is probably a
distinct allusion to Rome, the city whose temporal power oppressed the
world at the time of the Revelation. The waters upon which the woman “the
mother” sits are “peoples and throngs and nations and tongues.” This also
seems to refer to Rome, for she is the mother of peoples and possessed all
lands. Just as in common speech, for example, colonies are called
daughters, so the people subject to Rome are like members of a family
subject to the mother. In another version of the picture, the kings of the
people, namely, the fathers, commit fornication with this mother. Revelation
continues (xviii: 2):
(2) “And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the Great is fallen, is fallen, and is
become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and
hateful bird.
(3) “For all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication.”
Thus this mother does not only become the mother of all abominations,
but also in truth the receptacle of all that is wicked and unclean. The birds
are images of souls;[434] therefore, this means all souls of the condemned and

evil spirits. Thus the mother becomes Hecate, the underworld, the City of
the damned itself. We recognize easily in the ancient idea of the woman on
the dragon,[435] the above-mentioned representation of Echnida, the mother
of the infernal horrors. Babylon is the idea of the “terrible” mother, who
seduces all people to whoredom with devilish temptation, and makes them
drunk with her wine. The intoxicating drink stands in the closest relation to
fornication, for it is also a libido symbol, as we have already seen in the
parallel of fire and sun. After the fall and curse of Babylon, we find in
Revelation (xix:6–7) the hymn which leads from the under half to the upper
half of the mother, where now everything is possible which would be
impossible without the repression of incest:
(6) “Alleluia, the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.
(7) “Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honor to him: for the marriage of the Lamb is come,[436]
and his wife hath made herself ready.
(8) “And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine
linen is the righteousness of saints.
(9) “And he saith unto me, ‘Write, Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of
the Lamb.’”
The Lamb is the son of man who celebrates his marriage with the
“woman.” Who the “woman” is remains obscure at first. But Revelation
(xxi:9) shows us which “woman” is the bride, the Lamb’s wife:
(9) “Come hither, I will show thee the bride, the Lamb’s wife.[437]
(10) “And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me that great
city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God, having the glory of God.”
It is evident from this quotation, after all that goes before, that the City,
the heavenly bride, who is here promised to the Son, is the mother.[438] In
Babylon the impure maid was cast out, according to the Epistle to the
Galatians, so that here in heavenly Jerusalem the mother-bride may be
attained the more surely. It bears witness to the most delicate psychologic
perception that the fathers of the church who formulated the canons
preserved this bit of the symbolic significance of the Christ mystery. It is a
treasure house for the phantasies and myth materials which underlie
primitive Christianity.[439] The further attributes which were heaped upon the
heavenly Jerusalem make its significance as mother overwhelmingly clear:
(1) “And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne
of God and of the Lamb.
(2) “In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which
bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month, and the leaves of the tree were for
the healing of nations.

(3) “And there shall be no more curse.”
In this quotation we come upon the symbol of the waters, which we
found in the mention of Ogyges in connection with the city. The maternal
significance of water belongs to the clearest symbolism in the realm of
mythology,[440] so that the ancients could say: ἠ θάλασσα—τῆς γενέσεως
σύμβολον.[441] From water comes life;[442] therefore, of the two gods which
here interest us the most, Christ and Mithra, the latter was born beside a
river, according to representations, while Christ experienced his new birth
in the Jordan; moreover, he is born from the Πηγή,[443] the “sempiterni fons
amoris,” the mother of God, who by the heathen-Christian legend was made
a nymph of the Spring. The “Spring” is also found in Mithracism. A
Pannonian dedication reads, “Fonti perenni.” An inscription in Apulia is
dedicated to the “Fons Aeterni.” In Persia, Ardvîçûra is the well of the water
of life. Ardvîçûra-Anahita is a goddess of water and love (just as Aphrodite
is born from foam). The neo-Persians designate the Planet Venus and a
nubile girl by the name “Nahid.” In the temples of Anaitis there existed
prostitute Hierodules (harlots). In the Sakaeen (in honor of Anaitis) there,
occurred ritual combats as in the festival of the Egyptian Ares and his
mother. In the Vedas the waters are called Mâtritamâh—the most maternal.
[443]
All that is living rises as does the sun, from the water, and at evening
plunges into the water. Born from the springs, the rivers, the seas, at death
man arrives at the waters of the Styx in order to enter upon the “night
journey on the sea.” The wish is that the black water of death might be the
water of life; that death, with its cold embrace, might be the mother’s
womb, just as the sea devours the sun, but brings it forth again out of the
maternal womb (Jonah motive[444]). Life believes not in death.
“In the flood of life, in the torrent of deeds,
I toss up and down,
I am blown to and fro!
Cradle and grave,
An eternal sea;
A changing web,
A glowing life.” —Goethe: Faust.

That ξύλον ζωῆς, the wood of life, or the tree of life, is a maternal
symbol would seem to follow from the previous deductions. The
etymologic connection of ὕο, ὕλε, υἱός, in the Indo-Germanic root suggests
the blending of the meanings in the underlying symbolism of mother and of
generation. The tree of life is probably, first of all, a fruit-bearing

genealogical tree, that is, a mother-image. Countless myths prove the
derivation of man from trees; many myths show how the hero is enclosed in
the maternal tree—thus dead Osiris in the column, Adonis in the myrtle, etc.
Numerous female divinities were worshipped as trees, from which resulted
the cult of the holy groves and trees. It is of transparent significance when
Attis castrates himself under a pine tree, i. e. he does it because of the
mother. Goddesses were often worshipped in the form of a tree or of a
wood. Thus Juno of Thespiæ was a branch of a tree, Juno of Samos was a
board. Juno of Argos was a column. The Carian Diana was an uncut piece
of wood. Athene of Lindus was a polished column. Tertullian calls Ceres of
Pharos “rudis palus et informe lignum sine effigie.” Athenaeus remarks of
Latona at Dalos that she is ξὐλινον ἄμορφον, a shapeless piece of wood.[445]
Tertullian calls an Attic Pallas “crucis stipes,” a wooden pale or mast. The
wooden pale is phallic, as the name suggests, φάλης, Pallus. The φαλλός is
a pale, a ceremonial lingam carved out of figwood, as are all Roman statues
of Priapus. Φάλος means a projection or centrepiece on the helmet, later
called κῶνος just as ἀναφαλ-αντίασις signifies baldheadedness on the
forepart of the head, and φαλακρός signifies baldheadedness in regard to
the φάλος-κῶνος of the helmet; a semi-phallic meaning is given to the
upper part of the head as well.[446] Φάλληνος has, besides φαλλός, the
significance of “wooden”; φαλ-άγγωμα, “cylinder”; φάλαγξ, “a round
beam.” The Macedonian battle array, distinguished by its powerful impetus,
is called φάλαγξ; moreover, the finger-joint[447] is called φάλαγξ. φάλλαινα
or φάλαινα is a whale. Now φαλός appears with the meaning “shining,
brilliant.” The Indo-Germanic root is bhale = to bulge, to swell.[448] Who
does not think of Faust?
“It grows, it shines, increases in my hand!”

That is primitive libido symbolism, which shows how immediate is the
connection between phallic libido and light. The same relations are found in
the Rigveda in Rudra’s utterances.
Rigveda 1, 114, 3:
“May we obtain your favor, thou man ruling, Oh urinating Rudra.”
I refer here to the previously mentioned phallic symbolism of Rudra in
the Upanishads:
(4) “We call for help below to the flaming Rudra, to the one bringing the sacrifice; him who
encircles and wanders (wandering in the vault of Heaven) to the seer.”

2, 33, 5:
“He who opens up the sweet, who listens to our calls, the ruddy one, with the beautiful helmet,
may he not give us over to the powers of jealousy.
(6) “I have been rejoiced by the bull connected with Marut, the supplicating one with strong force
of life.
(8) “Sound the powerful song of praise to the ruddy bull to the white shining one; worship the
flaming one with honor, we sing of the shining being Rudra.
“May Rudra’s missile (arrow) not be used on us, may the great displeasure of the shining one pass
us by: Unbend the firm (bow or hard arrow?) for the princes, thou who blessest with the waters of thy
body (generative strength), be gracious to our children and grandchildren.”[449]
In this way we pass from the realm of mother symbolism imperceptibly
into the realm of male phallic symbolism. This element also lies in the tree,
even in the family tree, as is distinctly shown by the mediæval family trees.
From the first ancestor there grows upward, in the place of the “membrum
virile,” the trunk of the great tree. The bisexual symbolic character of the
tree is intimated by the fact that in Latin trees have a masculine termination
and a feminine gender.[450] The feminine (especially the maternal) meaning
of the forest and the phallic significance of trees in dreams is well known. I
mention an example.
It concerns a woman who had always been nervous, and who, after many
years of marriage, became ill as a result of the typical retention of the
libido. She had the following dream after she had learned to know a young
man of many engaging free opinions who was very pleasing to her: She
found herself in a garden where stood a remarkable exotic tree with strange
red fleshy flowers or fruits. She picked them and ate them. Then, to her
horror, she felt that she was poisoned. This dream idea may easily be
understood by means of the antique or poetic symbolism, so I can spare
information as to the analytic material.
The double significance of the tree is readily explained by the fact that
such symbols are not to be understood “anatomically” but psychologically
as libido symbols; therefore, it is not permissible to interpret the tree on
account of its similar form as directly phallic; it can also be called a woman
or the uterus of the mother. The uniformity of the significance lies alone in
the similarity to the libido.[451] One loses one’s way in one “cul de sac” after
another by saying that this is the symbol substituted for the mother and that
for the penis. In this realm there is no fixed significance of things. The only
reality here is the libido, for which “all that is perishable is merely a
symbol.” It is not the physical actual mother, but the libido of the son, the

object of which was once the mother. We take mythologic symbols much
too concretely and wonder at every step about the endless contradictions.
These contradictions arise only because we constantly forget that in the
realm of phantasy “feeling is all.” Whenever we read, therefore, “his mother
was a wicked sorcerer,” the translation is as follows: The son is in love with
her, namely, he is unable to detach his libido from the mother-imago; he
therefore suffers from incestuous resistance.
The symbolism of water and trees, which are met with as further
attributes in the symbol of the City, also refer to that amount of libido which
unconsciously is fastened to the mother-imago. In certain parts of
Revelation the unconscious psychology of religious longing is revealed,
namely, the longing for the mother.[452] The expectation of Revelation ends
in the mother: καὶ πᾶν κατάθεμα οὐκ ἔσται ἔτι (“and there shall be no more
curse”). There shall be no more sins, no repression, no disharmony with
one’s self, no guilt, no fear of death and no pain of separation more!
Thus Revelation echoes that same radiant mystical harmony which was
caught again 2,000 years later and expressed poetically in the last prayer of
Dr. Marianus:
“Penitents, look up, elate,
Where she beams salvation;
Gratefully to blessed fate
Grow, in recreation!
Be our souls, as they have been,
Dedicate to thee!
Virgin Holy, Mother, Queen,
Goddess, gracious be!” —Goethe: Faust.

One principal question arises at the sight of this beauty and greatness of
feeling, that is, whether the primary tendency compensated by religion is
not too narrowly understood as incestuous. I have previously observed in
regard to this that I consider the “resistance opposed to libido” as in a
general way coincident with the incest prohibition. I must leave open for the
present the definition of the psychological incest conception. However, I
will here emphasize the point that it is most especially the totality of the sun
myth which proves to us that the fundamental basis of the “incestuous”
desire does not aim at cohabitation, but at the special thought of becoming a
child again, of turning back to the parent’s protection, of coming into the
mother once more in order to be born again. But incest stands in the path to

this goal, that is to say, the necessity of in some way again gaining entrance
into the mother’s womb. One of the simplest ways would be to impregnate
the mother, and to reproduce one’s self identically. But here the incest
prohibition interferes; therefore, the myths of the sun or of rebirth teem with
all possible proposals as to how incest can be evaded. A very simple method
of avoidance is to transform the mother into another being or to
rejuvenate[453] her after birth has occurred, to have her disappear again or
have her change back. It is not incestuous cohabitation which is desired, but
the rebirth, which now is attained most readily through cohabitation. But
this is not the only way, although perhaps the original one. The resistance to
the incest prohibition makes the phantasy inventive; for example, it was
attempted to impregnate the mother by means of a magic charm of fertility
(to wish for a child). Attempts in this respect remain in the stage of mythical
phantasies; but they have one result, and that is the exercise of the phantasy
which gradually produces paths through the creation of phantastic
possibilities, in which the libido, taking an active part, can flow off. Thus
the libido becomes spiritualized in an imperceptible manner. The power
“which always wishes evil” thus creates a spiritual life. Therefore, in
religions, this course is now raised to a system. On that account it is
exceedingly instructive to see how religion takes pains to further these
symbolic transferences.[454] The New Testament furnishes us with an
excellent example in regard to this. Nicodemus, in the speech regarding
rebirth, cannot forbear understanding the matter very realistically.
John iii:4:
(4) “How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s womb,
and be born?”
But Jesus endeavors to raise into purity the sensuous view of
Nicodemus’s mind moulded in materialistic heaviness, and announces to
him—really the same—and yet not the same:
(5) “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter
into the kingdom of God.
(6) “That which is born of the flesh is flesh: and that which is born of the spirit is spirit.
(7) “Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.
(8) “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell
whence it cometh and whither it goeth; so is everyone that is born of the spirit.”
To be born of water means simply to be born from the mother’s womb.
To be born of the spirit means to be born from the fructifying breath of the
wind; this we learn from the Greek text (where spirit and wind are

expressed by the same word, πνεῦμα) τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τῆς σαρκος σάρξ
ἐστιν, καὶ τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τοῦ πνεύματος πνεῦμά ἐστιν.—Τὸ πνεῦμα
ὅπου θέλει πνεῖ,[455] etc.
This symbolism rose from the same need as that which produced the
Egyptian legend of the vultures, the mother symbol. They were only
females and were fertilized by the wind. One recognizes very clearly the
ethical demand as the foundation of these mythologic assertions: thou must
say of the mother that she was not impregnated by a mortal in the ordinary
way, but by a spiritual being in an unusual manner. This demand stands in
strict opposition to the real truth; therefore, the myth is a fitting solution.
One can say it was a hero who died and was born again in a remarkable
manner, and in this way attained immortality. The need which this demand
asserts is evidently a prohibition against a definite phantasy concerning the
mother. A son may naturally think that a father has generated him in a
carnal way, but not that he himself impregnated the mother and so caused
himself to be born again into renewed youth. This incestuous phantasy
which for some reason possesses an extraordinary strength,[456] and,
therefore, appears as a compulsory wish, is repressed and, conforming to
the above demand, under certain conditions, expresses itself again,
symbolically, concerning the problem of birth, or rather concerning
individual rebirth from the mother. In Jesus’s challenge to Nicodemus we
clearly recognize this tendency: “Think not carnally or thou art carnal, but
think symbolically, then art thou spirit.” It is evident how extremely
educative and developing this compulsion toward symbolism can be.
Nicodemus would remain fixed in low commonplaces if he did not succeed
in raising himself through symbols above this repressed incestuous desire.
As a righteous philistine of culture, he probably was not very anxious for
this effort, because men seem really to remain satisfied in repressing the
incestuous libido, and at best to express it by some modest religious
exercises. Yet it seems to be important, on the other side, that man should
not merely renounce and repress and thereby remain firmly fixed in the
incestuous bond, but that he should redeem those dynamic forces which lie
bound up in incest, in order to fulfil himself. For man needs his whole
libido, to fill out the boundaries of his personality, and then, for the first
time, he is in a condition to do his best. The paths by which man may
manifest his incestuously fixed libido seem to have been pointed out by the
religious mythologic symbols. On this account Jesus teaches Nicodemus:

“Thou thinkest of thy incestuous wish for rebirth, but thou must think that
thou art born from the water and that thou art generated by the breath of the
wind,[457] and in this way thou shalt share in eternal life.”
Thus the libido which lies inactive in the incestuous bond repressed and
in fear of the law and the avenging Father God can be led over into
sublimation through the symbol of baptism (birth from water) and of
generation (spiritual birth) through the symbol of the descent of the Holy
Ghost. Thus man becomes a child[458] again and is born into a circle of
brothers and sisters; but his mother is the “communion of the saints,” the
church, and his circle of brothers and sisters is humanity, with whom he is
united anew in the common inheritance of the primitive symbol.
It seems that at the time in which Christianity had its origin this process
was especially necessary; for that period, as the result of the incredible
contrast between slavery and the freedom of the citizens and masters, had
entirely lost the consciousness of the common bond of mankind. One of the
next and most essential reasons for the energetic regression to the infantile
in Christianity, which goes hand in hand with the revival of the incest
problem, was probably to be found in the far-reaching depreciation of
women. At that time sexuality was so easily attainable that the result could
only be a very excessive depreciation of the sexual object. The existence of
personal values was first discovered by Christianity, and there are many
people who have not discovered it even in the present day. However, the
depreciation of the sexual object hinders the outflow of that libido which
cannot be satisfied by sexual activity, because it belongs to an already
desexualized higher order. (If it were not so, a Don Juan could never be
neurotic; but the contrary is the case.) For how might those higher
valuations be given to a worthless, despised object? Therefore, the libido,
after having seen a “Helen in every woman” for so long a time, sets out on a
search for the difficult to obtain, the worshipped, but perhaps unattainable,
goal, and which in the unconscious is the mother. Therefore the symbolic
needs, based on the incest resistance, arise again in an increased degree,
which promptly transforms the beautiful, sinful world of the Olympian
Gods into incomprehensible, dreamlike, dark mysteries, which, with their
accessions of symbols and obscure meaningful texts, remove us very far
from the religious feelings of that Roman-Græco world. When we see how
much trouble Jesus took to make acceptable to Nicodemus the symbolic
perception of things, that is to say, really a repression and veiling over of

the actual facts, and how important it was for the history of civilization in
general, that people thought and still think in this way, then we understand
the revolt which is raised everywhere against the psychologic discovery of
the true background of the neurotic or normal symbolism. Always and
everywhere we encounter the odious realm of sexuality, which represents to
all righteous people of to-day something defiled. However, less than 2,000
years have passed since the religious cult of sexuality was more or less
openly in full bloom. To be sure, they were heathen and did not know
better, but the nature of religious power does not change from cycle to
cycle. If one has once received an effectual impression of the sexual
contents of the ancient cults, and if one realizes oneself that the religious
experience, that is, the union[459] with the God of antiquity, was understood
by antiquity as a more or less concrete coitus, then truly one can no longer
fancy that the motor forces of a religion have suddenly become wholly
different since the birth of Christ. Exactly the same thing has occurred as
with the hysteric who at first indulges in some quite unbeautiful, infantile
sexual manifestations and afterwards develops a hyperæsthetic negation in
order to convince every one of his special purity. Christianity, with its
repression of the manifest sexual, is the negative of the ancient sexual cult.
The original cult has changed its tokens.[460] One only needs to realize how
much of the gay paganism, even to the inclusion of unseemly Gods, has
been taken into the Christian church. Thus the old indecent Priapus
celebrated a gay festival of resurrection in St. Tychon.[461] Also partly in the
physicians Sts. Kosma and Damien, who graciously condescended to accept
the “membra virilia” in wax at their festival.[462] St. Phallus of old memories
emerges again to be worshipped in country chapels, to say nothing of the
rest of the paganism!
There are those who have not yet learned to recognize sexuality as a
function equivalent to hunger and who, therefore, consider it as disgraceful
that certain taboo institutions which were considered as asexual refuges are
now recognized as overflowing with sexual symbolism. Those people are
doomed to the painful realization that such is still the case, in spite of their
great revolt. One must learn to understand that, opposed to the customary
habit of thought, psychoanalytic thinking reduces and resolves those
symbolic structures which have become more and more complicated
through countless elaboration. This means a course of reduction which
would be an intellectual enjoyment if the object were different. But here it

becomes distressing, not only æsthetically, but apparently also ethically,
because the repressions which are to be overcome have been brought about
by our best intentions. We must commence to overcome our virtuousness
with the certain fear of falling into baseness on the other side. This is
certainly true, for virtuousness is always inwardly compensated by a great
tendency towards baseness; and how many profligates are there who
inwardly preserve a mawkish virtue and moral megalomania? Both
categories of men turn out to be snobs when they come in contact with
analytic psychology, because the moral man has imagined an objective and
cheap verdict on sexuality and the unmoral man is entirely unaware of the
vulgarity of his sexuality and of his incapacity for an unselfish love. One
completely forgets that one can most miserably be carried away, not only by
a vice, but also by a virtue. There is a fanatic orgiastic self-righteousness
which is just as base and which entails just as much injustice and violence
as a vice.
At this time, when a large part of mankind is beginning to discard
Christianity, it is worth while to understand clearly why it was originally
accepted. It was accepted in order to escape at last from the brutality of
antiquity. As soon as we discard it, licentiousness returns, as impressively
exemplified by life in our large modern cities. This step is not a forward
step, but a backward one. It is as with individuals who have laid aside one
form of transference and have no new one. Without fail they will occupy
regressively the old path of transference, to their great detriment, because
the world around them has since then essentially changed. He who is
repelled by the historical and philosophical weakness of the Christian
dogmatism and the religious emptiness of an historical Jesus, of whose
person we know nothing and whose religious value is partly Talmudic,
partly Hellenic wisdom, and discards Christianity, and therewith Christian
morality, is certainly confronted with the ancient problem of licentiousness.
To-day the individual still feels himself restrained by the public hypocritical
opinion, and, therefore, prefers to lead a secret, separate life, but publicly to
represent morality. It might be different if men in general all at once found
the moral mask too dull, and if they realized how dangerously their beasts
lie in wait for each other, and then truly a frenzy of demoralization might
sweep over humanity. This is the dream, the wish dream, of the morally
limited man of to-day; he forgets necessity, which strangles men and robs
them of their breath, and which with a stern hand interrupts every passion.

It must not be imputed to me that I am wishing to refer the libido back by
analytical reduction to the primitive, almost conquered, stages, entirely
forgetting the fearful misery this would entail for humanity. Indeed, some
individuals would let themselves be transported by the old-time frenzy of
sexuality, from which the burden of guilt has been removed, to their own
greatest detriment.
But these are the ones who under other circumstances would have
prematurely perished in some other way. However, I well know the most
effectual and most inexorable regulator of human sexuality. This is
necessity. With this leaden weight human lust will never fly too high.
To-day there are countless neurotics who are so simply because they do
not know how to seek happiness in their own manner. They do not even
realize where the lack lies. And besides these neurotics there are many more
normal people—and precisely people of the higher type—who feel
restricted and discontented. For all these reduction to the sexual elements
should be undertaken, in order that they may be reinstated into the
possession of their primitive self, and thereby learn to know and value its
relation to the entire personality. In this way alone can certain requirements
be fulfilled and others be repudiated as unfit because of their infantile
character. In this way the individual will come to realize that certain things
are to be sacrificed, although they are accomplished, but in another sphere.
We imagine that we have long renounced, sacrificed and cut off our incest
wish, and that nothing of it is left. But it does not occur to us that this is not
true, but that we unconsciously commit incest in another territory. In
religious symbols, for example, we come across incest.[463] We consider the
incestuous wish vanished and lost, and then rediscover it in full force in
religion. This process or transformation has taken place unconsciously in
secular development. Just as in Part I it is shown that a similar unconscious
transformation of the libido is an ethically worthless pose, and with which I
compared the Christianity of early Roman antiquity, where evidently
licentiousness and brutality were strongly resisted, so here I must remark in
regard to the sublimation of the incestuous libido, that the belief in the
religious symbol has ceased to be an ethical ideal; but it is an unconscious
transformation of the incest wish into symbolic acts and symbolic concepts
which cheat men, as it were, so that heaven appears to them as a father and
earth as a mother and the people upon it children and brothers and sisters.
Thus man can remain a child for all time and satisfy his incest wish all

unawares. This state would doubtless be ideal[464] if it were not infantile and,
therefore, merely a one-sided wish, which maintains a childish attitude. The
reverse is anxiety. Much is said of pious people who remain unshaken in
their trust in God and wander unswervingly safe and blessed through the
world. I have never seen this Chidher yet. It is probably a wish figure. The
rule is great uncertainty among believers, which they drown with fanatical
cries among themselves or among others; moreover, they have religious
doubts, moral uncertainty, doubts of their own personality, feelings of guilt
and, deepest of all, great fear of the opposite aspect of reality, against which
the most highly intelligent people struggle with all their force. This other
side is the devil, the adversary or, expressed in modern terms, the corrective
of reality, of the infantile world picture, which has been made acceptable
through the predominating pleasure principle.[465] But the world is not a
garden of God, of the Father, but a place of terrors. Not only is heaven no
father and earth no mother and the people not brothers nor sisters, but they
represent hostile, destroying powers, to which we are abandoned the more
surely, the more childishly and thoughtlessly we have entrusted ourselves to
the so-called Fatherly hand of God. One should never forget the harsh
speech of the first Napoleon, that the good God is always on the side of the
heaviest artillery.
The religious myth meets us here as one of the greatest and most
significant human institutions which, despite misleading symbols,
nevertheless gives man assurance and strength, so that he may not be
overwhelmed by the monsters of the universe. The symbol, considered from
the standpoint of actual truth, is misleading, indeed, but it is psychologically
true,[466] because it was and is the bridge to all the greatest achievements of
humanity.
But this does not mean to say that this unconscious way of
transformation of the incest wish into religious exercises is the only one or
the only possible one. There is also a conscious recognition and
understanding with which we can take possession of this libido which is
bound up in incest and transformed into religious exercises so that we no
longer need the stage of religious symbolism for this end. It is thinkable that
instead of doing good to our fellow-men, for “the love of Christ,” we do it
from the knowledge that humanity, even as ourselves, could not exist if,
among the herd, the one could not sacrifice himself for the other. This
would be the course of moral autonomy, of perfect freedom, when man

could without compulsion wish that which he must do, and this from
knowledge, without delusion through belief in the religious symbols.
It is a positive creed which keeps us infantile and, therefore, ethically
inferior. Although of the greatest significance from the cultural point of
view and of imperishable beauty from the æsthetic standpoint, this delusion
can no longer ethically suffice humanity striving after moral autonomy.
The infantile and moral danger lies in belief in the symbol because
through that we guide the libido to an imaginary reality. The simple
negation of the symbol changes nothing, for the entire mental disposition
remains the same; we merely remove the dangerous object. But the object is
not dangerous; the danger is our own infantile mental state, for love of
which we have lost something very beautiful and ingenious through the
simple abandonment of the religious symbol. I think belief should be
replaced by understanding; then we would keep the beauty of the symbol,
but still remain free from the depressing results of submission to belief.
This would be the psychoanalytic cure for belief and disbelief.

The vision following upon that of the city is that of a “strange fir tree
with gnarled branches.” This vision does not seem extraordinary to us after
all that we have learned of the tree of life and its associations with the city
and the waters of life. This especial tree seems simply to continue the
category of the mother symbols. The attribute “strange” probably signifies,
as in dreams, a special emphasis, that is, a special underlying complex
material. Unfortunately, the author gives us no individual material for this.
As the tree already suggested in the symbolism of the city is particularly
emphasized through the further development of Miss Miller’s visions here,
I find it necessary to discuss at some length the history of the symbolism of
the tree.
It is well known that trees have played a large part in the cult myth from
the remotest times. The typical myth tree is the tree of paradise or of life
which we discover abundantly used in Babylonian and also in Jewish lore;
and in prechristian times, the pine tree of Attis, the tree or trees of Mithra;
in Germanic mythology, Ygdrasil and so on. The hanging of the Attis image
on the pine tree; the hanging of Marsyas, which became a celebrated artistic
motive; the hanging of Odin; the Germanic hanging sacrifices—indeed, the
whole series of hanged gods—teaches us that the hanging of Christ on the

cross is not a unique occurrence in religious mythology, but belongs to the
same circle of ideas as others. In this world of imagery the cross of Christ is
the tree of life, and equally the wood of death. This contrast is not
astounding. Just as the origin of man from trees was a legendary idea, so
there were also burial customs, in which people were buried in hollow trees.
From that the German language retains even now the expression
“Totenbaum” (tree of death) for a coffin. Keeping in mind the fact that the
tree is predominantly a mother symbol, then the mystic significance of this
manner of burial can be in no way incomprehensible to us. The dead are
delivered back to the mother for rebirth. We encounter this symbol in the
Osiris myth, handed down by Plutarch,[467] which is, in general, typical in
various aspects. Rhea is pregnant with Osiris; at the same time also with
Isis; Osiris and Isis mate even in the mother’s womb (motive of the night
journey on the sea with incest). Their son is Arueris, later called Horus. It is
said of Isis that she was born “in absolute humidity” (τετάρτῃ δὲ τῆν Ἴσιν
ἐν πανύγροις γενέσθαι[468]). It is said of Osiris that a certain Pamyles in
Thebes heard a voice from the temple of Zeus while drawing water, which
commanded him to proclaim that Osiris was born μέγας βασιλεὺς εὐεργέτης
Ὄσιρις.[469] In honor of this the Pamylion were celebrated. They were
similar to the phallophorion. Pamyles is a phallic demon, similar to the
original Dionysus. The myth reduced reads: Osiris and Isis were generated
by phallus from the water (mother womb) in the ordinary manner. (Kronos
had made Rhea pregnant, the relation was secret, and Rhea was his sister.
Helios, however, observed it and cursed the relation.) Osiris was killed in a
crafty manner by the god of the underworld, Typhon, who locked him in a
chest. He was thrown into the Nile, and so carried out to sea. Osiris,
however, mated in the underworld with his second sister, Nephthys (motive
of the night journey to the sea with incest). One sees here how the
symbolism is developed. In the mother womb, before the outward
existence, Osiris commits incest; in death, the second intrauterine existence,
Osiris again commits incest. Both times with a sister who is simply
substituted for the mother as a legal, uncensured symbol, since the marriage
with a sister in early antiquity was not merely tolerated, but was really
commended. Zarathustra also recommended the marriage of kindred. This
form of myth would be impossible to-day, because cohabitation with the
sister, being incestuous, would be repressed. The wicked Typhon entices
Osiris craftily into a box or chest; this distortion of the true state of affairs is

transparent. The “original sin” caused men to wish to go back into the
mother again, that is, the incestuous desire for the mother, condemned by
law, is the ruse supposedly invented by Typhon. The fact is, the ruse is very
significant. Man tries to sneak into rebirth through subterfuge in order to
become a child again. An early Egyptian hymn[470] even raises an accusation
against the mother Isis because she destroys the sun-god Rê by treachery. It
was interpreted as the ill-will of the mother towards her son that she
banished and betrayed him. The hymn describes how Isis fashioned a snake,
put it in the path of Rê, and how the snake wounded the sun-god with a
poisonous bite, from which wound he never recovered, so that finally he
had to retire on the back of the heavenly cow. But this cow is the cow-
headed goddess, just as Osiris is the bull Apis. The mother is accused as if
she were the cause of man flying to the mother in order to be cured of the
wound which she had herself inflicted. This wound is the prohibition of
incest.[471] Man is thus cut off from the hopeful certainty of childhood and
early youth, from all the unconscious, instinctive happenings which permit
the child to live as an appendage of his parents, unconscious of himself.
There must be contained in this many sensitive memories of the animal age,
where there was not any “thou shalt” and “thou shalt not,” but all was just
simple occurrence. Even yet a deep animosity seems to live in man because
a brutal law has separated him from the instinctive yielding to his desires
and from the great beauty of the harmony of the animal nature. This
separation manifested itself, among other things, in the incest prohibition
and its correlates (laws of marriage, etc.); therefore pain and anger relate to
the mother, as if she were responsible for the domestication of the sons of
men. In order not to become conscious of his incest wish (his backward
harking to the animal nature), the son throws all the burden of the guilt on
the mother, from which arises the idea of the “terrible mother.”[472] The
mother becomes for him a spectre of anxiety, a nightmare.[473]
After the completed “night journey to the sea,” the chest of Osiris was
cast ashore by Byblos, and lay in the branches of an Erica, which grew
around the coffin and became a splendid tree. The king of the land had the
tree placed as a column under his roof.[474] During this period of Osiris’s
absence (the winter solstice) the lament customary during thousands of
years for the dead god and his return occurs, and its εὕρεσις is a feast of joy.
A passage from the mournful quest of Isis is especially noteworthy:

“She flutters like a swallow lamenting around the column, which encloses the god sleeping in
death.”
(This same motive returns in the Kyffhäuser saga.)

FRUCTIFICATION FOLLOWING
UPON THE MITHRAIC SACRIFICE

Later on Typhon dismembers the corpse and scatters the pieces. We come
upon the motive of dismemberment in countless sun myths,[475] namely, the
inversion of the idea of the composition of the child in the mother’s womb.
[476]
In fact, the mother Isis collects the pieces of the body with the help of
the jackal-headed Anubis. (She finds the corpse with the help of dogs.) Here
the nocturnal devourers of bodies, the dogs and jackals, become the
assistants of the composition, of the reproduction.[477] The Egyptian vulture
owes its symbolic meaning as mother to this necrophagic habit. In Persian
antiquity the corpses were thrown out for the dogs to devour, just as to-day
in the Indian funeral pyres the removal of the carcasses is left to the
vultures. Persia was familiar with the custom of leading a dog to the bed of
one dying, whereupon the latter had to present the dog with a morsel.[478]
The custom, on its surface, evidently signifies that the morsel is to belong to
the dog, so that he will spare the body of the dead, precisely as Cerberus
was soothed by the honey-cakes which Hercules gave to him in the journey
to hell. But when we bear in mind the jackal-headed Anubis who rendered
his good services in the gathering together of the dismembered Osiris, and
the mother significance of the vulture, then the question arises whether
something deeper was not meant by this ceremony. Creuzer has also

concerned himself with this idea, and has come to the conclusion that the
astral form of the dog ceremony, that is, the appearance of Sirius, the dog
star, at the period of the sun’s highest position, is related to this in that the
introduction of the dog has a compensatory significance, death being
thereby made, reversedly, equal to the sun’s highest position. This is quite
in conformity with psychologic thought, which results from the very
general fact that death is interpreted as entrance into the mother’s womb
(rebirth). This interpretation would seem to be supported by the otherwise
enigmatic function of the dog in the Sacrificium Mithriacum. In the
monuments a dog always leaps up upon the bull killed by Mithra. However,
this sacrifice is probably to be interpreted through the Persian legend, as
well as through the monument, as the moment of the highest fecundity. The
most beautiful expression of this is seen upon the magnificent Mithra relief
of Heddernheim. Upon one side of a large stone slab (formerly probably
rotating) is seen the stereotyped overthrowing and sacrifice of the bull, but
upon the other side stands Sol, with a bunch of grapes in his hand, Mithra
with the cornucopia, the Dadophores with fruits, corresponding to the
legend that all fecundity proceeds from the dead bull of the world, fruits
from the horns, wine from its blood, grain from the tail, cattle from its
sperma, leek from its nose, and so on. Silvanus stands above this scene with
the animals of the forest arising from him. The significance suspected by
Creuzer might very easily belong to the dog in this connection.[479] Let us
now turn back to the myth of Osiris. In spite of the restoration of the corpse
accomplished by Isis, the resuscitation succeeds only incompletely in so far
as the phallus of Osiris cannot again be produced, because it was eaten by
the fishes; the power of life was wanting.[480] Osiris as a phantom once more
impregnated Isis, but the fruit is Harpocrates, who was feeble in τοῖς
κάτωθεν γυίοις (in the lower limbs), that is, corresponding to the
significance of γυῖον (at the feet). (Here, as is plainly evident, foot is used
in the phallic meaning.) This incurability of the setting sun corresponds to
the incurability of Rê in the above-mentioned older Egyptian sun hymn.
Osiris, although only a phantom, now prepares the young sun, his son
Horus, for a battle with Typhon, the evil spirit of darkness. Osiris and Horus
correspond to the father-son symbolism mentioned in the beginning, which
symbolic figure, corresponding again to the above formulation,[481] is
flanked by the well-formed and ugly figures of Horus and Harpocrates, the

latter appearing mostly as a cripple, often represented distorted to a mere
caricature.[482]
He is confused in the tradition very much with Horus, with whom he also
has the name in common. Hor-pi-chrud, as his real name[483] reads, is
composed from chrud, “child,” and Hor, from the adjective hri = up, on
top, and signifies the up-coming child, as the rising sun, and opposed to
Osiris, who personifies the setting sun—the sun of the west. Thus Osiris
and Horpichrud or Horus are one being, both husband and son of the same
mother, Hathor-Isis. The Chnum-Ra, the sun god of lower Egypt,
represented as a ram, has at his side, as the female divinity of the land,
Hatmehit, who wears the fish on her head. She is the mother and wife of Bi-
neb-did (Ram, local name of Chnum-Ra). In the hymn of Hibis,[484] Amon-
ra was invoked:
“Thy (Chum-Ram) dwells in Mendes, united as the quadruple god Thmuis. He is the phallus, the
lord of the gods. The bull of his mother rejoices in the cow (ahet, the mother) and man fructifies
through his semen.”
In further inscriptions Hatmehit was directly referred to as the “mother of
Mendes.” (Mendes is the Greek form of Bi-neb-did: ram.) She is also
invoked as the “Good,” with the additional significance of ta-nofert, or
“young woman.” The cow as symbol of the mother is found in all possible
forms and variations of Hathor-Isis, and also in the female Nun (parallel to
this is the primitive goddess Nit or Neith), the protoplasm which, related to
the Hindoo Atman,[485] is equally of masculine and feminine nature. Nun is,
therefore, invoked as Amon,[486] the original water,[487] which is in the
beginning. He is also designated as the father of fathers, the mother of
mothers. To this corresponds the invocation to the female side of Nun-
Amon, of Nit or Neith.
“Nit, the ancient, the mother of god, the mistress of Esne, the father of fathers, the mother of
mothers, who is the beetle and the vulture, the being in its beginning.
“Nit, the ancient, the mother who bore the light god, Râ, who bore first of all, when there was
nothing which brought forth.
“The cow, the ancient, which bore the sun, and then laid the germ of gods and men.”
The word “nun” has the significance of young, fresh, new, also the on-
coming waters of the Nile flood. In a transferred sense “nun” was also used
for the chaotic primitive waters; in general for the primitive generating
matter[488] which was personified by the goddess Nunet. From her Nut
sprang, the goddess of heaven, who was represented with a starry body, and
also as the heavenly cow with a starry body.

When the sun-god, little by little, retires on the back of the heavenly cow,
just as poor Lazarus returns into Abraham’s bosom, each has the same
significance; they return into the mother, in order to rise as Horus. Thus it
can be said that in the morning the goddess is the mother, at noon the sister-
wife and in the evening again the mother, who receives the dying in her lap,
reminding us of the Pietà of Michelangelo. As shown by the illustration
(from Dideron’s “Iconographie Chrétienne”), this thought has been
transferred as a whole into Christianity.
Thus the fate of Osiris is explained: he passes into the mother’s womb,
the chest, the sea, the tree, the column of Astartes; he is dismembered, re-
formed, and reappears again in his son, Hor-pi-chrud.
Before entering upon the further mysteries which the beautiful myth
reveals to us, there is still much to be said about the symbol of the tree.
Osiris lies in the branches of the tree, surrounded by them, as in the
mother’s womb. The motive of embracing and entwining is often found in
the sun myths, meaning that it is the myth of rebirth. A good example is the
Sleeping Beauty, also the legend of the girl who is enclosed between the
bark and the trunk, but who is freed by a youth with his horn.[489] The horn
is of gold and silver, which hints at the sunbeam in the phallic meaning.
(Compare the previous legend of the horn.) An exotic legend tells of the
sun-hero, how he must be freed from the plant entwining around him.[490] A
girl dreams of her lover who has fallen into the water; she tries to save him,
but first has to pull seaweed and sea-grass from the water; then she catches
him. In an African myth the hero, after his act, must first be disentangled
from the seaweed. In a Polynesian myth the hero’s ship was encoiled by the
tentacles of a gigantic polyp. Rê’s ship is encoiled by a night serpent on its
night journey on the sea. In the poetic rendering of the history of Buddha’s
birth by Sir Edwin Arnold (“The Light of Asia,” p. 5) the motive of an
embrace is also found:
“Queen Maya stood at noon, her days fulfilled,
Under a Palso in the palace grounds,
A stately trunk, straight as a temple shaft,
With crown of glossy leaves and fragrant blooms;
And knowing the time come—for all things knew—
The conscious tree bent down its boughs to make
A bower about Queen Maya’s majesty:
And earth put forth a thousand sudden flowers
To spread a couch: while ready for the bath
The rock hard by gave out a limpid stream

Of crystal flow. So brought she forth the child.”[491]
We come across a very similar motive in the cult legend of the Samian
Hera. Yearly it was claimed that the image disappeared from the temple,
was fastened somewhere on the seashore on a trunk of a Lygos tree and
wound about with its branches. There it was “found,” and was treated with
wedding-cake. This feast is undoubtedly a ἱερὸς γάμος (ritual marriage),
because in Samos there was a legend that Zeus had first had a long-
continued secret love relation with Hera. In Plataea and Argos, the marriage
procession was represented with bridesmaids, marriage feast, and so on.
The festival took place in the wedding month “Γαμηλιών” (beginning of
February). But in Plataea the image was previously carried into a lonely
place in the wood; approximately corresponding to the legend of Plutarch
that Zeus had kidnapped Hera and then had hidden her in a cave of
Cithaeron. According to our deductions, previously made, we must
conclude from this that there is still another train of thought, namely, the
magic charm of a rejuvenation, which is condensed in the Hierosgamos.
The disappearance and hiding in the wood, in the cave, on the seashore,
entwined in a willow tree, points to the death of the sun and rebirth. The
early springtime Γαμηλιών (the time of Marriage) in February fits in with
that very well. In fact, Pausanias informs us that the Argivian Hera became
a maiden again by a yearly bath in the spring of Canathos. The significance
of the bath is emphasized by the information that in the Plataeian cult of
Hera Teleia, Tritonian nymphs appeared as water-carriers. In a tale from the
Iliad, where the conjugal couch of Zeus upon Mount Ida is described, it is
said:[492]
“The son of Saturn spake, and took his wife
Into his arms, while underneath the pair,
The sacred Earth threw up her freshest herbs:
The dewy lotos, and the crocus-flower,
And thick and soft the hyacinth. All these
Upbore them from the ground. Upon this couch
They lay, while o’er them a bright golden cloud
Gathered and shed its drops of glistening dew.
So slumbered on the heights of Gargarus
The All-Father overcome by sleep and love,
And held his consort in his arms.”
—Trans. by W. C. Bryant.

Drexler recognizes in this description an unmistakable allusion to the
garden of the gods on the extreme western shore of the ocean, an idea

which might have been taken from a Prehomeric Hierosgamos hymn. This
western land is the land of the setting sun, whither Hercules, Gilgamesh,
etc., hasten with the sun, in order to find there immortality, where the sun
and the maternal sea unite in an eternally rejuvenating intercourse. Our
supposition of a condensation of the Hierosgamos with the myth of rebirth
is probably confirmed by this. Pausanias mentions a related myth fragment
where the statue of Artemis Orthia is also called Lygodesma (chained with
willows), because it was found in a willow tree; this tale seems to be related
to the general Greek celebration of Hierosgamos with the above-mentioned
customs.[493]
The motive of the “devouring” which Frobenius has shown to be a
regular constituent of the sun myths is closely related to this (also
metaphorically). The “whale dragon” (mother’s womb) always “devours”
the hero. The devouring may also be partial instead of complete.
A six-year-old girl, who goes to school unwillingly, dreams that her leg is
encircled by a large red worm. She had a tender interest for this creature,
contrary to what might be expected. An adult patient, who cannot separate
from an older friend on account of an extraordinarily strong mother
transference, dreams that “she had to get across some deep water (typical
idea!) with this friend; her friend fell in (mother transference); she tries to
drag her out, and almost succeeds, but a large crab seizes on the dreamer by
the foot and tries to pull her in.”
Etymology also confirms this conception: There is an Indo-Germanic
root vélu-, vel-, with the meaning of “encircling, surrounding, turning.”
From this is derived Sanskrit val, valati = to cover, to surround, to encircle,
to encoil (symbol of the snake); vallî = creeping plant; ulûta = boa-
constrictor = Latin volûtus, Lithuanian velù, velti = wickeln (to roll up);
Church Slavonian vlina = Old High German, wella = Welle (wave or
billow). To the root vélu also belongs the root vlvo, with the meaning
“cover, corium, womb.” (The serpent on account of its casting its skin is an
excellent symbol of rebirth.) Sanskrit ulva, ulba has the same meaning;
Latin volva, volvula, vulva. To vélu also belongs the root ulvorâ, with the
meaning of “fruitful field, covering or husk of plants, sheath.” Sanskrit
urvárâ = sown field. Zend urvara = plant. (See the personification of the
ploughed furrow.) The same root vel has also the meaning of “wallen” (to
undulate). Sanskrit ulmuka = conflagration. Ϝαλέα, Ϝέλα, Gothic vulan =