“Yes. Freud believed that the dream was a ‘disguised fulfillment of a repressed wish.’ But exactly what we have repressed can have changed considerably since Freud was a doctor in Vienna. However, the mechanism of disguised dream content can still be intact.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Freud’s psychoanalysis was extremely important in the 1920s, especially for the treatment of certain psychiatric patients. His theory of the unconscious was also very significant for art and literature.”
“Artists became interested in people’s unconscious mental life?”
“Exactly so, although this had already become a predominant aspect of literature in the last decade of the nineteenth century—before Freud’s psychoanalysis was known. It merely shows that the appearance of Freud’s psychoanalysis at that particular time, the 1890s, was no coincidence.”
“You mean it was in the spirit of the times?”
“Freud himself did not claim to have discovered phenomena such as repression, defense mechanisms, or rationalizing. He was simply the first to apply these human experiences to psychiatry. He was also a master at illustrating his theories with literary examples. But as I mentioned, from the 1920s, Freud’s psychoanalysis had a more direct influence on art and literature “
“In what sense?”
“Poets and painters, especially the surrealists, attempted to exploit the power of the unconscious in their work.”
“What are surrealists?”
“The word surrealism comes from the French, and means ‘super realism.’ In 1924 Andre Breton published a ‘surrealistic manifesto,’ claiming that art should come from the unconscious. The artist should thus derive the freest possible inspiration from his dream images and strive toward a ‘super realism,’ in which the boundaries between dream and reality were dissolved. For an artist too it can be necessary to break the censorship of the conscious and let words and images have free play.”
“I can see that.”
“In a sense, Freud demonstrated that there is an artist in everyone. A dream is, after all, a little work of art, and there are new dreams every night. In order to interpret his patients’ dreams, Freud often had to work his way through a dense language of symbols—rather in the way we interpret a picture or a literary text.”
“And we dream every single night?”
“Recent research shows that we dream for about twenty percent of our sleeping hours, that is, between one and two hours each- night. If we are disturbed during our dream phases we become nervous and irritable. This means nothing less than that everybody has an innate need to give artistic expression to his or her existential situation. After all, it is ourselves that our dreams are about We are the directors, we set up the scenario and play all the roles. A person who says he doesn’t understand art doesn’t know himself very well.”
“I see that.”
“Freud also delivered impressive evidence of the wonders of the human mind. His work with patients convinced him that we retain everything we have seen and experienced somewhere deep in our consciousness, and all these impressions can be brought to light again. When we experience a memory lapse, and a bit later ‘have it on the tip of our tongue’ and then later still ‘suddenly remember it,’ we are talking about something which has lain in the unconscious and suddenly slips through the half-open door to consciousness.”
“But it takes a while sometimes.”
“All artists are aware of that. But then suddenly it’s as if all doors and all drawers fly open. Everything comes tumbling out by itself, and we can find all the words and images we need. This is when we have ‘lifted the lid’ of the unconscious. We can call it inspiration, Sophie. It feels as if what we are drawing or writing is coming from some outside source.”
“It must be a wonderful feeling.”
“But you must have experienced it yourself. You can frequently observe inspiration at work in children who are overtired. They are sometimes so extremely overtired that they seem to be wide awake. Suddenly they start telling a story—as if they are finding words they haven’t yet learned. They have, though; the words and the ideas have lain ‘latent’ in their consciousness, but now, when all caution and all censorship have let go, they are surfacing. It can also be important for an artist not to let reason and reflection control a more or less unconscious expression. Shall I tell you a little story to illustrate this?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a very serious and a very sad story.”
“Okay.”
“Once upon a time there was a centipede that was amazingly good at dancing with all hundred legs. All the creatures of the forest gathered to watch every time the centipede danced, and they were all duly impressed by the exquisite dance. But there was one creature that didn’t like watching the centipede dance—that was a tortoise.”
“It was probably just envious.”
“How can I get the centipede to stop dancing? thought the tortoise. He couldn’t just say he didn’t like the dance. Neither could he say he danced better himself, that would obviously be untrue. So he devised a fiendish plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“He sat down and wrote a letter to the centipede. ‘O incomparable centipede,’ he wrote, ‘I am a devoted admirer of your exquisite dancing. I must know how you go about it when you dance. Is it that you lift your left leg number 28 and then your right leg number 39? Or do you begin by lifting your right leg number 17 before you lift your left leg number 44? I await your answer in breathless anticipation. Yours truly, Tortoise.”
“How mean!”
“When the centipede read the letter, she immediately began to think about what she actually did when she danced. Which leg did she lift first? And which leg next? What do you think happened in the end?”
“The centipede never danced again?”
“That’s exactly what happened. And that’s the way it goes when imagination gets strangled by reasoned deliberation.”
“That was a sad story.”
“It is important for an artist to be able to ‘let go.’ The surrealists tried to exploit this by putting themselves into a state where things just happened by themselves. They had a sheet of white paper in front of them and they began to write without thinking about what they wrote. They called it automatic writing. The expression originally comes from spiritualism, where a medium believed that a departed spirit was guiding the pen. But I thought we would talk more about that kind of thing tomorrow.”
“I’d like that.”
“In one sense, the surrealist artist is also a medium, that is to say, a means or a link. He is a medium of his own unconscious. But perhaps there is an element of the unconscious in every creative process, for what do we actually mean by creativity?”
“I’ve no idea. Isn’t it when you create something?”
“Fair enough, and that happens in a delicate interplay between imagination and reason. But all too frequently, reason throttles the imagination, and that’s serious because without imagination, nothing really new will ever be created. I believe imagination is like a Darwinian system.”
“I’m sorry, but that I didn’t get.”
“Well, Darwinism holds that nature’s mutants arise one after the other, but only a few of them can be used. Only some of them get the right to live.”
“So?”
“That’s how it is when we have an inspiration and get masses of new ideas. Thought-mutants occur in the consciousness one after the other, at least if we refrain from censoring ourselves too much. But only some of these thoughts can be used. Here, reason comes into its own.
It, too, has a vital function. When the day’s catch is laid on the table we must not forget to be selective.”
“That’s not a bad comparison.”
“Imagine if everything that ‘strikes us’ were allowed to pass our lips! Not to speak of jumping off our notepads out of our desk drawers! The world would sink under the weight of casual impulses and no selection would have taken place.”
“So it’s reason that chooses between all these ideas?”
“Yes, don’t you think so? Maybe the imagination creates what is new, but the imagination does not make the actual selection. The imagination does not ‘compose.’ A composition—and every work of art is one—is created in a wondrous interplay between imagination and reason, or between mind and reflection. For there will always be an element of chance in the creative process. You have to turn the sheep loose before you can start to herd them.”
Alberto sat quite still, staring out of the window. While he sat there, Sophie suddenly noticed a crowd of brightly colored Disney figures down by the lake.
“There’s Goofy,” she exclaimed, “and Donald Duck and his nephews ... Look, Alberto. There’s Mickey Mouse and . . .”
He turned toward her: “Yes, it’s very sad, child.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here we are being made the helpless victims of the major’s flock of sheep. But it’s my own fault, of course. I was the one who started talking about free association of ideas.”
“You certainly don’t have to blame yourself...”
“I was going to say something about the importance of imagination to us philosophers. In order to think new thoughts, we must be bold enough to let ourselves go. But right now, he’s going a bit far.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I was about to mention the importance of reflection, and here we are, presented with this lurid imbecility. He should be ashamed of himself!”
“Are you being ironic now?”
“It’s he who is ironic, not me. But I have one comfort—and that is the whole cornerstone of my plan.”
“Now I’m really confused.”
“We have talked about dreams. There’s a touch of irony about that too. For what are we but the major’s dream images?”
“Ah!”
“But there is still one thing he hasn’t counted on.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe he is embarrassingly aware of his own dream. He is aware of everything we say and do—just as the dreamer remembers the dream’s manifest dream aspect. It is he who wields it with his pen. But even if he remembers everything we say to each other, he is still not quite awake.”
“What do you mean?”
“He does not know the latent dream thoughts, Sophie. He forgets that this too is a disguised dream.”
“You are talking so strangely.”
“The major thinks so too. That is because he does not understand his own dream language. Let us be thankful for that. That gives us a tiny bit of elbow room, you see. And with this elbow room we shall soon fight our way out of his muddy consciousness like water voles frisking about in the sun on a summer’s day.”
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
“We must. Within a couple of days I shall give you a new horizon. Then the major will no longer know where the water voles are or where they will pop up next time.”
“But even if we are only dream images, I am still my mother’s daughter. And it’s five o’clock. I have to go home to Captain’s Bend and prepare for the garden party.”
“Hmm ... can you do me a small favor on the way home?”
“What?”
“Try to attract a little extra attention. Try to get the major to keep his eye on you all the way home. Try and think about him when you get home—and he’ll think about you too.”
“What good will that do?”
“Then I can carry on undisturbed with my work on the secret plan. I’m going to dive down into the major’s unconscious. That’s where I’ll be until we meet again.”