Tag Archives: Sigmund Freud

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Where the Dead Live

Fast forward to the moment of your death: as the body fails, with a varying degree of rapidity, your perceptual and cognitive faculties shut down. Seeing stops. Then tasting, hearing, smelling and feeling. So too, thinking. In Buddhist traditions, supposedly hearing goes last. And at some point, presumably, consciousness.

But don’t worry too much about that last one – consciousness vanishes for a good part of every night. Sometimes, during the day as well. It comes and it goes and is no more ‘you’ than anything that arises within it. Even with consciousness completely gone, we wake up in the morning and recall stuff that seemed to have happened. Weird stuff, often. We call this stuff that happens to us in the absence of consciousness, dreaming.

Heraclitus said, ‘The waking have one common world, but the sleeping turn aside each into a world of his own’ (Fragment 89). Because dreams are so private and unique, we are – in a sense – closest to ourselves in the absence of consciousness. But what is this intensely personal stuff that continues to unfold in us, even in the absence of consciousness and volition? One word for it is karma.

The karmic traces are like photographs that we take of each experience. Any reaction of grasping or aversion to any experience… is like snapping a photo. In the darkroom of our sleep we develop the film. Which images are developed on a particular night will be determined by the secondary conditions recently encountered. Some images or traces are burned deeply into us by powerful reactions while others, resulting from superficial experiences, leave only a faint residue… We string them together like a film, as this is the way our psyches work to make meaning, resulting in a narrative constructed from conditioned tendencies and habitual identities: the dream. (Tenzin 1998: 32-3)

So claims Tibetan Buddhist dream yogi, Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche. Before we write this off as exotic claptrap, consider the similar conclusions of a western dream yogi. Sigmund Freud preferred the term ‘unconscious wish’ (Freud 1976: 200-213 [Ch. III]) instead of ‘reaction of grasping or aversion’; Tenzin’s ‘secondary conditions recently encountered,’ Freud called ‘the day’s residues’ (Freud 1976: 247-76 [Ch. V (A)]); and ‘the way our psyches work to make meaning’ was precisely what Freud believed had been uncovered through his exploration of dreams, to which he dedicated the rest of his career. (He preferred to describe it as, ‘the dream-work’ [Freud 1976: 381-651 (Ch. VI)].)

The end of consciousness is not the end of karma. Indeed, in the absence of consciousness, karma thrives. But what about the end of life? ‘What dreams may come?’ Is death the end of karma too?

I’ve used my limited abilities as a lucid-dreaming yogi to interrogate angelic and demonic entities, and to scry the Enochian aethyrs. In December last year, my father unexpectedly and traumatically died. Since then, whilst grieving for him with other members of my family, cautiously and carefully I’ve tried to use dream yoga to explore his vicissitudes after death.

28th February. To see him was lovely. A vivid sense of his presence. He sat in the chair watching television. Yet as soon as interaction was attempted, things turned problematic. He stood against the wall, frozen and immobile. No response. His eyes opened and stared blankly, like they had in the intensive care unit.

6th March. I went into the kitchen and he was getting ready for work. He looked younger and healthy, but seemed stressed. ‘You’re looking well,’ I said to him. ‘You know that’s because you’re dead now, don’t you?’ He seemed bewildered and unsure. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I feel poorly. Every time I walk into a room, I –’ Unfortunately, just then the lucid state dissolved.

‘But these are just dreams,’ is the obvious criticism. They were lucid dreams, but other than that I do not disagree – except to point out that our experience of others is always of their behaviour: the way they look, speak and move; the choices and reactions they make. In an encounter with a dead person in a lucid dream, all of these present themselves to consciousness. Phenomenologically, there is no difference from an experience of the person in waking life.

Yet in these dreams, when the dead person is called upon to react to their current situation, the interaction breaks down, because what is missing is not karma, but life. As far as I’m aware, there is no scientifically feasible definition of life that doesn’t point instead at karma. So far, life has not been defined as what it ‘is’ or ‘has’, but only in terms of actions and behaviours – as karma, in other words.

DNA, certainly, is a substance that living things have, but that having is made possible only by a doing: the self-replicating and recombining action of the DNA molecule. It appears that life itself is not the being or having of something, but a continuous unfolding, somehow beyond these, to which being and having are responses, rather than the driving force.

The karma of the dead might persist in various forms, the strongest of which is probably memories and effects upon the living. But although the karmic simulacrum left by the dead is to all extents identical with what they were, in the experience of others, that Grace by which (when alive) they were able to change, develop and respond, has withdrawn.

25th March. I couldn’t find him, but then I went into a pub and saw him. He looked normal but, on inspection, was like a hollow, metal ornament. His eyes were closed and his face dead. Inside him was black ash and soot. Still in the lucid state, I began to meditate. This way I could find him, because he had abandoned the physical representation of himself. Where he was now, he was in a kind of focused repose. No thoughts. Very peaceful. He was collecting himself quietly, focussing in on himself, with no thoughts or perceptible changes.

The karma of the dead unfolds in the living. Their vicissitudes after death are dependent on us, because they are done with developing and unfolding. Grieving is no isolated event in an individual mind, it is the dreaming-out by the dead (through us) of their karmic remnants. Our mourning is the unfolding of love or antagonisms they left behind. The dead can suffer or cling to life, depending on their dreams, woven by our grief.

3rd April. He seemed neither dead nor alive, but I sensed I could force the issue, so I walked quickly up to him and spoke loudly into his ear, ‘Dad!’ ‘Eh?’ he mumbled. ‘Love you,’ I said. ‘Uv oo,’ he replied, then lapsed back into a stillness, from which I knew he would next time be even harder to rouse.

I found it both difficult and helpful to meet him in this series of dreams. It’s not a technique I’d recommend for anyone with complicated issues concerning the deceased. There are bereavement counsellors who can guide us more safely if this is the case. It was difficult because there he was, completely back again, even though I knew full well he had gone. It was helpful because it showed me directly, painfully, how all that remained of him was karma. What had allowed that karma to unfold had now disappeared, maybe back to where it came.

Dad and me

Dad and me in a slot-machine arcade (probably Blackpool). Late 1970s Polaroid.

This last encounter alerted me I was clinging on too tightly. As time passed, he was moving ever further away, becoming more difficult to find. Reaching out was pulling him back toward a state in which he no longer belonged. It also exposed how, really, we’d said to each other all that needed to be said. It was selfish to continue.

1st May. In the garden at night, I pointed out to him the Pleiades star-cluster. Then I realised I wasn’t looking properly: the whole sky was filled with stars like the Pleiades, packed and dense. Suddenly, he was gone. Vanished from sight, like a jump-cut in a film. Mum and I were in the garden, looking up at the stars and remembering him.

References

Freud, Sigmund (1976). The Interpretation of Dreams. Translated by James Strachey. Harmondsworth: Pelican.

Heraclitus (2012). Fragments. http://bit.ly/MToVOM (wikisource.org).

Tenzin, Wangyal Rinpoche (1998). The Tibetan Yogas of Dream and Sleep. Edited by Mark Dahlby. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion Publications.

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Superego: Secular and Spiritual

Id, ego and superego: components of Sigmund Freud’s famous topography of the psyche, so well-known I won’t rehearse the basics, but will focus on perhaps the least-understood element: the superego.

Fundamentally, it allows us to view our ego as an object, from which it gains its traditional role as our ‘conscience’. The superego is the cartoon angel on our shoulder, opposing the cartoon devil (the id) that whispers in the other ear. Whereas the ego specialises in passing judgements of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ on perceptions, the superego judges the ego’s judgements. So watching television, by the ego, is judged better than cleaning the house; but to the superego, the ego’s decision to slob out is judged worse than snapping on the rubber gloves and blitzing grime.

Conscience as Angel

Superego and id as angel and demon. Such a common and cheesy idea it's available as clipart.

In English and other languages, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ have parallel sensory and moral meanings. What the ego likes or doesn’t determines good or bad in the sensory sense, but what the superego likes or doesn’t like about the ego’s decisions is morally good or bad. The ego might decide that as an alternative to vegetables, ice-cream is ‘good’; from which the superego concludes the ego is ‘bad’ for dodging its greens. What decides the sense of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in any instance depends on where the judgement comes from: ego or superego.

How the ego arrives at judgements is fairly clear: from weighing up how much pleasure something will deliver against how much hassle its enjoyment will case. (The id, of course, skips that last part.) But Freud broke radical new ground when he considered the criteria of the superego’s judgements, which he decided arose from the influence of our parents.

Firstly, in childhood, our ego contends with the demands of the id in opposition to what reality can actually provide. Later, it has to deal with another set of constraints, those that our elders place upon us: ‘Don’t do that, it’s dirty… Stay away, or you’ll hurt yourself.’ We realise from these how things not only appear good or bad to us, but we in turn appear good or bad (morally) to others. When we no longer need actual parents to deliver these injunctions, but start doing the job ourselves, then our superego has been installed, the consequence of which is a new capacity for guilt. Because just as from the ego arise feelings of disgust or repulsion in reaction to unpleasant perceptions, so from the superego arise guilt, shame and remorse, in reaction to unrighteous intentions from the ego.

At this point, we’re screwed. There’s now a parent in our head, and its punishment – that horrible feeling of guilt – is used to control us. But on the bright side, the capacity to feel shit when we act like one is the basis of civilisation. When people follow rules, rather than their desires, then pyramids and cities get built, the economy grows, and rockets fly to the moon. How fulfilling this actually feels is another question, of course. And meanwhile, those who missed out on the opportunity to grow a sense of guilt are destined for prison, or psychiatric medication, unless they find a way to turn their ruthlessness into a viable lifestyle. (Luckily, there are plenty of options.)

Freud portrayed the dynamics of the superego as the human condition in a nutshell: the source of that enduring disconnection, between doing what we ought and being happy. No other animal suffers like this. But whereas Freud professed he had no solution, the great spiritual teachers have claimed otherwise. Just as the superego leads into the midst of human suffering, so it can also facilitate escape.

Freud would have disagreed, of course. For him, the spiritual path was a delusion, caused by projecting the superego onto the external world. He was mostly correct. For confirmation, we have only to listen to the discourse of present-day orthodox religions, which all assume the following form: by agreeing with and following the rules supposedly laid down by Religious Figure X, I will attain Deferred Metaphysical Reward Y.

A problem with the superego is there’s nothing rational about it. The ego judges physiological responses to perception, which have a certain degree of commonality, but the criteria for superego judgement are passed down from parents, guardians and other figures of authority. Whether the rules bequeathed from them are actually sensible is beside the point: the superego will dish out just as much guilt for breaking a stupid rule as for a valid one. People in orthodox religion can end up believing some really stupid things, because – Freud argued – they are trying to recreate the origins of the non-rational superego by projecting it onto the external world. The rules that in childhood applied to ourselves are taken now to apply to everyone, which means the parent who originally delivered them must now stand outside the world altogether – becoming God, or the Religious Teacher who is more than human in some mysterious, supernatural way. ‘I must do what Daddy tells me,’ has now become: ‘Everyone must do what God says,’ even though His rules may not make sense or be much fun. But at least by following them we know we appear good in His eyes.

Deferred Metaphysical Reward

If you ever wanted to stroke a tiger in a pleasant, ethnically indeterminate setting, then you should check out the Deferred Metaphysical Reward offered by the Jehovah's Witnesses.

At first glance the ideal of orthodox religion is moral goodness, as dictated by the superego, but its ultimate aim of a Metaphysical Reward (heaven, nirvana, universal justice, etc.) betrays the workings of the ego. Moral goodness is merely used as a form of delayed gratification, rather than supplying an end that’s good in itself. Orthodox religion is not really union with God at all, but a ruse for circumventing Him to attain (albeit beyond our earthly lives) precisely those satisfactions we have been denied. Sucking up to authority in order to get around it, be it a parent, boss, warlord, politician, commissar or king, has proved itself a handy survival tactic for centuries. But survival concerns earthly, human life. It has nothing to do with the Divine.

Orthodox religion is really all about surviving death because that is what the superego is about. Freud supposed that a very specific insight creates the superego: that moment in which we realise that authority possesses powers that we lack, and is capable of depriving us even of that little we currently enjoy. This is what he named ‘the castration complex’. In Freud’s writing, it has a lot to do with angry dads threatening little boys with penis removal, but it’s likely that this was just the way the idea manifested in the childhood phantasies of the early twentieth century Viennese male bourgeoisie. Anyone in the presence of a toddler throwing a tantrum has probably sensed the immense traumatic impact upon a child of realising that the strength of their desire amounts to less than the strength of the external authorities that stand opposed to him or her. This realisation of our lack of potency, this ‘castration’, Freud viewed as the specific trigger for the superego, because if our toddler-self has no chance of overcoming Mum’s superior wisdom and strength, we can at least incorporate Mum’s harshness and wield it against ourselves in a way that makes us seem more like her, and hence less weak – plus it has the added advantage of earning us back Mum’s love. It’s the horrible guilt inflicted on us by the internal parent that finally picks us up from our tantrum on the supermarket floor, resentfully to re-take our external Mum’s hand.

On the one hand, the superego transmits civilisation and culture down the generations. On the other, it’s a prison of guilt and discontent. But it’s also the chink of light that leads us out of the human dilemma altogether, with that basic facility it offers of perceiving our own ego. The examined life (as opposed to the unexamined variety, which Socrates declared worthless) is brought to us courtesy of the superego.

The first step on the spiritual path is to look inward and be disgusted by what we find. Next, we take up practices to try and fix what we have seen, perhaps passed down by some spiritual teacher; and if we stay diligent at applying them, it’s only because we’re driven by the sense of moral badness that arises when we fail to do so. We probably hope, one day, for a pay-off in return for all this. Here, then, we arrive at exactly the same position as the practitioner of orthodox religion. But whereas the orthodox God-botherer remains in the grip of the ego, the yogi seeking authentic union will employ a unique trick. In Freudian terms, he or she embraces castration.

The Structural Topography

Freud's diagram for his structural topography of the soul - but embrace castration, and it all comes tumbling down.

Nothing impels the ego into reaction more than exposure of its lack of a foundation, or the prospect of its annihilation. The superego sprang out of the ego in the moment we realised our powerlessness, as a defence against this insight. Yet we can now use that same superego to catch our ego in its favourite pastime of making something out of nothing, of denying the liberating emptiness at the heart of all things. Catching out the ego in this way is precisely what all effective spiritual practices are designed to do.

The superego, which sprang from the ego’s fear, is the means by which we see through the ego’s habitual reaction. Instead of running from castration, the fundamental lack of substance to our self, we learn to look instead, directly in the face, at that from which our instincts for self-preservation have so far encouraged us to flee. Doing so, we glimpse at last the Nature we truly are. At which point, the whole Freudian edifice of superego, ego and id, falls delightfully apart.

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The Vision of ICH (Aethyr 11)

I was walking a complex route to another part of the city when I realised I was dreaming, so I cried up at the sky: ‘I wish to scry the eleventh aethyr, ICH!’

I didn’t wake, but carried on with my journey, noticing that the route now seemed to be trending downwards. There was a series of forbidding-looking buildings, vast and ruinous, including a domed structure, like a mosque or a derelict gasometer. A spiral staircase led down into the dark. I followed it, until I began to think: ‘Well, no harm can come to me, so why don’t I just do it?’ I threw myself into the central well of blackness, but instead of falling I hung in space, consciousness suspended. I’m not sure if it was a jhanic state, or if I lost self-awareness, but after a time it became boring so I willed myself back to the stairs and climbed outside.

Alan was there, yet although I didn’t explicitly acknowledge it couldn’t really be him, nevertheless in what followed I took care not to listen too much to what he said, nor let him follow his own lines of questioning with the spirit that was about to appear. We found a grassy area between the buildings and sat chatting until a gangly young man hurried towards us and sat down.

gasometer

A beautiful Viennese gasometer.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

He muttered something that began with ‘H’.

‘Was that Hyperion?’ ['Hyperion' = 56 = Choronzon.]

‘If that’s what you want it to be then that’s what it is,’ he remarked grumpily.

Maybe something went wrong at this point. I recollect talking for a long time with Hyperion, but I remember hardly anything. Something tells me Hyperion himself may be responsible for this. I think we may have argued and actually come to blows. What I definitely recall is becoming thoroughly sick of him and deciding to banish.

‘I’m not leaving,’ was his response.

‘That’s not because you can refuse to,’ I pointed out, ‘but because you didn’t give me your true name. So tell me now: what is it?’

‘Hincapie,’ he admitted. ['Hincapie' = 47 = 'Man of Earth'.]

On confessing this, his appearance changed. He wasn’t quite so tall, although he retained the same basic features, hair and clothes. We continued talking, but – again – it feels as if something has been erased. The gist of Hincapie’s talk, however, was that everything humans do is incorrect or inferior. His whining diatribe quickly became tedious again.

In my dreams throughout that night I repeatedly felt hungry, and had frequently dreamt I was eating. Alan and I had some chocolate that we proceeded to share. I offered some to Hincapie, and he complained how poor it tasted. But then it struck me he was simply complaining too much. I took the flesh of his face between my thumb and forefinger and gave his cheek a tug.

‘I realise what’s happening,’ I told him. ‘You just love humans and our food so much you can’t keep away from us.’

This pierced Hincapie to his roots. No matter if he’d managed to mislead us or erase parts of the conversation, it felt like I’d discovered the truth of him. It seemed he didn’t want to part with what he told us next.

‘There are lots of spirits like that throughout the aethyrs,’ he said. ‘Many are the ghosts of shoes.’

George Hincapie

The spirit didn't look completely unlike professional US cyclist George Hincapie.

It never occurred to me that objects intimately connected with humans might take on a spiritual dimension by association, but Hincapie had revealed that many spirits are like this. Their nature is petty, circumscribed, because it depends entirely upon human beings, and so the understanding of these spirits cannot penetrate beyond or even as far as everyday human consciousness. Or is it just a mocking pun? Are ‘the ghosts of shoes’ really just ‘lost soles’?

The vision ended at this point.

I’ve debated whether this vision is legitimate. I’m not convinced this vision isn’t an instance of false lucidity – i.e. merely dreaming, unconsciously, that one is lucid. One of the ways to spot the difference between true and false lucidity is the presence of ‘day’s residues’ in the dream. This was Sigmund Freud’s term for elements appearing in a dream that are obviously based on experiences from the preceding day. A dream from the unconscious consists of a large proportion of day’s residues (because our consciousness, during sleep, has no other material to work with). A lucid dream doesn’t, because it constructs itself instead from the idea that one is awake.

In the vision, I could indeed easily identify a lot of day’s residues. For instance, during the day my partner had remarked that if she had a lucid dream, then she would use it to eat chocolate all night; an episode of Doctor Who I had watched earlier in the evening involved a race of aliens that could erase memories of themselves from human perception; and I had also watched an episode of the drama series Afterlife, which included a scene where a psychic medium, in order to keep persecutory spirits at bay, occupied herself with re-organising her shoes.

However, I’ve come to the conclusion that a vision arises from the intention to have a vision, and that the state in which the vision is received – whether it’s the waking state, a naturally or chemically-induced trance, a lucid-dream or a false lucid-dream – doesn’t matter; it’s simply the means of manifestation.

Looking up the English Qaballah equivalents for ‘Hyperion’ (Choronzon) and ‘Hincapie’ (Man of Earth) seems to have provided further validation. The next aethyr up is No. 10, which, according to tradition, crosses the Abyss and is home to the demon Choronzon. Perhaps the influence of No. 10 is already being felt in Nos. 12 and 11!

Certainly, I ran into some further spooky overspill, talking with my mother. ‘I had such a weird dream on Saturday night,’ she mentioned. This was the same night that I scried the aethyr. My mum hadn’t been able to sleep, so she’d tried meditating in bed. ‘I found myself in something like a dream, only it was real,’ my Mum explained. ‘I got out of bed and went downstairs, and found you in the kitchen making toast. You kept saying you felt really, really hungry.’

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Psychoanalysis of an Angel

The patient, whom I’ll call ‘Wendy’, presented with a bad case of anxiety dreams. ‘In the dream,’ she said, ‘I’m lost and have to get home urgently, but I haven’t a clue where I am or need to go. I’m always in unfamiliar streets and there’s a horrible feeling of panic. I dream the same thing nearly every night.’

Knowing that I was familiar with the psychoanalytic technique of dream interpretation, Wendy asked, ‘What does this mean?’

I’ve moved on since my interest in psychoanalysis, having discovered that magick is a far more powerful (if more volatile) therapeutic tool. I advised her to find the dream’s meaning for herself by making a resolution each evening that if she dreamed it again she would wake up inside it and recognise there was no need to panic. ‘If you can recognise within the dream that you are dreaming,’ I said, ‘then perhaps the underlying issue – if there is one – will present itself.’

Two days later she phoned me in excitement. The dream had come to her again the previous night. She had found herself once more on unfamiliar streets, wondering where she was with that urgent sense of needing to get home. ‘When all of a sudden,’ she said, ‘there was a kind of a rush and a ping, and Nina stood in front of me.’

Nina is a friend of hers, a mature woman whom Wendy has known for many years.

‘But it wasn’t really Nina,’ Wendy continued, ‘because she wore a short dress and tights and she had curly hair piled on her head.’

‘What happened next?’ I asked.

‘Nina told me, “I’ve seen Miriam. She’s over there.” And then the dream stopped. Nina stood right in front of me, blocking my way, as if she was preventing the dream from continuing. For the first time in ages I went back to sleep without feeling anxious at all.’

So Wendy had attained the result I’d hoped, from making a resolution to become aware inside the dream. This wasn’t full lucidity but it was significant progress.

‘I don’t know why Nina looked so strange,’ Wendy remarked. ‘And why on earth did she mention Miriam?’

At this point I supposed there was no harm in using psychoanalysis to uncover some of the dream’s meaning, now that Wendy had succeeded in realising her intention not to allow herself to be drawn into it.

‘Did Nina look like anyone else you know?’

‘She reminded me of Beatrice,’ Wendy answered after a moment’s reflection.

Over the previous weekend Nina had helped Wendy with a certain, quite demanding task. Over that same weekend Wendy had also met up with Beatrice, a younger woman whom she hadn’t seen in some time. Unexpectedly, Beatrice also expressed an interest in the task that had occupied Wendy and Nina. To Wendy’s delight, Beatrice proved her interest by paying Wendy a visit on the day before the dream. Nina’s outfit and hair in the dream were features that actually belonged to Beatrice.

Sigmund Freud (1856-1939). Inventor of psychoanalysis and crypto-occultist.

According to the psychoanalytic theory, when a figure in a dream is a composite of more than one person then there is an idea that all the parts share and it is this idea which is finding expression (Freud 1900: VI A, 399f). For instance, Nina and Beatrice were both interested in Wendy and eager to help her. Furthermore, Beatrice had paid a visit unexpectedly. The figure in the dream, composed from elements of both Nina and Beatrice, was indeed someone interested in Wendy, had indeed proved helpful, and had appeared unexpectedly (with ‘a kind of a rush and a ping‘). Yet this was not simply the meaning of the figure in the dream. By blocking the anxiety, this was what the figure had accomplished; it was what the figure was.

‘Why did Nina say to me in the dream, “I’ve seen Miriam. She’s down there.”?’

‘Was Miriam having some kind of crisis over the weekend?’ I asked.

‘You know Miriam,’ Wendy said. ‘She’s always in a state of crisis.’

‘Possibly your concern for Miriam is a contributing cause to the anxiety in the dream,’ I said. ‘More likely, I think the Nina-figure was telling you that the streets in the dream belong to people who are in crisis. Miriam, as always, is in a crisis, so she’s “down there”, but you don’t have to be. The Nina-figure was saying that if you continue down that street you’ll find yourself in a state of crisis like Miriam, but – on this occasion, at least – you were shown that you didn’t need to do that.’

I advised Wendy to continue with her resolution to wake inside the dream, and predicted that although she might not be as successful as this every time, in the longer term she would continue to assuage the anxiety that was ruining her sleep.

Wendy’s resolution seemed to have summoned to her aid and astral helper who prevented the anxiety from unfolding. Psychoanalysis, in this instance, had found a different use from that to which it is normally applied. Instead of decoding the dream’s contents by relating them to Wendy’s waking life, it proved useful in deciphering the speech and appearance of the being that had come to Wendy’s aid. Although the true nature of this being may have been ultimately formless, it had clothed itself in Wendy’s thoughts and ideas. Psychoanalysis is a useful tool for engaging with how ideas organise themselves in the human mind. But, as Freud himself acknowledged, what enters the unconscious sometimes originates from beyond the confines of the senses and of personal experience:

It would seem to me that psychoanalysis, by inserting the unconscious between what is physical and what was previously called ‘psychical’, has paved the way for the assumption of such processes as telepathy. (Freud 1933: 85-6)

References

Sigmund Freud (1933). ‘Dreams and Occultism’, in New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1988.

Sigmund Freud (1900). The Interpretation of Dreams. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985.