There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P 6

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I remember watching an intriguing film, A Dangerous Method, years ago, directed by David Cronenberg. It’s based on Christopher Hampton’s play and is “drawn from true-life events.” The film offers a fictionalised account of the complex six-year relationship between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, including a period when they shared a patient, Sabina Spielrein. I find the dynamic between Freud and Jung fascinating, and their connection with the remarkable Sabina Spielrein adds even more intrigue.

Before I proceed with my translation of Freud’s dream analysis (The last part, here!), I want to begin with a brief essay by Susan E. Schwartz, a Jungian Analyst, on the intriguing relationship between Jung and Freud. My thanks go to Laura London for sharing it on @JungianLaura on X. It is definitely included in an episode of Speaking of Jung: Interviews with Jungian Analysts.

“From Jung’s point of view, Freud initially fulfilled the role of a respected father figure. Jung hoped to have the autonomy and freedom to pursue his scientific enquiry, based on Freud’s ideas but revised in light of his own research. This research led to his interpretations, revisions, and additions, including his views on the nature and function of libido, and to the broadening of ideas about the complex and the collective unconscious. Jung’s ideas meant departing from the Freudian focus on the Oedipus complex by incorporating universal archetypal themes and by elaborating and reinterpreting the concept of the Self.

Jung and Freud ended their powerful, earth-shaking connection, leaving a compelling residue of feelings, concepts, and differences that influenced subsequent followers. Their mutual, unconscious and unmet expectations left the profession in opposition. Over the years, they have remained polarised like those dysfunctional fathers and sons who cannot communicate, include each other or share ideas.”
(Though I tend more towards Tesla and Edson as examples, mine!)

~Susan E. Schwartz, PhD, Absent Fathers, Yearning Sons: A Jungian Analysis of the Father-Son Dynamic, p. 61

Photo by Liam Daniel. From the film, A Dangerous Method (since we don’t have many photos of Jung and Freud together).

Let’s explore Freud’s attempt to interpret dreams. Although it might seem somewhat primitive, there’s much to learn from these basic perspectives. As Dr Jung states,

“one of the most important sources of the primitive belief in spirits is dreams. People often appear as actors in dreams, and primitive individuals easily believe these figures to be spirits or ghosts. For them, dreams hold a much greater significance than they do for civilised people.” ~Carl Jung, CW 8, Para 574

Dream Stimuli and Dream Sources (Traumreize und Traumquellen)

What is meant by “dream stimuli” and “dream sources” can be illustrated by referring to the popular saying, “Dreams come from the stomach.” Underlying these concepts is a theory that views the dream as the result of a disturbance to sleep. One would not have dreamed had something disturbing not stirred during sleep, and the dream is the reaction to that disturbance.

Discussions of the precipitating causes of dreams occupy the greatest space in authors’ accounts. It goes without saying that this problem could only arise once the dream had become a subject of biological research. The ancients, who regarded the dream as a divine message, had no need to seek a source of stimulation for it; the dream originated in the will of a divine or demonic power, and its content derived from that power’s knowledge or intention. For science, the question immediately arose as to whether the stimulus for dreaming was always the same or could be manifold, and with this came the consideration of whether the causal explanation of the dream fell within the province of psychology or, rather, of physiology. Most authors seem to assume that the causes of sleep disturbance—that is, the sources of dreaming—can take many forms, and that somatic stimuli, no less than mental excitations, can serve as dream instigators. Opinions, however, diverge widely on which of these dream sources should be prioritised and how they should be ranked by their significance in the dream’s formation.

When the enumeration of the sources of dreams is complete, four types emerge—which have also been used to classify dreams:
1) External (objective) sensory excitation.
2) Internal (subjective) sensory excitation.
3) Internal (organic) bodily stimulus.
4) Sources of stimulation that are purely psychic.

Sigmund Freud in his study.

Ad 1) The external sensory stimuli

The younger Strümpell—son of the philosopher whose work on dreams has already served us several times as a guide to the problems of dreaming—famously reported the case of a patient suffering from general anaesthesia of the body surface and paralysis of several higher sense organs. Whenever the few remaining sensory gateways to the outside world were closed off for this man, he would fall asleep. When we wish to go to sleep, we all tend to seek a situation resembling the one in Strümpell’s experiment: we close the most important sensory gateways—our eyes—and try to shield the other senses from any stimulus or any change in the stimuli acting upon them. We then fall asleep, even though we never fully succeed in this endeavour; we can neither completely keep stimuli away from our sense organs nor entirely eliminate the excitability of those organs. The fact that we can be awakened at any time by stronger stimuli serves as proof that “the mind remains in continuous connection with the external world even during sleep.” The sensory stimuli that reach us during sleep can very well become sources of dreams.

There is a wide range of such stimuli—from the inevitable ones inherent in the state of sleep (or those that sleep merely allows to occur occasionally) to the chance stimulus capable of, or destined to, put an end to sleep. Intense light may penetrate the eyes, a noise may become audible, or an odoriferous substance may irritate the nasal mucosa. During sleep, we may expose parts of the body through involuntary movements—thereby subjecting them to a sensation of cold—or generate sensations of pressure and touch by shifting our position.

A fly might sting us, or a minor nocturnal mishap might assail several senses at once. Observers have collected a series of dreams in which the stimulus was identified upon waking, and a portion of the dream content corresponded closely enough to the stimulus for it to be recognised as the source of the dream.

I cite here a collection of such dreams—stemming from objective, more or less accidental, sensory stimulation—following Jessen (p. 527): Any indistinctly perceived noise evokes corresponding dream images; the rolling of thunder transports us into the midst of a battle; the crowing of a rooster can transform into a person’s scream of terror; and the creaking of a door can trigger dreams of burglaries. If we lose our bedcovers during the night, we might dream that we are walking about naked or have fallen into water. If we lie askew in bed with our feet protruding over the edge, we might dream that we are standing at the brink of a terrifying abyss or plunging from a steep height. If our head happens to slip beneath the pillow, a massive rock looms over us, on the verge of burying us under its weight. An accumulation of semen produces voluptuous dreams; localised pain gives rise to the notion of suffering abuse, hostile attacks, or physical injury…

“Meier (*Attempt at an Explanation of Sleepwalking*, Halle 1758, p. 33) once dreamt that he was set upon by several individuals who laid him flat on his back on the ground and drove a stake into the earth between his big toe and the next. As he imagined it in his dream, he awoke to find a straw wedged between his toes. According to Hennings (*On Dreams and Sleepwalkers*, Weimar 1784, p. 258), on another occasion—when he had pinned his shirt somewhat tightly around his neck—he dreamt that he was being hanged. Hoffbauer dreamt in his youth of falling from a high wall, and upon waking, noticed that the bed frame had come apart and that he had indeed fallen… Gregory reports that he once placed a hot-water bottle at his feet before going to bed and subsequently dreamt of a journey to the summit of Mount Etna, where he found the ground’s heat almost unbearable. Another person, after having a blister plaster applied to his head, dreamt that he was being scalped by a band of Native Americans; a third, sleeping in a damp shirt, believed he was being dragged through a river. A gout attack occurring during sleep led a patient to believe he was in the hands of the Inquisition and enduring the agonies of torture (Macnish).”

The argument based on the resemblance between a stimulus and the content of a dream can be further substantiated if one can induce dreams corresponding to a specific stimulus by deliberately applying sensory stimuli to a sleeping person. According to Macnish, Giron de Buzareingues had already conducted such experiments. “He left his knees uncovered and dreamed that he was travelling on a mail coach at night; he noted that travellers would be well aware of how cold one’s knees get in a carriage at night. On another occasion, he left the back of his head uncovered and dreamed that he was attending an open-air religious ceremony—for it was the custom in the country where he lived to keep one’s head covered at all times, except on occasions such as the one just mentioned.”

Maury shares new observations on dreams induced in himself. (A series of other attempts met with no success.)

1) His lips and the tip of his nose are tickled with a feather. – He dreams of a terrible torture; a pitch mask is placed on his face and then torn off, taking the skin with it.

2) Scissors are sharpened against a pair of tweezers. – He hears bells ringing, then the alarm bell, and is transported back to the June Days of 1848.

3) He is made to smell Eau de Cologne. – He is in Cairo, in the shop of Johann Maria Farina. This is followed by wild adventures that he cannot recall in detail.

4) He is lightly pinched on the back of the neck. – He dreams that a blister plaster is being applied to him and thinks of a doctor who treated him as a child.

5) A hot iron is brought close to his face. He dreams of the “Chauffeurs” (bands of robbers in the Vendée who employed this form of torture) who have sneaked into the house and are forcing the residents to hand over their money by thrusting their feet into a brazier. Then the Duchess of Abrantés appears; in the dream, he is her secretary.

8) A drop of water is poured onto his forehead. – He is in Italy, sweating profusely and drinking white Orvieto wine.

9) Candlelight is repeatedly shone on him through red paper. – He dreams of the weather and heat, and finds himself once again in a storm at sea—one he had actually experienced on the English Channel.

D’Hervey, Weygandt, and others made further attempts to experimentally induce dreams.

The “remarkable ability of the dream to weave sudden impressions from the sensory world into its fabric in such a way that they form a catastrophe—one for which the ground had already been gradually prepared—within that dream” has been noted by several observers (Hildebrandt). “In my younger years,” this author recounts, “I would sometimes use the familiar alarm clock—usually attached to a timepiece—to ensure I rose at a specific hour each morning. It happened to me fully a hundred times that the sound of this instrument fitted into a seemingly very long and coherent dream in such a way that the entire dream appeared to have been constructed solely for that moment, finding in it its true, logically indispensable climax—its natural, predestined conclusion.”

I will quote three of these waking dreams again for a different purpose.

Volkelt (p. 68) recounts: “A composer once dreamed that he was holding class and was about to explain something to his students. He had already finished and turned to one of the boys with the question: ‘Did you understand me?’ The boy shouted like a madman: ‘Oh yes.’ Annoyed by this, he told him to stop shouting. But then the whole class shouted: ‘Orja!’ To which they replied:

‘Eurjo!’” And finally: ‘Fire whoop!’ And now he awakens to real fire whoop shouts in the street.”

Garnier (Traité des facultés de l’âme, 1865), in Radestock, reports that Napoleon I was awakened by the explosion of the infernal machine from a dream he had while sleeping in his carriage, which allowed him to relive the crossing of the Tagliamento and the Austrian cannonade, until he awoke with the startled cry: “We are undermined!”

A dream experienced by Maury has become famous (*Le sommeil*, p. 161). He was ill and lying in bed in his room; his mother was sitting beside him. He dreamt of the Reign of Terror during the Revolution, witnessed gruesome scenes of murder, and was finally summoned before the tribunal himself. There he saw Robespierre, Marat, Fouquier-Tinville, and all the tragic heroes of that ghastly era—he answered for his actions, was sentenced after various incidents that left no imprint on his memory, and was then led to the place of execution, accompanied by a vast multitude. He climbed the scaffold; the executioner strapped him to the plank; it tipped over; the guillotine blade fell; he felt his head being severed from his body, woke up in sheer terror—and discovered that the bed’s headboard had fallen down and struck his cervical vertebrae, in a manner strikingly similar to the guillotine blade.

Linked to this dream is an interesting discussion—initiated by Le Lorrain and Egger in the *Revue philosophique*—about whether and how the dreamer can compress such an apparently vast wealth of dream content into the brief interval between the perception of the waking stimulus and the act of waking up.

Examples of this kind make objective sensory stimuli during sleep appear to be the most reliably established of all dream sources. Indeed, this is the only source that plays a role in the layperson’s understanding. If one asks an educated person—otherwise unfamiliar with the literature on dreams—how dreams originate, they will undoubtedly answer by citing a case known to them in which a dream was explained by an objective sensory stimulus recognised after waking. Scientific inquiry, however, cannot stop there; it finds grounds for further questions in the observation that the stimulus acting upon the senses during sleep does not appear in the dream in its actual form. Still, it is represented instead by another idea that bears some relationship to it. Yet the relationship connecting the dream stimulus and the resulting dream is, in Maury’s words, *une affinité quelconque, mais qui n’est pas unique et exclusive* [a certain affinity, though not a unique and exclusive one] (Analogies, p. 72). Consider, for instance, three of Hildebrandt’s “alarm-clock dreams”; one is then compelled to ask why the same stimulus produced such diverse dream outcomes, and why it gave rise to precisely these particular ones:

(p. 37) “So, I am out for a walk on a spring morning, strolling through the greening fields towards a neighbouring village; there, I see the inhabitants—dressed in their Sunday best, with hymnbooks tucked under their arms—making their way in large numbers to the church. Of course! It is Sunday, and the early service is about to begin. I decide to attend, but first—feeling somewhat overheated—I pause to cool off in the cemetery surrounding the church. While reading various epitaphs there, I hear the bell-ringer ascending the tower and spot the small village bell high up—the one that will signal the start of the service. It hangs motionless for quite a while, then begins to swing—and suddenly its strokes ring out, bright and piercing—so bright and piercing, in fact, that they put an end to my sleep. For the sound of the bell is actually coming from my alarm clock.”

“A second scenario. It is a bright winter day; the streets are piled high with snow. I have agreed to go on a sleigh ride, but must wait a long time for the announcement that the sleigh is waiting outside. Now come the preparations for boarding—the fur coat is put on, the footmuff brought out—and finally I am seated in my place.

Yet departure is delayed a moment longer, until the reins give the waiting horses the signal they can feel. Then they pull away; the vigorously shaken bells strike up their familiar Janissary music with such intensity that it instantly tears apart the gossamer web of the dream. Once again, it is nothing more than the shrill sound of the alarm clock.”

“One more example! I see a kitchen maid walking down the corridor toward the dining room, carrying several dozen stacked plates. The column of porcelain in her arms looks to me as if it is about to lose its balance. ‘Watch out,’ I warn, ‘the whole load is going to crash to the floor.’ Naturally, the inevitable objection follows—that she is used to this sort of thing, and so on—all the while I continue to watch the woman with anxious eyes. Sure enough, she stumbles at the threshold—the fragile crockery falls, clattering and crashing into a hundred shards across the floor. But—as I soon realise—the sound that continues endlessly is not actually a clatter, but a distinct ringing; and the person now waking up recognises that this ringing is simply the alarm clock doing its job.”

The question of why the mind misinterprets the nature of an objective sensory stimulus during a dream has been answered by Strümpell—and, to much the same effect, by Wundt—by stating that, when faced with such stimuli while asleep, the mind operates under conditions that give rise to illusions. We recognise and correctly interpret a sensory impression—that is, we assign it to the category of memories where, based on all prior experience, it belongs—provided the impression is sufficiently strong, distinct, and enduring, and we have the time necessary for this mental process. If these conditions are not met, we misinterpret the object that gives rise to the impression; we form an illusion based upon it.

“If someone is walking in an open field and perceives a distant object indistinctly, they might initially mistake it for a horse.” Upon closer inspection, the interpretation of a resting cow might suggest itself, and finally, the image might resolve with certainty into that of a group of seated people. The impressions the mind receives from external stimuli during sleep are similarly indeterminate in nature;

It forms illusions based on them, as the impression awakens a greater or lesser number of memory images, through which the impression acquires its psychological significance. Which of the many relevant spheres of memory yields the associated images, and which of the possible associative connections come into play,

remains—even according to Strümpell—impossible to determine and is left, as it were, to the caprice of the mind’s own workings.

We are faced with a choice here. We can admit that the underlying principles of dream formation cannot really be pursued any further, and thus forgo asking whether the interpretation of the illusion triggered by a sensory impression is subject to other conditions as well. Or we might be led to suspect that the objective sensory stimulus acting upon the sleeper plays only a modest role in the dream, and that other factors determine which memory images are evoked. Indeed, when one examines the experimentally induced dreams of Maury—which I have recounted in such detail for this very purpose—one is tempted to say that the experiment actually accounts for the origin of only one of the dream elements; the rest of the dream content appears far too autonomous and too specifically detailed to be explained by the single requirement that it must be compatible with the experimentally introduced element. One even begins to doubt the illusion theory and the power of the objective impression to shape the dream when one learns that this impression sometimes undergoes the most peculiar and far-fetched interpretation within the dream. For instance, M. Simon recounts a dream in which he saw gigantic figures at tables and distinctly heard the terrifying clatter produced by their jaws striking together as they chewed. Upon waking, he heard the sound of a horse galloping past his window. If the noise of the horse’s hooves did indeed evoke ideas from the realm of memories associated with *Gulliver’s Travels*—specifically the stay among the giants of Brobdingnag and the virtuous horse-creatures (an interpretation I would venture to offer without any explicit support from the author)—must not the selection of this particular set of memories—so unusual in relation to the stimulus—have been facilitated by other motives as well?

P.S. Thank you for reading, even though this post is a bit longer than usual! I’ll see if I can post again next week—heaven knows. Thanks again, and all the best to you. 🤗🙏💖

Because of You!

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I have kept writing about my brother Al regularly every day of his anniversary.However, yesterday, the day he left the Earth, all the negative feelings stemming from the issues I am facing overwhelmed me, leaving me unable to think clearly and without energy.
In any case, the precise date isn’t very significant, since Al is always on my mind. While I don’t view death as an end, Carl Jung’s words always echo in my ears: ‘Death is a drawing together of two worlds, not an end.’ We are the bridge.

Still, before I melt into the chair from the heat, it is good to have a review.

It is one of the unforgettable memories that I would like to share with you here:

You came, sweating, on a hot summer afternoon, and I was surprised. You were on military duty, far away in the south, but suddenly you were there. You said, “I can’t anymore!” You had escaped that mess!
In Iran, two years of military service are mandatory, and if one refuses, they have no chance of finding a job and will be sent to jail.

When it was your turn for military service, I was very worried about you; I knew we were not suited to the military, since our mother wanted to send us to a military school because she was tired of our unconventional behaviour. Still, one of our family members, a general, advised her not to do so. He told her that we were the sons of a thinker and intellectual, and that this was controversial for military school.

“Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms,” as Groucho Marx once said.
However, during the first three months of your service, you were in northern Tehran, could often come home, and found wonderful, unconventional friends there. Still, after that, they sent you far away to the south, far from home, far from your room, music, and solitude. After about two weeks, you left everything behind, came home, went to your room, put on a Beatles vinyl (Abbey Road), lay down, and listened.
Oh yes, I wasn’t a revolutionary like you yet and was a bit conservative! I asked you what would happen to you after this escape, about your life and your future. It doesn’t matter to me, he said; it is not my world! I asked, What world is yours? And he answered, “It is a world inhabited all by crazy people!”

Of course, it took me a while to understand your stance on that crazy world. I remember it well. I was in the bathroom, under the shower, and there, like Archimedes, I cried out, “Eureka! Eureka! I know now what the matter is: I know now that I don’t know!”
It’s been about nineteen years since you, in your belief, transitioned to that level of existence. May you have found your crazy world by now.
I can still see the image before my eyes; the moment you were lying on the ground, listening to music, while I sat helplessly before you. Still, that haunting, sad song brings tears to my eyes.
I think of you so often!

PS: I might be unavailable next week as I plan to visit a friend, unless I need urgent surgery and must stay in hospital. We’ll see how things unfold!
Wishing everyone a peaceful and wonderful time.

There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P 5

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Today, I am concluding the section on Memories in dreams. Freud gathered many ideas and examples on this topic, which is interesting. However, it also made me think of something larger and more profound.

As we read the following section of this chapter, we can see how the memories in Freud’s analysis remind us of Jung’s purposes for symbols. I believe Jung further examined the role of memories in dreams to illustrate their purpose, delving deeper into this concept through his understanding of symbols.

Dr Jung examines how dreams employ symbolic imagery rooted in the collective unconscious and explains how interpreting these symbols can yield a deeper understanding of the self and the human mind. Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious, using symbols that are not direct language but images rooted in the collective unconscious. Symbols bridge the conscious mind and inner worlds, carrying deep, multifaceted meanings that extend beyond personal experience and often reference universal archetypes. Interpretation involves exploring these associations to uncover unconscious wisdom and promote balance and individuation. Symbols in dreams facilitate dialogue with inner depths, revealing fears, desires, and potentials, and engaging us in the ongoing drama of the human soul.

Now let’s refocus on our starting point: the beginning! Sequel to the previous season.

The Material of Dreams—Memory in the Dream (Das Traummaterial – Das Gedächtnis im Traum)

I can recount a dream of my own here, in which the impression to be recalled is replaced by a connection. In the dream, I saw a person whom I knew to be the doctor from my hometown. His face was indistinct, yet it merged with the image of one of my high school teachers whom I still encounter occasionally. Upon waking, I could not determine what connection linked the two individuals. However, when I asked my mother about the doctor from those early years of my childhood, I learned that he had been one-eyed, and the high school teacher whose figure had overlaid the doctor’s in the dream was also one-eyed. Thirty-eight years had passed since I last saw the doctor, and to the best of my knowledge, I had never thought of him in my waking life.

It sounds as though a counterweight to the outsized role played by childhood impressions in dream life is being proposed when several authors claim that elements from one’s earliest days can be detected in most dreams. Robert (p. 46) even states: In general, the normal dream concerns itself only with impressions from the most recent days. We shall see, however, that the theory of dreams constructed by Robert imperatively demands such a relegation of the oldest impressions and a foregrounding of the most recent ones. Yet the fact to which Robert gives expression is—as I can confirm from my own investigations—valid. An American author, Nelson, suggests that the impressions most frequently utilised in dreams are those from the day prior to the day of the dream or from three days earlier, as if the impressions from the day immediately preceding the dream were not yet sufficiently faded or distant.

Several authors who did not wish to question the intimate connection between dream content and waking life have noted that impressions which intensely occupy waking thought only appear in dreams after they have been somewhat pushed aside by the mental work of the day. Thus, as a rule, one does not dream of a beloved deceased person during the initial period when grief completely consumes the survivor (Delage). However, one recent observer, Miss Hallam, has also collected examples of the opposite pattern and asserts the validity of psychological individuality in this regard.

The third, most peculiar, and most baffling characteristic of memory in dreams manifests itself in the selection of the material reproduced; for, unlike in the waking state, it is not merely the most significant elements that are retained, but—on the contrary—even the most trivial and inconspicuous details are deemed worthy of remembrance. Here, I shall let those authors speak who have expressed their astonishment most emphatically.

Hildebrandt (p. 11): “For the curious thing is that the dream generally draws its elements not from the great and profound events, not from the powerful and driving interests of the day just past, but from the incidental details—from the worthless scraps, so to speak—of the recent or more distant past. A shattering death in the family, under the impression of which we fall asleep late, remains blotted out of our memory until the first moment of waking forces it back upon us with distressing intensity. In contrast, the wart on the forehead of a stranger we encountered—someone we did not give another thought to after passing by—plays a role in our dream” …

Strümpell (p. 39): “… such cases where the analysis of a dream uncovers components that, while originating in the experiences of the previous day or the day before that, were nevertheless so insignificant and valueless to waking consciousness that they were consigned to oblivion shortly after the experience itself. Such experiences might include, for instance, casually overheard remarks or the superficially observed actions of another person, fleeting perceptions of objects or individuals, isolated snippets from something one has read, and the like.”

Havelock Ellis (p. 727): The profound emotions of waking life, the questions and problems on which we spread our chief voluntary mental energy, are not those which usually present themselves at once to dream consciousness. It is so far as the immediate past is concerned, mostly the trifling, the incidental, the »forgotten« impressions of daily life which reappear in our dreams. The psychic activities that are awake most intensely are those that sleep most profoundly.

Binz (p. 45) takes the very characteristics of memory in dreams under discussion as an occasion to express his dissatisfaction with the explanations of dreams that he himself had previously supported: “And the natural dream poses similar questions to us. Why do we not always dream of memory impressions from the days immediately past, but instead often plunge—without any discernible motive—into a past that lies far behind us and has all but faded away? Why does consciousness in dreams so often receive the impression of indifferent memory images, while the brain cells—precisely where they harbour the most vivid traces of past experiences—usually remain silent and dormant, unless an acute reactivation during waking hours had stirred them shortly before?”

It is easy to see how the peculiar preference of dream-memory for the trivial—and therefore disregarded—elements of daily experiences was bound, in most cases, to lead to a failure to recognise the dream’s dependence on waking life altogether, or at least to make it difficult to demonstrate that dependence in any individual instance. Thus, it was possible for Miss Whiton Calkins, in her statistical analysis of her own dreams (and those of her associate), to be left with eleven per cent of the total in which no connection to waking life was apparent. Hildebrandt is surely right in asserting that all dream images could be explained genetically if we were to devote the time and sufficient concentration to tracing their origins. He calls this, of course, “an extremely laborious and thankless task.” For it would usually amount to unearthing all manner of psychologically worthless items from the most remote corners of the memory’s storehouse—bringing back to light all sorts of completely inconsequential moments from the distant past, buried perhaps as early as the very next hour. Yet I cannot help but regret that this astute author allowed himself to be deterred from pursuing a path that began so inconspicuously; it would have led him directly to the heart of dream interpretation.

The behaviour of dream-memory is certainly of the utmost significance for any theory of memory whatsoever. It teaches that “nothing we have once possessed mentally can ever be completely lost” (Scholz, p. 34). Or, as Delboeuf puts it, »que toute impression même la plus insignifiante, laisse une trace inaltérable, indéfiniment susceptible de reparaître au jour« (“that every impression, even the most insignificant, leaves an unalterable trace, indefinitely capable of reappearing”)—a conclusion to which so many other pathological phenomena of mental life likewise point. One should bear in mind this extraordinary capacity of memory in dreams in order to vividly appreciate the contradiction inherent in certain dream theories—to be discussed later—that seek to explain the absurdity and incoherence of dreams by positing a partial forgetting of what is known to us during the day.

One might, for instance, hit upon the idea of reducing the phenomenon of dreaming entirely to remembering—viewing the dream as the expression of a reproductive activity that does not rest even at night and that exists as an end in itself. Reports such as those by Pilcz would seem to support this view; they suggest that demonstrable, fixed relationships exist between the time of dreaming and the dream content, such that deep sleep reproduces impressions from the distant past. In contrast, the dream reproduces recent impressions as morning approaches. However, such a conception is rendered unlikely from the outset by the way the dream handles the material to be recalled. Strümpell rightly points out that repetitions of actual experiences do not occur in dreams.

The dream may well make a start in that direction, but the subsequent link fails to appear; it emerges in altered form, or something entirely alien takes its place. The dream yields only fragmentary reproductions. This is certainly the rule, to such an extent that it allows for theoretical application. Yet exceptions do occur in which a dream repeats an experience just as completely as our waking memory can. Delboeuf recounts the story of one of his university colleagues (who currently teaches in Vienna) who, in a dream, relived in every detail a perilous carriage ride—one in which he had escaped an accident only by a miracle. Miss Calkins mentions two dreams that consisted of the exact reproduction of an experience from the previous day, and I myself shall later have occasion to report an instance known to me of the unaltered recurrence of a childhood experience in a dream.
One might, for instance, be tempted to reduce the phenomenon of dreaming entirely to that of remembering—viewing the dream as the expression of a reproductive activity that does not rest even at night and serves as an end in itself.

The upcoming post will address dream stimuli and sources. However, I am currently facing some health-related uncertainties. My urologist and I view my condition as critical, yet during a discourse at the hospital on Thursday, I was scheduled for surgery in August. So it’s all up in the air whether I can work on the new post; I need to consult my doctor next week!
Wishing everyone good health and safety. 🤗💖🙏🌹

There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P 4

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Stills from the Salvador Dalí-designed dream sequence in Spellbound (1945, dir. Alfred Hitchcock)

Most of the fundamental ideas of science are essentially simple and may, as a rule, be expressed in a language comprehensible to everyone.
~Albert Einstein

Today, I will continue from my previous instalment and share the second part of Freud’s chapter on how memories influence dreams.

Dr Freud reviews various researchers’ perspectives on dreams and offers several compelling examples of how human memories shape them.

(The title image I chose depicts a scene from one of my favourite Hitchcock films, in which Salvador Dali designed the sets for the dream sequences.)

The Material of Dreams—Memory in the Dream (Das Traummaterial – Das Gedächtnis im Traum)

The fact that the dream contains memories inaccessible to the waking state is so curious and theoretically significant that I wish to draw further attention to it by recounting other such “hypermnestic” dreams. Maury relates that, for a time, the word “Mussidan” would frequently come to his mind during the day. He knew it was the name of a French town, but nothing more. One night, he dreamt of a conversation with a certain individual who told him that she hailed from Mussidan; when he asked where the town was situated, she replied that Mussidan was a district town in the Département de la Dordogne. Upon waking, Maury placed no credence in the information he had received in his dream; however, a geographical dictionary informed him that it was entirely accurate. In this instance, the dream’s superior knowledge was confirmed, yet the forgotten source of that knowledge remained undiscovered.

Jessen recounts (p. 55) a very similar dream occurrence from earlier times: “To this category belongs, among others, the dream of the elder Scaliger (Hennings, *l. c.*, p. 300), who had written a poem in praise of the famous men of Verona; a man calling himself Brugnolus appeared to him in a dream and complained that he had been forgotten. Although Scaliger could not recall ever having heard of him, he nevertheless composed verses in his honour; his son subsequently learned in Verona that just such a Brugnolus had indeed once been renowned there as a critic.”

In a source to which I unfortunately do not have access (the *Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research*), Myers is said to have published an entire collection of such hypermnestic dreams. I believe that anyone who occupies themselves with dreams must acknowledge that it is a very common phenomenon for a dream to bear witness to knowledge and memories which the waking subject does not suppose themselves to possess. In my psychoanalytic work with neurotic patients—which I shall discuss later—I find myself, several times a week, in a position to demonstrate to patients, based on their dreams, that they know quotations, obscene words, and the like very well, and that they make use of them in their dreams, even though they have forgotten them in their waking lives. I should like to share one harmless instance of dream hypermnesia here, as the source from which this knowledge—accessible only to the dream—originated was very easily traceable.

A patient dreamed—as part of a longer narrative sequence—that he was ordering a “Kontuszówka” for himself in a coffeehouse; however, when recounting the dream, he asked what on earth that might be, saying he had never heard the name before. I was able to reply that Kontuszówka is a Polish spirit—a name he could not possibly have invented in his dream, as I myself had long been familiar with it from posters. At first, the man refused to believe me. A few days later, after he had turned his dream into reality by ordering the drink in a coffeehouse, he noticed the name on a poster—specifically at a street corner he had been obliged to pass at least twice a day for months.

One of the sources from which the dream draws material for reproduction—material that, in part, is neither recalled nor utilised during waking thought—is childhood life. I shall cite only a few of the authors who have noted and emphasised this:

Hildebrandt (p. 23): “It has already been expressly acknowledged that the dream, at times, with a marvellous power of reproduction, faithfully brings back to our minds events that are quite remote and even forgotten, dating from the distant past.”

Strümpell (p. 40): “The matter becomes even more remarkable when one observes how the dream—at times, as it were, from beneath the deepest and most massive layers of sediment that later life has deposited upon the earliest experiences of youth—brings forth images of specific localities, objects, and persons, entirely intact and with their original freshness. This is not limited merely to such impressions as may have attained a vivid level of consciousness at the moment of their inception, or become imbued with strong psychological significance—impressions that subsequently reappear in the dream as genuine memories, in which the awakened consciousness takes delight. Rather, the depth of dream-memory encompasses also those images of persons, objects, localities, and experiences from earliest times which either possessed only a faint degree of consciousness or no psychological significance whatsoever—or which had long since lost both—and which, for this very reason, appear utterly strange and unfamiliar both within the dream and upon awakening, until their distant origin is finally discovered.”

Volkelt (p. 119): “It is particularly noteworthy how readily memories of childhood and youth find their way into dreams. Things we have long ceased to think about—matters that have long since lost all significance for us—the dream tirelessly reminds us of them.” The dream’s dominion over childhood material—which, as is well known, largely falls into the gaps of conscious memory—gives rise to interesting hypermnestic dreams, of which I shall, in turn, present a few examples.

Maury recounts (in *Le sommeil*, p. 92) that, as a child, he often travelled from his hometown of Meaux to nearby Trilport, where his father was supervising the construction of a bridge. One night, a dream transports him back to Trilport, allowing him to play once again in the town’s streets. A man approaches him, wearing a uniform. Maury asks for his name; he introduces himself as C… and says he is the bridge keeper. Upon waking—still doubting the memory’s reality—Maury asks an old servant, who has been with him since childhood, whether she can recall a man by that name. “Certainly,” comes the reply, “he was the keeper of the bridge your father built back then.”

Maury recounts another beautifully confirmed example of the accuracy of childhood memories surfacing in dreams, concerning a Mr F… who had grown up in Montbrison. Twenty-five years after leaving, this man decided to revisit his hometown and see old family friends he had not encountered since. On the night before his departure, he dreamed that he had arrived at his destination and, near Montbrison, met a gentleman whose appearance was unfamiliar to him; the man identified himself as Mr T., a friend of his father. The dreamer knew he had known a man by that name during childhood, but could not recall what he looked like while awake.
Upon actually arriving in Montbrison a few days later, he rediscovered the location from the dream—which he had previously not recognised—and met a gentleman whom he immediately identified as Mr T. from the dream. The real person had simply aged more than the figure in the dream image had suggested.

To be continued!

PS: I’ll translate and share the rest of this chapter in my next post. However, I’ve been told I need another surgery soon (the old problem is the new problem!), so I’m unsure when I can do so. Wishing all the best! 🤗💖

“Death as Transformation: Carl Gustav Jung’s View on Mortality on His 65th Anniversary’

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Today, I need to write a second post to celebrate Carl Jung’s sixty-fifth anniversary, and I just couldn’t let it pass!
Carl Jung viewed death as a meaningful transition, emphasising its psychological significance in the acceptance of mortality. He saw it not merely as an end but as a vital part of the individuation process and a profound mystery inviting reflection, highlighting its spiritual dimension.

Jung believed that humans inherently recognise their mortality, which profoundly shapes the unconscious mind. He suggested that our perspectives on death shape our fears, values, creativity, and sense of purpose. Denying or repressing death can lead to psychological difficulties, whereas accepting it fosters growth and wisdom. Jung viewed death not only as a physical event but also as symbolic. Drawing on myth and religion, he noted that many cultures regard death as a transition to another state. These archetypal images reflect the collective unconscious. He believed that, like birth, death can be a form of transformation—a return to the greater whole from which life originates.
In his later works, Jung emphasised the importance of mentally and spiritually preparing for death. He encouraged individuals to confront their mortality openly and reflectively, believing this approach could foster a deeper, more meaningful existence. Jung’s perspective on death was neither overly pessimistic nor escapist; instead, he regarded it as a profound mystery and a crucial part of human life, encouraging contemplation and acceptance.

Here is a letter Jug wrote to an unknown woman during his final days, in response to her question about how he expressed his thoughts on death. I am sharing this letter with you, sourced from a post by my friend Lewis Lafontaine, with many thanks.

Carl Jung on Life after Death

Letters of C. G. Jung: Volume 2, 1951-1961

Dear Frau N., 30 May 1960

My old age and the need for rest make me fight shy of too many visitors, so I have to confine myself as far as possible to written answers.
I can answer your question about life after death just as well by letter as by word of mouth.
Actually, this question exceeds the capacity of the human mind, which cannot assert anything beyond itself.
Furthermore, all scientific statements are merely probable.
So we can only ask: Is there a probability of life after death?
The point is that, like all our concepts, time and space are not axiomatic but are statistical truths.
This is proved by the fact that the psyche does not fit entirely into these categories.
It is capable of telepathic and precognitive perceptions.
To that extent, it exists in a continuum outside time and space.
We may therefore expect post-mortem phenomena to occur, which must be regarded as authentic.
Nothing can be ascertained about existence outside time.
The comparative rarity of such phenomena suggests at all events that the forms of existence inside and outside time are so sharply divided that crossing this boundary presents the greatest difficulties.
But this does not exclude the possibility that there is an existence outside time which runs parallel with existence inside time.
Yes, we ourselves may simultaneously exist in both worlds, and occasionally we do have intimations of a twofold existence.
But what is outside time is, according to our understanding, outside change.
It possesses relative eternity.
Perhaps you know my essay “The Soul and Death .”
For its scientific foundation, I would draw your attention to my “Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle,” in Jung and Pauli, The Interpretation of Nature and the Psyche. Psychology.
These are my essential thoughts, and I would not express them otherwise in a talk with you.

Yours sincerely,

C.G. Jung ~Carl Jung, Letters Vol. II, Page 561.

Via Carl Jung Depth Psychology

There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P 3

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Artwork: “Road Less Travelled 2” by Naked Monkey.

Sigmund Freud believed that memories and dreams are deeply interconnected. According to Freud, dreams are not random or meaningless; rather, they express unconscious desires, fears, and—most importantly—memories. He argued that many dreams are constructed from fragments of past experiences, some of which may be long forgotten or repressed.
Freud introduced the concept of “day residues”, in which events and thoughts from the previous day often appear in dreams, intermingled with older memories from childhood or earlier life. He believed that dreams serve as a way for the unconscious mind to process unresolved conflicts, using both recent and distant memories as material. These memories may be disguised, condensed, or symbolically represented in the dream, making their true meaning difficult to recognise without analysis.

One of Freud’s key ideas was that repressed memories—those which are too painful or unacceptable to face consciously—often find their way into dreams. Through the process of “dream work,” the mind transforms these latent memories into the strange and sometimes confusing images we remember upon waking. By analysing dreams, Freud believed we could uncover hidden memories and gain insight into our deepest desires and anxieties.
In summary, Freud saw dreams as a window into the unconscious, built from layers of memories both recent and distant. For him, exploring the connection between memories and dreams was essential for understanding the human mind and the hidden forces that shape our thoughts and behaviours.

Now, following parts one & two, let’s proceed to the next chapter of his book, Dream Interpretation. I divided this chapter due to its length!

The Material of Dreams—Memory in the Dream (Das Traummaterial – Das Gedächtnis im Traum)

That all the material comprising the content of a dream derives in some way from lived experience—that is, that it is reproduced or recalled within the dream—may be accepted, at the very least, as an indisputable fact. Yet it would be an error to assume that such a connection between the dream content and waking life must emerge effortlessly as an immediately obvious result of comparison. Rather, this connection must be sought out with close attention, and in a considerable number of cases, it manages to remain concealed for a long time. The reason for this lies in several peculiarities exhibited by the faculty of memory during dreaming—peculiarities which, though widely noted, have hitherto eluded all explanation. It will be well worth the effort to examine these characteristics in detail.

It happens, in the first place, that the content of a dream features material that, upon waking, one does not recognise as belonging to one’s own knowledge or experience. One may well recall having dreamt the specific item in question, but cannot recall when one actually experienced it. One thus remains in the dark about the source from which the dream drew its material—and is indeed tempted to believe in an independently creative activity on the part of the dream—until, often after a long interval, a new experience restores the lost memory of the earlier event, thereby revealing the dream’s true source. One is then compelled to concede that, in the dream, one possessed knowledge of—and was reminded of—something that had been inaccessible to one’s powers of recollection while awake.

Delboeuf recounts a particularly striking example of this kind, drawn from his own dream experience. In his dream, he saw the courtyard of his house covered in snow; there, he discovered two small lizards—half-frozen and buried beneath the snow—which, being an animal lover, he took in, warmed, and returned to the small niche in the masonry intended for them. Furthermore, he tucked in a few fronds of a small fern growing on the wall—a plant he knew they were very fond of. In the dream, he knew the plant’s name: Asplenium ruta-murale. The dream then continued; after a brief interlude, it returned to the lizards and—to Delboeuf’s astonishment—revealed two new little creatures feasting upon the remnants of the fern. He then turned his gaze towards the open field and saw a fifth, then a sixth lizard, making their way towards the hole in the wall; eventually, the entire street was covered by a procession of lizards, all moving in the same direction, and so on.
In his waking life, Delboeuf’s botanical knowledge encompassed only a few Latin plant names and did not include any familiarity with the genus Asplenium. To his great astonishment, he subsequently verified that a fern of this very name does, in fact, exist.
Asplenium ruta muraria was its correct designation—a name the dream had slightly distorted. One could hardly attribute this to mere coincidence; yet it remained a mystery to Delboeuf how he had acquired knowledge of the name “Asplenium” in his dream.

The dream had occurred in 1862; sixteen years later, while visiting a friend, the philosopher spotted a small album of dried flowers—the kind sold to travellers as souvenirs in certain regions of Switzerland. A memory stirred within him; he opened the herbarium, found the Asplenium from his dream inside it, and recognised his own handwriting in the accompanying Latin names.
The connection could now be established. A sister of this friend had visited Delboeuf in 1860—two years before the lizard dream—while on her honeymoon. At the time, she had with her this album intended for her brother, and Delboeuf had taken the trouble to write out the Latin name beneath each of the dried plants, dictating them from a botanist.

The favour of chance—which renders this example so eminently worth recounting—allowed Delboeuf to trace yet another element of this dream’s content to its forgotten source. One day in 1877, an old volume of an illustrated magazine fell into his hands, and he saw the entire procession of lizards depicted exactly as he had dreamed it in 1862. The volume bore the date 1861, and Delboeuf recalled that he had been a subscriber to the magazine since its inception.

To be continued! 💖🙏

Carl Jung And Synchronicity…

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Or in the Search for the Meaning of Coincidences. “Might we be living in our archetypal parallel world, simultaneously?”

Synchronicity Forest Nymph Goddess Psychedelic Canvas Poster by Emily Balivet

Today, I am pausing my series on Dr Freud’s works to share something from Dr Jung—specifically, on the intriguing topic of synchronicity. It is indeed a delicate subject, perhaps even a phenomenon, though it is very profound and insightful. While the topic may seem complex, everyone has likely experienced it at some point. I will do my best to explain it as simply as I can.

>>Sadly, “Synchronicity” is all too often tossed about describing events which do not adhere to the synchronistic events as used within Depth Psychology.<<

“How are we to recognise acausal combinations of events, since it is obviously impossible to examine all chance happenings for their causality? The answer to this is that acausal events may be expected most readily where, on closer reflection, a causal connection appears to be inconceivable. It is impossible, with our present resources, to explain ESP [extrasensory perception], or the fact of meaningful coincidence, as a phenomenon of energy. This makes an end to the causal explanation as well, for “effect” cannot be understood as anything other than a phenomenon of energy. Therefore, it cannot be a question of cause and effect, but of a falling together in time, a kind of simultaneity. Because of this quality of simultaneity, I have picked on the term “synchronicity” to designate a hypothetical factor equal in rank to causality as a principle of explanation.
~Carl Jung, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, 1960, extracted from CW 8.”

Synchronicity: A phenomenon where an event in the outside world coincides meaningfully with a psychological state of mind.

“Synchronicity . . . consists of two factors: a) An unconscious image comes into consciousness either directly (i.e., literally) or indirectly (symbolised or suggested) in the form of a dream, idea, or premonition. b) An objective situation coincides with this content. The one is as puzzling as the other. ~ “Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle,” ibid., par. 858.“

Sometimes, life’s events feel more than mere chance; they are difficult to explain and hold significance only for those experiencing them. These coincidences are often overlooked, dismissed as oddities. Carl Jung coined the term ‘Synchronicity’ to describe events that occur without causal links but seem connected through our thoughts and feelings. Drawing inspiration from Chinese texts like the I Ching, Jung sought to explain such phenomena scientifically, bridging inner experiences and external reality. For instance, selecting a TV show and then encountering a character with similar struggles illustrates synchronicity. In Eastern cultures, such moments are seen as divine messages; in Western societies, they tend to be viewed sceptically, regarded as simple coincidences.

In his book ‘Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle’, Jung emphasises that he does not dismiss chance, suggesting that the improbable could just be unlikely events without any intent or significance. However, when coincidences accumulate, it becomes tempting to believe that a different explanation might be at play. As Jung states,

“What I found were ‘ coincidences’ connected so meaningfully that their ‘chance’ concurrence would represent a degree of improbability that would have to be expressed by an astronomical figure.”
~Carl Jung, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, Page 21.

Carl Jung Depth Psychology

Jung recounts the case of a young woman who was ‘psychologically inaccessible’—so rational and logical that she couldn’t express her emotions, having sealed herself off with her intellect and appearing cold and distant. She recounted a dream of receiving a golden scarab beetle, and as she spoke, Jung heard a tapping at the window. He opened it and caught a large flying insect, which proved to be a greenish-golden scarab beetle similar to the one in her dream. He then handed it to her and said, “Here is your scarab.”

Jung describes this synchronistic event as having ‘punctured the desired hole’ in her rational mindset, breaking her resistance and allowing him to work successfully with her. Her firm beliefs about reality made her resistant to influence unless confronted with an extraordinary paranormal occurrence. This incident dismantled her mental defence, leading to a sudden change in attitude and psychic renewal. Although her transformation likely began earlier, this event marked the breakthrough. Her dream featuring the scarab symbolised rebirth and transformation—central themes in Egyptian mythology. Jung observed that dream symbols are often connected to psychic events, and understanding these ‘symbolic parallels’ involves exploring the collective unconscious.

Synchronicity extends beyond assigning subjective meaning to unlikely events; it suggests these events hold inherent significance, indicating a link between the physical and psychic domains. Rooted in metaphysics, it points to a deeper, unseen order in the universe. Synchronicity involves engaging with the spiritual and the mysterious, challenging the scientific worldview, and offering an alternative to rational religion. While modern views regard such events as mere coincidences, traditional cultures interpret them as acts of spirits—gods transforming or mediators connecting us to unseen worlds. Spirits communicate through symbols and archetypes from the collective unconscious, with dreams considered messages from gods guiding us during sleep. Western culture, however, often dismisses wonder as superstition, prioritising logic and reason.

Jung advises us to avoid superstition by not interpreting chance events as acts of the gods. Instead, we should see coincidences as insights into ourselves and our surroundings. Synchronicities lead us inward, uncovering hidden aspects or opportunities that foster growth. By being attentive, we can use these signs to guide our lives positively rather than passively letting events shape us. The key question is not what causes a coincidence, but what message it offers. For example, dreaming of an old friend and then encountering them might suggest reconnecting or learning from their qualities. These symbols point to neglected or undeveloped parts of ourselves. Recognising that events serve a purpose helps us understand their connection to our lives, how they support us, and what they teach.

In this video, Marie-Louise von Franz explores Jung’s concept of synchronicity, describing acausal order and meaningful coincidences, illustrated by examples such as mistaken dress after death, telepathic dreams, and birth. She cautions against primitive magical thinking, draws on physics analogies such as singularities, and emphasises human freedom within archetypal patterns.

The second part features Jung’s 1960 letter on the psychic connection known as synchronicity, which involves archetypes, emotions, and unconscious processes in paranormal experiences such as telepathy, precognition, and psychokinesis. He reflects on scientific challenges and on links to human instinct, myth, and spirituality.
This letter is from C.G. Jung Letters, Volume 2 (1951-1961). Jung’s voice is created.

Heartfelt thanks for stopping by. Take care, everyone! 🙏💖

There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P 2

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Pang Torsuwan. The Play. 2021

Let’s move on to the next section, which examines the link between dreams and wakefulness. Dr Freud’s effort to study the history of dreams is noteworthy, and naturally, Dr Jung held Freud’s contributions in high regard.

In Carl Jung, CW 5, Para 1, we read:
Anyone who can read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams without being outraged by the novelty and seemingly unjustified boldness of his procedure, and without waxing morally indignant over the stark nakedness of his dream-interpretations, but can let this extraordinary book work upon his imagination calmly and without prejudice, will not fail to be deeply impressed at that point where Freud reminds us that an individual conflict, which he calls the incest fantasy, lies at the root of that monumental drama of the ancient world, the Oedipus legend.
The impression made by this simple remark may be likened to the uncanny feeling which would steal over us if, amid the noise and bustle of a modern city street, we were suddenly to come upon an ancient relic—perhaps upon the Corinthian capital of a long-since walled-up column, or upon the fragment of an inscription. And yet, but a moment before, we were utterly immersed in the hectic, fleeting life of the present; in the very next moment, however, something profoundly distant and alien flashes before us, directing our gaze toward a different order of things. We turn away from the vast confusion of the present to glimpse the higher continuity of history.

(My thanks go to Lewis Lafontaine.)

Freud and Jung in the USA, 1909. US psychologist G. Stanley Hall (1846-1924, lower centre) was the president of Clark University, Worcester, Massachusetts, USA. Hall had invited Austrian psychologist Sigmund Freud (1856-1939, lower left) and Swiss psychologist Carl Jung (1875-1961, lower right) to give lectures at a 20th anniversary celebration in September 1909. Freud, on his only visit to the USA, gave five lectures on psychoanalysis. He and Jung, both then relatively unknown, were also awarded honorary degrees. Behind them are those who helped promote Freud’s theories (left to right): Austrian psychiatrist Abraham Brill, British psychoanalyst Ernest Jones and Hungarian psychoanalyst Sandor Ferenczi. Freud and Jung were key figures in the development of two major schools of psychology (Freudian and Jungian).
Credit: LIBRARY OF CONGRESS / SCIENCE PHOTO LIBRARY

I’ll begin with a few sentences from the earlier post; may the thread make it easier to get to the topic. Of course, you can find the previous post here.

The relationship between dreams and waking life (Beziehung des Traumes zum Wachleben)


…However, the vast majority of authors have held the opposite view on the relationship between dreams and waking life. For example, Haffner (p. 19) states: “First of all, dreams continue waking life. Our dreams always connect to the ideas that were present in our consciousness shortly beforehand. Close observation will almost always find a thread in which the dream linked to the experiences of the previous day.” Weygandt (p. 6) directly contradicts Burdach’s assertion quoted above, “for it can often be observed, apparently in the vast majority of dreams, that they lead us right back into ordinary life, instead of freeing us from it.” Maury (Le sommeil et les rêves, p. 56) states in a concise formula: “nous rêvons de ce que nous avons vu, dit, desiré ou fait”; Jessen, in his psychology published in 1855 (p. 530), elaborates somewhat more: “More or less, the content of dreams is always determined by the individual personality, by age, gender, social class, level of education, accustomed way of life, and by the events and experiences of the entire life to date.”
The ancients thought no differently about the dependence of dream content on life. I quote from Radestock (p. 139): When Xerxes, before he campaigned against Greece, was distracted from his decision by good advice but repeatedly spurred on by dreams, the ancient, rational Persian dream interpreter, Artabanus, aptly remarked to him that dream images usually contained what a person already thinks while awake.

In Lucretius’ didactic poem, De rerum natura, we find (IV, v. 959) the following passage:

»Et quo quisque fere studio devinctus adhaeret,
aut quibus in rebus multum sumus ante morati
atque in ea ratione fuit contenta magis mens,
in somnis eadem plerumque videmur obire;
causidici causas agere et componere leges,
induperatores pugnare ac proelia obire, … etc. etc. « “And to which almost everyone adheres, bound by their passion,
or to which things we have previously spent a lot
and in which the mind was more content,
We often seem to do the same in dreams;
lawyers argue cases and draft laws,
induperators fight and fight battles, … etc., etc.”

Cicero (De Divinatione II) says very similarly, as does Maury much later: »Maximeque reliquiae earum rerum moventur in animis et agitantur, de quibus vigilantes aut cogitavimus aut egimus.« “The greatest relics of those things move in the minds and are agitated, of which we have either thought or acted vigilantly.”

The contradiction between these two views regarding the relationship between dream-life and waking-life appears, indeed, irresolvable. It is therefore fitting to recall the account given by F. W. Hildebrandt (1875), who suggests that the distinctive characteristics of the dream cannot, in fact, be described in any other way than through a “series of contrasts which seemingly culminate in contradictions” (p. 8). “The first of these contrasts is constituted, on the one hand, by the strict detachment—or self-contained isolation—of the dream from real and true life, and on the other, by the constant encroachment of the one upon the other, the constant dependence of the one upon the other. — The dream is something entirely distinct from the reality experienced while awake—one might say a mode of existence hermetically sealed within itself, separated from real life by an unbridgeable chasm. It detaches us from reality, extinguishes within us all normal memory of it, and transports us into a different world and into an entirely different life-story—one which, fundamentally, has nothing whatsoever to do with our actual life…” Hildebrandt then elaborates on how, with the onset of sleep, our entire being—along with all its modes of existence—vanishes “as if behind an invisible trapdoor.” One might, for instance, undertake a sea voyage in a dream to St. Helena, there to offer the imprisoned Napoleon some exquisite Moselle wine. One is received by the ex-emperor with the utmost graciousness and almost regrets seeing this fascinating illusion shattered by the act of waking. Yet now, one compares this dream-situation with reality. One has never been a wine merchant, nor has one ever harboured the desire to become one. One has never undertaken a sea voyage—and St. Helena would be the very last place one would choose as a destination for such a journey. As for Napoleon, one harbours absolutely no sympathetic sentiments toward him, but rather a fierce, patriotic hatred. And to top it all off, the dreamer was not yet even among the living when Napoleon died on the island; establishing a personal connection with him lay entirely outside the realm of possibility. Thus, the dream experience appears as something alien, interpolated between two phases of life that fit together perfectly and seamlessly flow into one another.

“And yet,” Hildebrandt continues, “the apparent opposite is just as true and correct. I mean to say that, alongside this self-containment and seclusion, the most intimate relationship and connection go hand in hand. We may go so far as to say: Whatever the dream may offer, it draws its material from reality and from the mental life that unfolds within that reality. … No matter how strangely it may play with this material, it can, in truth, never truly break free from the real world; and its most sublime creations, no less than its most grotesque, must always borrow their raw substance from that which has either appeared before our eyes in the world of the senses, or has somehow already found a place in the train of our waking thoughts—in other words, from that which we have already experienced, whether outwardly or inwardly.”

Next time, we’ll explore memory in dreams. Take care! 🙏💖

There is always a Beginning to Grasp the Whole! P. 1

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One day, as I browsed my bookshelf, a heavy volume suddenly fell into my hands — it was the Collected Works (die Gesammelten Werke) of Sigmund Freud, a book I had almost forgotten. I had read some of Freud’s writings, especially during my time in Iran, but later I became deeply engaged with Jung’s work. When I opened the book, it felt as though a whisper told me that this was the foundation — something I hadn’t known before. I started reading, and it turned out to be completely true!

Sigmund Freud was an Austrian neurologist, the founder of psychoanalysis, and a pioneer in exploring the hidden aspects of the human mind, particularly the unconscious. He developed a clinical method to assess and treat psychological conflicts arising from inner struggles through patient-analyst dialogue, along with a unique theory of mind and human agency grounded in this approach.

I reached a point where understanding Sigmund Freud and his work would enhance our grasp of Carl Gustav Jung. Freud acts as the key unlocking the door into the unconscious, while Jung is the train guiding us through the hidden depths of our souls!

Therefore, I decided to translate and share his insights on communicating knowledge and experience, beginning with dreams and dream interpretation: The scientific literature on dream issues (Die wissenschaftliche Literatur der Traumprobleme). I will start with his scientific explanation—(a brief summary, of course, to keep it concise)—to help it be better understood.

The scientific literature on dream problems

In the following pages, I will show that a psychological technique exists for interpreting dreams, revealing each as a meaningful psychic construct linked to waking life. I will explain the processes behind dream strangeness and draw conclusions about the psychic forces involved. My presentation concludes by linking the problem of dreaming to broader issues that require other sources. I begin with a review of past research and current understanding, noting that little progress has been made despite centuries of effort. The existing literature offers insight and interesting material, but few definitive answers about dreams. Even educated laypeople have limited knowledge.

The first work to treat dreams as a psychological object is Aristotle’s On Dreams and Their Interpretation. He states that dreams are of a demonic, not divine, nature, but can reveal profound meanings if correctly interpreted. Aristotle notes characteristics such as dreams reinterpreting minor stimuli as large ones, suggesting they might show early signs of bodily changes unnoticed during the day. Due to limited knowledge, I haven’t deepened my understanding of his treatise. Before Aristotle, the ancients saw dreams as divine inspiration, distinguishing true dreams that warn or foretell from false, deceptive ones meant to mislead or harm. This view aligned with their worldview, projecting internal reality onto the external world. They believed dreams came from another world and considered their supernatural origin plausible, a view still held by some today, including mystical writers and certain philosophers such as Schellingians. The debate over dreams’ divinatory power continues, as scientific explanations remain insufficient to account for all dream phenomena.

Writing a history of our understanding of dream problems is difficult because, despite its value in certain areas, no clear progress is visible. No foundational results exist for future researchers to build on; instead, each author starts anew, as if from scratch. If I followed a chronological account of authors’ views, I couldn’t provide a clear overview of current dream knowledge. Thus, I structured the discussion by topic, citing the relevant literature to each dream problem.

Since I haven’t covered all scattered and extensive literature, I ask readers to be modest, assuming no fundamental facts or significant aspects are lost.

Until recently, most authors treated sleep and dreams together, often including analogous states like hallucinations or visions. Recently, work has focused more narrowly on specific questions within dream life. This shift reflects a belief that clear understanding and consensus require detailed investigations. I offer only such psychological investigation here, excluding sleep, which is mainly physiological, though sleep-related changes in mental function are acknowledged.

Freud (assuming these are his words) highlights that psychoanalysis and psychotherapy aim to uncover repressed, unconscious memories and create a supportive environment where these ‘traumas’ can be expressed through language and contact. Whether he explicitly said these words is irrelevant, as his writings demonstrate that he held these beliefs.

The scientific interest in dream phenomena prompts several overlapping questions:

The relationship between dreams and waking life (Beziehung des Traumes zum Wachleben)

The naive judgement of the awakened person assumes that the dream—if it does not originate in another world—has at least transported the sleeper to one. The old physiologist Burdach, to whom we owe a careful and subtle description of dream phenomena, expressed this conviction in a much-noted sentence (p. 474): “…the life of the day, with its efforts and pleasures, its joys and sorrows, is never repeated; rather, the dream aims to free us from them. Even if our whole soul has been filled with an object, if deep pain has torn our inner being, or a task has consumed all our mental power, the dream either gives us something entirely alien, or it takes only individual elements from reality for its combinations, or it merely adopts the tone of our mood and symbolises reality.”

L. Strümpell expresses a similar sentiment in his rightly acclaimed study of the nature and origin of dreams (p. 16): “Whoever dreams is turned away from the world of waking consciousness”… (p. 17): “In dreams, the memory of the ordered content of waking consciousness and its normal behaviour is almost entirely lost…” (p. 19): “The almost memoryless isolation of the soul in dreams from the regular content and course of waking life…”

However, the vast majority of authors have held the opposite view on the relationship between dreams and waking life. For example, Haffner (p. 19) states: “First of all, dreams continue waking life. Our dreams always connect to the ideas that were present in our consciousness shortly beforehand. Close observation will almost always find a thread in which the dream linked to the experiences of the previous day.” Weygandt (p. 6) directly contradicts Burdach’s assertion quoted above, “for it can often be observed, apparently in the vast majority of dreams, that they lead us right back into ordinary life, instead of freeing us from it.” Maury (Le sommeil et les rêves, p. 56) states in a concise formula: “nous rêvons de ce que nous avons vu, dit, desiré ou fait”(We dream of what we have seen, said, desired, or done.); Jessen, in his psychology published in 1855 (p. 530), elaborates somewhat more: “More or less, the content of dreams is always determined by the individual personality, by age, gender, social class, level of education, accustomed way of life, and by the events and experiences of the entire life to date.”

To be continued! 🙏💖

Human Values are not Rooted in the Possession of Power!

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I am writing another post on politics because I believe it is a relevant issue in our current lives and a crucial concept for shaping society in the best way for everyone. This time, I selected a section from Plato’s book, The Republic, to learn from and reflect on what it should or wishes to be, as I consider it timeless. It explores how Plato analyses the motivations for seeking power, the risks of selfish ambition, and his concept of philosopher-kings who govern out of duty and virtue instead of personal gain. The essay emphasises Plato’s view that genuine political authority should prioritise justice and the common good over individual interests.

Carl Jung interpreted Plato’s politics, especially in The Republic, not as literal plans but as symbols of the collective unconscious. He regarded Plato’s “Forms” as psychic archetypes, with the “ideal state” shaping human qualities such as vision, wisdom, and power in the external world. Jung believed these political ideas originated from the “collective unconscious,” where perfect Forms such as justice exist. He also saw the ideal state as a psychological model, with the philosopher-king symbolising the self and social classes representing parts of the soul. By viewing Platonism as psychology, Jung considered himself a successor to Plato, identifying the “Forms” as archetypal patterns within the psyche. Additionally, he saw the “Cave” allegory as a way to convey deep psychological truths that are otherwise hard to express.

Carl Jung Depth Psychology

Plato’s Republic is a foundational text of Western philosophy, exploring justice, the ideal state, and political power. The dialogue examines what motivates individuals to seek power and how societal structures can corrupt or uplift those in authority. Plato, through Socrates, argues that the desire for power is often driven by basic urges—such as ambition, greed, and personal gain. However, he maintains that true power should serve the common good rather than personal interests. The philosopher-kings in Plato’s city are chosen for wisdom, virtue, and reluctance to rule, not for a craving for power. Plato believes the best rulers govern out of duty and justice, and warns against unchecked power, which can lead to tyranny. He emphasises education and virtue, claiming that only those who transcend personal desires are fit to hold power responsibly. Ultimately, the Republic views power as a moral duty, not an end in itself, aimed at justice and societal harmony. It urges reconsideration of who should rule, emphasising leadership for the greater good rather than personal gain.
Yet recently, it seems we have strayed from this goal!

The Pursuit of Political Authority in Plato’s Republic.

These passages from Plato’s Republic, spoken by Socrates, contend that the main goal of a craft—such as medicine or architecture—is to serve its subject, not the craftsman. Income (pay) comes from a separate, related “fee-earning art,” rather than the craft itself. [Thrasymachus was a Chalcedonian (from Chalcedon on the Bosphorus, near Byzantium), active around 430-400 B.C. He was a sophist and rhetorician, best known for arguing that “Justice is the interest of the stronger.”]   (Oxford Classical Dictionary 2e)

It might seem like a complex philosophical argument, but Socrates has always aimed to clarify his reasoning through detailed questioning to make it easier to understand. I hope you find this reading enjoyable!

Event Date: -425 GR

(§ 346d) The receiving of wages does not accrue to each from his own art. But if we are to consider it ‘precisely’, medicine produces health but the fee-earning art the pay, and architecture a house but the fee-earning art accompanying it the fee, and so with all the others, each performs its own task and benefits that over which it is set, but unless pay is added to it is there any benefit which the craftsman receives from the craft?”

(§ 346e) “Apparently not,” he said. “Does he then bestow no benefit either when he works for nothing?”I’ll say he does.”
“Then, Thrasymachus, is not this immediately apparent, that no art or office provides what is beneficial for itself, but as we said long ago, it provides and enjoins what is beneficial to its subject, considering the advantage of that, the weaker, and not the advantage of the stronger? That was why, friend Thrasymachus, I was just now saying that no one of his own will chooses to hold rule and office and take other people’s troubles in hand to straighten them out, but everybody expects pay for that,

(§ 347a) because he who is to exercise the art rightly never does what is best for himself or enjoins it when he gives commands according to the art, but what is best for the subject. That is the reason, it seems, why pay must be provided for those who are to consent to rule, either in the form of money or honour or a penalty if they refuse.”
“What do you mean by that, Socrates?” said Glaucon. “The two wages I recognise, but the penalty you speak of and described as a form of wage I don’t understand.”
“Then,” said I, “you don’t understand the wages of the best men…

(§ 347b) for the sake of which the finest spirits hold office and rule when they consent to do so. Don’t you know that to be covetous of honour and covetous of money is said to be and is a reproach?”
“I do,” he said. “Well, then,” said I, “that is why the good are not willing to rule either for the sake of money or of honour. They do not wish to collect pay openly for their service of rule and be styled hirelings, nor to take it by stealth from their office and be called thieves, nor yet for the sake of honour,

(§ 347c) for they are not covetous of honour. So, some compulsion and penalty must be imposed to constrain them to rule if they are to consent to hold office. That is perhaps why to seek office oneself and not await compulsion is thought disgraceful. But the chief penalty is to be governed by someone worse if a man will not himself hold office and rule. It is from fear of this, as it appears to me, that the better sort hold office when they do, and then they go to it not in the expectation of enjoyment nor as to a good thing, but as to a necessary evil and because they are unable to turn it over to better men than themselves…

(§ 347d) or to their like. For we may venture to say that, if there should be a city of good men only, immunity from office-holding would be as eagerly contended for as office is now, and there it would be made plain that in very truth the true ruler does not naturally seek his own advantage but that of the ruled; so that every man of undjusticeing would rather choose to be benefited by another than to be bothered with benefiting him. This point, then, I…

(§ 347e) by no means concede to Thrasymachus that justice is the advantage of the superior. But we will reserve that for another occasion. A far weightier matter, to me, seems to be Thrasymachus’s present statement, his assertion that the life of the unjust man is better than that of the just. Which now do you choose, Glaucon?” said I, “and which seems to you to be the truer statement?”
“That the life of the just man is more profitable, I say,” he replied.