dreams

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

Standard

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

Standard
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! 🤗💖

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

Standard
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! 💖🙏

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

Standard
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

Standard

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! 🙏💖

My (Carl Jung’s) Most Difficult Experiment [p. 4]

Standard

I had a dream a few weeks ago, and surprisingly, I still remember it clearly. Usually, I forget my dreams the moment I wake up, but this one is vividly etched in my mind. In the dream, a bird flew elegantly through my room. She looked like a hummingbird, but much larger. She stared at me as she was facing the window. I suspected that I knew her well.

That is what I kept in my mind and can recall. I used to be better at it earlier; I think I am lacking patience now!

She gazed at me for a while before flying away; I don’t know where, but somehow she disappeared right before my eyes.

It reminded me of a dream Dr Jung once described. However, his bird was transformed into a child and could speak; mine did not, but I believed she was wise and knew many things.

Carl Jung’s dream of a white bird transforming into a girl, often a dove or gull, was a key vision from his Black Book. It signalled his break with Freud, marked his dive into deep psychological work, and symbolised the soul’s link to the spirit world, spiritual change, and the union of opposites within the Self. Featured in The Red Book, the dream showed birds as messengers of the soul, bridging conscious and unconscious, representing freedom, wisdom, and the’ higher self”.

I would now like to reiterate his dream, which I presented in the first part, because it is remarkable.

I dreamt at that time (it was shortly after Christmas 1912) that I was sitting with my children in a marvellous and richly furnished castle apartment – an open columned hall – we were seated at a round table, whose top was a marvellous dark green stone. Suddenly, a gull or a dove flew in and sprang lightly onto the table. I admonished the children to be quiet so they would not scare away the beautiful white bird. Suddenly, this bird turned into an eight-year-old blond child and ran around, playing with my children in the marvellous columned colonnades. Then, the child suddenly turned into the gull or dove. She said the following to me: “Only in the first hour of the night can I become human while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.” With these words, the bird flew away, and I awoke. (Black Book 2, pp. 17-18)

Key Elements of Jung’s Bird Dream:
The White Bird: Symbolises the soul, spirit, or divine feminine (Anima), depicted as a dove or gull.
Transformation: The bird turning into an eight-year-old blond girl playing with his children represents the soul’s embodiment and interaction with earthly life.
The Message: “Only in the first hours of the night can I transform myself into a human being, while the male Dove is busy with the twelve dead” highlights the unconscious’s link to the spiritual realm and the soul’s hidden work.
Context: This dream from around 1912 helped Jung realise the collective unconscious archetypes and influenced his relationship with Toni Wolff.
Broader Jungian Bird Symbols:
Archetypal Connection: Birds link earthly and spiritual realms, symbolising transcendence, consciousness, and freedom.
The Self: Birds often symbolise the Self, representing wholeness and inner guidance.
Individuation: Birds symbolise Jung’s concept of individuation—integrating archetypes to achieve wholeness.
Language of Birds: In dreams, birds speak a symbolic language that reveals hidden meanings and psychic realities.

Jung’s bird dream was a profound encounter with his own unconscious, initiating his personal myth-making and laying the groundwork for his analytical psychology.

I know that one day, if I am still alive, I will continue this never-ending story, though there is another “never-ending story” in which I am fully involved! Enjoy your peaceful lives. ✌💕🥰

My (Carl Jung’s) Most Difficult Experiment [P. 3]

Standard

“We need a force not to start conflicts but to protect our nation and freedom. Therefore, making military service more attractive could draw more young people”. Said German Bundeskanzler Friedrich März a few days ago.
I wonder how and with what we can make being a soldier attractive. A soldier’s role involves killing; how can we make that aspect attractive?

I remember the 1960s and 1970s, during the Cold War and Vietnam War, when crowds gathered to protest against conflicts and advocate for peace. Over time, Western governments began to prioritise peace more and engaged in disarmament talks, seeking peaceful coexistence. Yet today, they focus on strengthening their military to defend peace and freedom!

What’s happening? Isn’t there enough war worldwide? Is Germany yearning for the glorious days of the 1930s? The facts appear this way!

However, this has always occurred whenever politicians become oblivious to the horrific machinery of war. Therefore, it might be meaningful to consider two of Jung’s dreams from before WWI, as excerpted from his autobiography. “Memories, Dreams, Reflections” describes Carl Jung’s dreams from 1913 to 1914. With thanks to Lewis Lafontaine. 🙏

In October [1913], while I was alone on a journey, I was suddenly seized by an overpowering vision: I saw a monstrous flood covering all the northern and low-lying lands between the North Sea and the Alps.
When it came to Switzerland, I saw that the mountains grew higher and higher to protect our country.
I realised that a frightful catastrophe was in progress.
I saw the mighty yellow waves, the floating rubble of civilisation, and the drowned bodies of uncounted thousands.
Then the whole sea turned to blood.
This vision lasted about one hour.
I was perplexed and nauseated, and ashamed of my weakness.

Thunder is no longer the voice of a god, nor is lightning his avenging missile.
No river contains a spirit, no tree makes a man’s life, no snake is the embodiment of wisdom, and no mountain still harbours a great demon.
Neither do things speak to him nor can he speak to things, like stones, springs, plants and animals.”
~ Carl Jung, CW 18, Para 585

Two weeks passed; then the vision recurred, under the same conditions, even more vividly than before, and the blood was more emphasised.
An inner voice spoke. “Look at it well; it is wholly real, and it will be so. You cannot doubt it.”
That winter, someone asked me what I thought were the political prospects of the world in the near future.
I replied that I had no thoughts on the matter, but that I saw rivers of blood.
I asked myself whether these visions pointed to a revolution, but I could not really imagine anything of the sort.
And so I concluded that they had to do with me myself, and decided that a psychosis menaced me.
The idea of war did not occur to me at all.
Soon afterwards, in the spring and early summer of 1914, I had a thrice-repeated dream that in the middle of summer an Arctic cold wave descended and froze the land to ice.
I saw, for example, the entire region of Lorraine and its canals frozen, and the whole area totally deserted by human beings.
All living green things were killed by frost.
This dream came in April and May, and for the last time in June 1914.
In the third dream, frightful cold had again descended from out of the cosmos.
This dream, however, had an unexpected end. There stood a leaf-bearing tree, but without fruit (my tree of life, I thought), whose leaves had been transformed by the effects of the frost into sweet grapes full of healing juices.
I plucked the grapes and gave them to a large, waiting crowd…

On August 1, World War I broke out!

Now, let’s continue with the next section, following (1, 2), about Dr Jung’s dreams and examining how a forecaster can predict potential human self-destructive plans. As mentioned in Part Two, Jung described hearing a strange woman’s voice in his mind and tried to analyse it.

He believed the voice was “the soul in the primitive sense,” known as the anima, and stated that he employed his analysis to write letters to his anima, experiencing it as both a ghost and a woman. He remembered this voice as that of a Dutch patient from 1912 to 1918, who convinced a colleague that he was a misunderstood artist. The woman had thought the unconscious was art, but Jung had maintained it was a natural phenomenon. The woman was likely Maria Moltzer, and the psychiatrist was Jung’s friend Franz Riklin, who shifted from analysis to painting, studying Augusto Giacometti in 1913. Riklin’s art was semi-figurative and abstract, with a notable 1915/6 work, Verkündigung, in Zürich, donated by Moltzer in 1945. Giacometti found Riklin’s psychological insights exciting, calling him a modern magician.

Franz Beda Riklin Verkündigung 1915, Wikimedia

The November entries in Black Book 2 depict Jung’s return to his soul. He recalled dreams that led him to his scientific career and recent dreams bringing him back to his soul. In 1925, he noted his first writing phase ended in November: ” Not knowing what would come next, I thought perhaps more introspection was needed… I devised such a boring method by fantasising that I was digging a hole, and by accepting this fantasy as perfectly real. ” This experiment occurred on December 12, 1913 (See Liber Primus, chapter 5, p. 147).

To be continued …………

Thank you for reading! I don’t want to spoil your mood, but sometimes thinking more deeply can help us and prepare us for the worst. While I am on my way to spend the holidays, please note that responses to comments, if any, may be delayed.🙏💖

Illustration art at the top: Dali-Inspired Dreamscape

My (Carl Jung’s) Most Difficult Experiment [P. 2]

Standard

What fascinates me about Jung is his commitment to self-exploration and his use of analysis to discover his Self through the interpretation of dreams. He dedicated his life to this pursuit with genuine honesty and sincerity. Today, I present another section of The Red Book, Liber Novus, by Carl Jung, from Sonu Shamdasani’s Reader’s Edition.🙏

The following month, on a train journey to Schaffhausen, Jung experienced a waking vision of Europe being devastated by a catastrophic flood, which was repeated two weeks later, on the same journey. Commenting on this experience in 1925, he remarked: “I could be taken as Switzerland fenced in by mountains and the submergence of the world could be the debris of my former relationships.” This led him to the following diagnosis of his condition: “I thought to myself, ‘If this means anything, it means that I am hopelessly off.’ ” (Introduction to Jungian Psychology, pp. 47-48). After this experience, Jung feared that he would go mad.
(Barbara Hannah recalls that “Jung used to say in later years that his tormenting doubts as to his own sanity should have been allayed by the amount of success he was having at the same time in the outer world, especially in America” [C. G. Jung: His Life and Work. A Biographical Memoir/ New York: Perigree, 1976/, p. 109]. )
He recalled that he first thought that the images of the vision indicated a revolution, but as he could not imagine this, he concluded that he was “menaced with a psychosis.” (Memories, p. 200). After this, he had a similar vision:

In the following winter, I was standing at the window one night and looked North. I saw a blood-red glow, like the flicker of the sea seen from afar, stretched from East to West across the northern horizon. And at that time, someone asked me what I thought about global events in the near future. I said that I had no thoughts, but saw blood, rivers of blood (Draft, p. 8).

In the year directly preceding the outbreak of war, apocalyptic imagery was widespread in European arts and literature. For example, in 1912, Wassily Kandinsky wrote of a coming universal catastrophe.
From 1912 to 1914. Ludwig Meidner painted a series of works known as the Apocalyptic Landscapes, featuring scenes of destroyed cities, corpses, and turmoil (Gerda Bauer and Ines Wagemann, Ludwig Meidner: Zeichner, Maler, Literat 1884-1966 / Stuttgart: Verlag Gerd Hatje, 1991). Prophecy was in the air!
In 1899, the renowned American medium Leonora Piper predicted that in the coming century, a terrible war would erupt in various parts of the world, purging the world and revealing the truths of spiritualism. In 1918, Arthur Conan Doyle, the spiritualist and author of the Sherlock Holmes stories, viewed this as prophetic (A. C. Doyle, The New Revelation and the Vital Message / London: Psychic Press, 1918, p. 9).

Dream _ A Great Work Of Art Is Like A Dream.
Artwork: Henri Rousseau
From the Carl Jung depth psychology site

In Jung’s account of the fantasy on the train in Liber Novus, the inner voice said that what the fantasy depicted would become completely real. Initially, he interpreted this subjectively and prospectively, that is, as depicting the imminent destruction of his world. His reaction to this experience was to undertake a psychological self-investigation. In this epoch, self-experimentation was used in medicine and psychology. Introspection had been one of the main tools of psychological research.

Jung came to realise that Transformations and Symbols of the Libido “could be taken as myself and that an analysis of it leads inevitably into an analysis of my own unconscious processes” (Introduction to Jungian Psychology, p. 28). He had projected his material onto that of Miss Frank Miller, whom he had never met. Up to this point, Jung had been an active thinker and had been averse to fantasy: “as a form of thinking I held it to be altogether impure, a sort of incestuous intercorse, thoroughly immoral from an intellectual viewpoint” (Ibid.). He now turned to analyse his fantasies, carefully noting everything. He had to overcome considerable resistance in doing this: “Permitting fantasy in myself had the same effect as would be produced on a man if he came into his workshop and found all the tools flying about doing things independently of his will” (Ibid.). In studying his fantasies, Jung realised that he was examining the myth-creating function of the mind (MP, p. 23).

Jung picked up the brown notebook, which he had set aside in 1902, and began writing in it (The subsequent notebooks are black, hence Jung referred to them as the Black Books). He noted his inner states in metaphors, such as being in a desert with an unbearably hot sun (that is, consciousness). In the 1925 seminar, he recalled that it occurred to him that he could write down his reflections in a sequence. He was “writing autobiographical material, but not as an autobiography” (Introduction to Jungian Psychology, p. 48).
From the time of the Platonic dialogues onward, the dialogical CE, St. Augustine wrote his Soliloquies, which presented an extended dialogue between himself and “Reason,” who instructed him. They commenced with the following lines:

When I had been pondering many different things to myself for a long time, and had for many days been seeking my own Self and what my own good was, and what evil was to be avoided, there suddenly spoke to me – what was it? I myself or someone else, inside or outside me? (This is the very thing I would love to know but don’t.) [St. Augustine, Soliloquies and Immorality of the Soul, ed. and tr. Gerald Watson (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1990), p. 23. Watson notes that Augustine “had been through a period of intense strain, close to nervous breakdown, and the Soliloquies are a form of therapy, an effort to cure himself by talking, or rather writing” /p. v/).]

While Jung was writing in Black Book 2:

I said to myself, “What is this I’m doing? This certainly is not science. What is it?” Then a voice said to me, “That is art!” This made the strangest sort of impression upon me, because it was not in any sense my impression that what I was writing was art. Then I came to this: “Perhaps my unconscious is forming a personality that is not I, but which is insisting on coming through to expression.” I don’t know why exactly, but I knew to a certainty that the voice that had said my writing was art had come from a woman … Well, I said very emphatically to this voice that what I was doing was not art, and I felt a great resistance grow up in me. No voice came through, however, and I kept on writing. This time, I caught her and said, “No, it is not”, and I felt as though an argument would ensue. {Ibid., p. 42. In Jung’s account, it appears that his dialogue took place in the autumn of 1913, although this is not certain, as the dialogue itself does not occur in the Black Book, and no other manuscript has yet come to light. If this dating is followed, and in the absence of the other material, it would appear that the material of the voice is referring to the November entries in Black Book 2, and not the subsequent text of Liber Novus or the paintings.}

To be continued!💖

The image on top: Pang Torsuwan -WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING!

Make Peace, No War; Is It Possible?!

Standard

Today, I can only articulate my perplexed reflections regarding this event, which I may have somewhat anticipated yet did not expect. I am referring to the conflict that commenced yesterday between Israel and Iran. I do not wish to convey any patriotic sentiment, as I do not possess such feelings; however, I still experience ambivalent emotions regarding the dismantling of the Islamic regime and my connection to my place of origin.
That is what Carl Jung called the “Collective Unconscious.”

As I once responded to a dear friend’s question regarding my feelings; I have never supported war, but when one resides in a country governed by such a regime—killing young and old of one’s own people without mercy—and each day when venturing out onto the streets, uncertain if one will return alive, there is no other conclusion to draw!

via Lewis Lafontaine 🙏

Carl Jung’s perspective on war is complex and nuanced. He viewed war as a reflection of deeper psychological processes in individuals and nations, rather than just a political clash. Jung believed the “shadow” – the darker aspects of the human psyche – significantly influences this, with nations projecting undesirable traits onto enemies. He warned against the dangers of mass psychology and unconscious forces overwhelming reason, which can lead to destruction.
Jung’s views on war extend beyond military tactics; they explore the psychological roots of conflict, highlighting self-awareness, the risks of unchecked unconscious forces, and how individuation fosters peace.

Recalling the phallus dream and brick games, Jung forms associations leading to his adult views on global devastation and “rivers of blood.” In autumn 1913, he sensed a sombre atmosphere, an oppression that appeared to emanate from external sources, as if something significant lingered in the air. He recalls how this feeling grew stronger over the months, eventually leading to a remarkable vision that took hold of him:

“I saw a monstrous flood covering all the northern and low-lying lands between the North Sea and the Alps. When it came to Switzerland, I saw that the mountains grew higher and higher to protect our country. I realised that a frightful catastrophe was in progress. I saw the mighty yellow waves, the floating rubble of civilisation, and the drowned bodies of uncounted thousands. Then the whole sea turned to blood.” Jung recalls several recurring dreams, regarding them as premonitions of world destruction leading up to the First World War.”

Anyway, I’ll just have to deal with it, just like so many others who have the same concerns. I truly hope this situation comes to a swift and favourable resolution, ultimately leading to a free and prosperous Iran.

My (Carl Jung’s) Most Difficult Experiment [P. 1]

Standard

Regarding foresight, few individuals possess this ability, or perhaps it exists in everyone, yet most fail to recognise it. I knew some of my relatives, and one of my aunts had mastered it. She had seen ghosts in her large, old house, conversed with them, and could perceive events (in dreams) before they occurred. My brother Al also possessed such a gift, particularly in the final years of his life when he underwent surgery on his head to remove a tumour. I do not know if it is a gift, a curse, or a blessing; nonetheless, I would treasure that.

I, myself, have a small example: I had a dream in which one of my customers, an elderly woman I had driven to the doctor for many years but could no longer assist because she needed special transport, urgently called me to ask if I could pick her up and take her to her doctor. I wondered why I had dreamt of her after all this time. Two days after my dream, while driving a guest from her neighbourhood, she told me she recognised me as the person who had driven her friend from next door for a long time and asked if I knew she had passed away. I said no and asked when it had happened. She replied it was the night before last, the same night I had dreamt of her!

Dream analysis stands or falls with [the hypothesis of the unconscious]. Without it, the dream appears to be merely a freak of nature, a meaningless conglomerate of memory fragments left over from the day’s happenings.
~Carl Jung
“Modern Man in Search of a Soul”, p.2, Psychology Press

Now, let us read about one of the great minds in this field: Carl Gustav Jung. He was among the most sensitive and intuitive visionaries of all time. Here, he talks about his dreams, odd and extraordinary dreams. Once, he was even afraid that he had schizophrenia.

<Although it is from The Red Book, which everyone might have or may have even read, I believe many still do not notice the fineness in the “Introduction” at the beginning of the book, as I find it fascinating.>

From Carl Jung’s “The Red Book, Liber Novus: A Reader’s Edition,” by Sonu Shamdasani. (Introduction)

In 1912, Jung had some significant dreams that he did not understand. He gave particular importance to two of these, which, as he felt, showed the limitations of Freud’s conceptions of dreams. The first follows:

I was in a southern town, on a rising street with narrow half-landings. It was twelve o’clock midday–bright sunshine. An old Austrian customs guard or someone similar passes by me, lost in thought. Someone says, “That is one who cannot die. He died already 30 – 40 years ago but has not yet managed to decompose.”

I was very surprised. Here, a striking figure came, a knight of powerful build clad in yellowish armour. He looks solid and inscrutable, and nothing impresses him. On his back, he carries a red Maltese cross. He has continued to exist since the 12th century, and he takes the same route daily between 12 and 1 o’clock midday. No one marvelled at these two apparitions, but I was extremely surprised.

I hold back my interpretive skills. As regards the old Austrian, Freud occurred to me; as regards the knight, I myself.

Inside, a voice calls, “It is all empty and disgusting.” I must bear it. (Black Book 2, pp. 25-26)

Jung found this dream oppressive and bewildering, and Freud was unable to interpret it.

(In 1925, he gave the following interpretation to this dream: “The meaning of the dream lies in the principle of the ancestral figure: not the Austrian officer – obviously he stood for the Freudian theory – but the other, the Crusader, is an archetypal figure, a Christian symbol living for the twelfth century, a symbol that does not really live today, but on the other hand in not wholly dead either. It comes out of the time of Meister Eckhart, the time of the culture of the Knights, when many ideas blossomed, only to be killed again, but they are coming to life again now. However, when I had this dream, I did not know this interpretation” (Introduction to Jungian Psychology, p. 42).

Around half a year later, Jung had another dream:

I dreamt at that time (it was shortly after Christmas 1912) that I was sitting with my children in a marvellous and richly furnished castle apartment – an open columned hall – we were sitting at a round table, whose top was a marvellous dark green stone. Suddenly, a gull or a dove flew in and sprang lightly onto the table. I admonished the children to be quiet so they would not scare away the beautiful white bird. Suddenly, this bird turned into a child of eight years, a small blond child, and ran around playing with my children in the marvellous columned colonnades. Then, the child suddenly turned into the gull or dove. She said the following to me: “Only in the first hour of the night can I become human while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.” With these words, the bird flew away, and I awoke. (Black Book 2, pp. 17-18)

In Black Book 2, Jung noted that it was this dream that made him decide to embark on a relationship with a woman he had met three years earlier (Toni Wolff, Ibid., p. 17). In 1925, he remarked that this dream “was the beginning of a conviction that the unconscious did not consist of inert material only, but that there was something living down there (Introduction to Jungian Psychology, p. 42). He added that he thought of the story of the Tabula Smaragdina (emerald tablet), the twelve apostles, the signs of the Zodiac, and so on, but that he “could make nothing out of the dream except that there was a tremendous animation of the unconscious. I knew no technique for getting to the bottom of this activity; all I could do was just wait, keep on living, and watch the fantasies.”

I include this footnote to highlight his insatiable greed and relentless pursuit to decipher the meaning behind his dream and how he developed the interpretation.

Ibid., pp. 40-41. E. A. Benner noted Jung’s comments on this dream: “At first, he thought ‘twelve dead men’ referred to the twelve days before Christmas, for that is the dark time of the year, when traditionally witches are about. To say ‘before Christmas’ is to say before the sun lives again, for Christmas day is at the turning point of the year when the sun’s birth was celebrated in the Mithraic religion… Only much later did he relate the dream to Hermes and the twelve doves” (Meeting with Jung: Conversations recorded by E.A. Brenner during the years 1946-1961 [London: Anchor Press,1982; Zürich, Daimon Verlag, 1985], p. 93). In 1951, in “The Psychological Aspects of the Kore”, Jung presented some material from Liber Novus (describing them all as part of a dream series) in an anonymous form (“case Z.”), tracing the transformations of the anima. He noted that this dream “shows the anima as a elflike, i.e., only partially human. She can just as well be a bird, which means that she may belong wholly to nature and can vanish (i.e., become unconscious) from the human sphere (i.e., consciousness)” (CW9, I, § 371). See also Memories, pp. 195-96.

These dreams led him to analyse his childhood memories, but this did not resolve anything. He realised that he needed to recover the emotional tone of childhood. He recalled that as a child, he used to like to build houses and other structures, and he took this up again.

While he was engaged in this self-analytic activity, he continued to develop his theoretical work. At the Munich Psycho-Analytical Congress in September 1913, he spoke on psychological types. He argued that there were two basic movements of the libido: extraversion, in which the subject’s interest was oriented towards the outer world, and introversion, in which the subject’s interest was directed inward. Following from this, he posited two types of people, characterised by the predominance of one of these tendencies. The psychologies of Freud and Adler were examples of the fact that psychologies often took what was true of their type as generally valid. Hence, what was required was a psychology that did justice to both of these types (“On the question of psychological types,” CW 6).

Although this captivating story continues, I will share it in parts to facilitate understanding and enjoyment. Thank you for taking the time to read!

PS: In case someone interested, I will try to write about my new condition in a separate post. 🙏💖