Jonathan Lear, Love and its Place in Nature (1990). Chapter 5 (XIV)
Inevitably, a book written about the idea of “love” in Freud’s thought must take some position on the “enlarged sexuality” he identifies in mental life. “Inevitable,” that is, because Freud notoriously insisted that all love, Eros, of whatever gradation, is grown around a kernel of sexuality. He puts the thought this way in Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego: “The nucleus of what we mean by love naturally consists…in sexual love with sexual union as its aim” (29).
In Chapter 5, “What is Sex?”, Lear takes Freud’s metapsychological identification — that sexuality is a “drive” [Trieb] — as an occasion to explore the more basic question, which Freud never resolves to his own satisfaction: what is a drive? Naturally, there is little prospect of our grasping Freud’s view of “sexuality” until we’ve described the stuff of which it is ostensible made, the “type” of thing it is. (For other attempts to address the vexing problem of drives, see my accounts of Loewald’s “Therapeutic Action” essay, Mitchell and Greenberg’s Object Relations, and the opening remarks of Freud’s “Economic Problem of Masochism.”)
At least according to Freud’s early statements, drives are “continuous, internal sources of pressure” (122), distinct from both external stimuli and the fixed “instincts.” But these distinctions, in themselves questionable, are not the objects of either Freud’s or Lear’s conceptual dissatisfaction, which relates instead to the “frontier quality” (122) of drives. That is, drives are situated at the frontier separating the mental and physical: they are, at different moments in Freud’s account, both “psychical representatives” of physiological forces and, also, the physiological forces themselves (122). Hence the human drives — both sexual drives and the self-preservative “ego-drives,” such as hunger — may be conceived both as mental entities and as forces in the body that appear to the mind in this manner.
In fact, Lear does not conclude that Freud was mistaken, either about this “frontier” status or, for that matter, about its metaphysical inscrutability. (There are allegedly good reasons for Freud’s dissatisfaction.) Lear is critical, rather, of Freud’s attempt to handle an essentially philosophical matter as though it were empirical. Perhaps a drive is simply one thing viewed under two aspects — as physiological force or as psychical representative. Nonetheless, a “psychological inquiry” (123) has a place for concepts pertaining only to the latter. This is essentially an epistemic or methodological decision, and needn’t involve — Lear argues — any “metaphysical” commitment regarding the reality of this distinction, one way or the other.
(Whether epistemic and metaphysical commitments can be distinguished so tidily is not a question I will address in this place. Suffice it to say that Hegel, for example, criticized any attempt to establish a “pure” epistemology antecedently to metaphysics — say, in Descartes or Kant — or an epistemology that does not involve metaphysical commitments at every step.)
Whether or not physiological force and mental representative are at root identical is a question that can be bracketed. Physiological concepts can and should be left to biology, while Freudian psychology can and should confine itself to concepts of drive that “manifest” in the only form that could possibly interest us: as mental items. Once isolated from questions of physiological architecture, the concept of drive has an immediate and significant theoretical implication: its “meaning” cannot be merely functional, as its biological counterpart may well be.
Under its purely physiological aspect, in other words, a drive’s meaning may indeed be exhausted by its “function” — either for the individual organism or for the species to which it belongs. But under its mental aspect — as a drive-representative — this drive cannot logically be dissociated from its appearance to its bearer. Again, “if the drive cannot be characterized in psychological terms, it loses its claim to be a psychological concept” (125). (See again, in this connection, Freud’s “Economic Problem of Masochism,” for evidence of a deep puzzle regarding what is objectively “quantitative” and what is subjectively “qualitative” in sensations of pleasure and unpleasure. See also Freud’s tribute to Charcot, which defends the “autonomy” of psychological concepts.)
In fact,, Freud himself often ignores the importance of this distinction, attributing to the sexual drive a “meaning” fixed entirely by its hypothetical function in the life of a healthy organism. Just as the “meaning” of hunger is the “drive for nutrition” (126) — the desideratum without which the organism fails to function — so the meaning of the sexual drive must be predicated, Freud initially reasons, on some conception of a well-functioning organism, whose “aim” this drive advances. Freud imagines that some impersonal aim, corresponding to hunger’s “drive” for nutrition, could be similarly fixed for the sexual drive. As hunger is grasped in terms of “nutritional” ends of self-preservation, the sexual drive is grasped ultimately in terms of species-perpetuation. This, in any case, is Freud’s early position: “The sexual drive is distinguished by its end, or goal. Unlike the I-drives, which function to preserve the individual, the sexual drive functions to preserve the species” (127).)
Now, Lear insists on both the legitimacy and even the necessity of drawing his “methodological” distinction and keeping to the psychological side of things — presumably because Freud himself failed so often to honor it. This chapter shows how Freud mistakenly searched for the uniquely psychological meaning of the sexual drive among concepts found only on the physiological side, that is, in biological knowledge about the human being qua well-functioning creature. In the case of sexuality, Freud supposes — surely justifiably — that “the overall functioning of the human being” (127), no less than other non-human animals, must typically or on average promote the survival of the species. And this claim “gives us a conception of what human sexuality is for” (127), or that end “for the sake of which” the sexual drive operates.
But do these reflections yield the psychological meaning of sexuality construed as a drive-representative — the only object that concerns psychoanalysis? — one that is “manifest” in such diverse phenomena as bodily gestures and pleasures and, in normal cases, the increasing restriction of diffuse bodily satisfactions to specifically genital ones? Plainly, the answer is no. In the next entries, we will review Lear’s alternative conception.
Jonathan Lear, Love and its Place in Nature (1990). Chapter 4 (XIII)
In Chapter 4, as we’ve seen, Lear extends his psychoanalytic “revisionism” into new areas — those that pertain especially to psychic growth, healthy and deviant. Not only are emotions and ideas fundamentally inseparable, as we found in Lear’s critical accounts of cathartic method and, in still greater detail, dream interpretation. (Each of these techniques presuppose, in practice, just this “inseparability.”) We now see that, in the analytic treatment of Little Hans, Freud’s practice encourages a similar approach to wishes, which likewise develop through phases of increasing determinacy, complexity, sophistication.
The Oedipal wishes embedded in Hans’s early emotional-ideational experiences only later, in analysis, assume the form of an interpretation, something like, ‘Hans wants to possess his mother and eliminate his father.’ Again, it is precisely characteristic of primary-process wishes, in contrast to adult desires, that they do not possess this form, even as they strain towards it. From the perspective of the child Hans, these “wishes” are no more conceptually-solidified than the “anxiety” their incohate recognition stirs in him.
Freud divines the identity of Hans’s wishes, we saw, by observing the boy’s emotional development and — in analysis — the growth of his fantasy-life. The latter allows sounder, more definitive inferences, based on both experience and communications concerning it. Analysis encourages the uninhibited expression of these fantasies, which, in such an environment, assume increasing complexity, differentiation, and finally — Lear implies — a coherence that verges on the conceptual. Once Hans’s fantasies reach a certain level of integration, and no sooner, they become candidates for interpretation, that is, concepts proper.
So Lear cites a particularly “triumphal” Oedipal fantasy of Hans as a turning point in his analysis. This was “a fantasy that allowed an alternative conceptualization” (110), so that “Freud’s interpretation offered Hans a set of concepts with which he could understand his own productions” (111). In the fantasy, Hans encounters a big giraffe and a crumpled giraffe — father and mother — and “re-possesses” the crumpled giraffe from the big one, who, upset by Hans’s actions, nonetheless ultimately accepts defeat. The fantasy, says Lear, “virtually presents itself in conceptual form (111). Again, Freud is now positioned to offer, and Hans prepared to receive, the Oedipal concepts toward which his fantasy-life is striving. “When the formulations of archaic mind get close to a secondary-process expression, Freud gives his interpretation” (111). Lear continues:
“The interpretation offers Hans an alternative set of concepts with which to understand his infantile wishes, it offers an opportunity of linking concepts to the archaic wishes, and it offers Hans the opportunity to transform his emotional relationship to those wishes.” (111)
This transformation of the way Hans “emotionally relates” to objects, particularly the contents of his own mind, signals the cathartic reorientation described in the second chapter. Once analysis establishes a suitably nurturing environment, the patient may begin to approach formerly inadmissible, intolerable, and frightening materials in the spirit of “identification at a distance” characteristic of cathartic experience. One may, specifically, assume an emotional attitude of compassion and curiosity toward these materials, rather than fear and aversion. And these dreaded materials include, preeminently, the wishes that Hans has never permitted to develop into articulate, transparent form. This underlying emotional reorientation is, in Hans’s case, a precondition of his ultimate preparedness to receive Freud’s interpretation:
“For this to be possible, Hans must transform the emotional relation in which he stands to his own wishes. He no longer fears his oedipal wishes; he can acknowledge and accept them. This allows the wishes themselves to develop in form and content: that is, to move in the direction of becoming desires.” (112)
For Lear, Freud’s metapsychology leaves “idea” and “emotion” mutually-estranged and arbitrarily-conjoined. Yet for Lear these items are mutually dependent: the idea simply is the expression of the emotion at some stage of its growth and inner articulation. (In other places, I have connected this mutual dependence to the Hegelian idea of “speculative identities.”) The same sort of critique applies to “wishes” per se, which are not finally “distinct” from
the adult’s desires into which they turn, or
the emotional orientation which they ground, or, again,
the “thinking” mind, which uninterruptedly makes sense of them
The “interpretation” phase of an analysis, when successful, elicits conceptual form from the restless expressions of the infantile “wish” just as surely as it does from the emotional orientation. In cases of neurotic deviation, distortion, or interruption, both emotion and wish struggle as aspects of archaic mind to communicate themselves to a consciousness whose false integration depends on repelling those communications. They may take somatic, bodily form, or clothe themselves in the fabric of dream and fantasy, in the hopes of being heard via primary process language. And analysis establishes an emotional and ideational climate in which hearing is possible.
Not only do the first expressions of archaic mind become more intelligible with greater exposure and familiarity, though; these expressions themselves acquire greater self-consistency and clarity — the qualities of secondary-process — as time passes. No longer entirely insensible to these communications, consciousness permits them this development, and even — with the analyst’s help — extends to archaic mind a sophisticated conceptual vocabulary in which to speak. Thus Freud gives Hans “a set of concepts with which to think about his wishes” (113). Once again, though, these concepts are not merely “imposed” from above upon an commensurable material — “wishes” — compounded of radically different, non-conceptual “substance.” On the contrary: “The wishes themselves absorb this conceptualization and thus enter into commerce with secondary-process thinking” (113). So runs Lear’s account of “wishes” in Chapter 4.
Jonathan Lear, Love and its Place in Nature (1990). Chapter 4 (XII)
Lear is now reviewing Freud’s account of “Little Hans” in Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy. In particular, Lear identifies some of the epistemological difficulties raised by the treatment of a boy whose “concepts” are neither directly accessible to adult observation nor in themselves fully determinate. Little Hans’s use of the term “widdler” is only the most notorious instance of this phenomena.
These difficulties call for some amount of inferential, “reconstructive” work — that is, interpretation of the externals of Hans’s life — if Freud is going to identify the infantile “wishes” pervading the boy’s inner life. Hence his outward emotional trajectory led from
an initial, outward-looking cheerfulness, through
a period of shyness, to
a diffuse anxiety, and finally to
a particular phobia
On the basis of these observable changes, Freud hypothesizes an “internal” economy of wishes, whose fates — whose satisfactions and frustrations — are manifested in those external changes. Predictably, Freud theorizes that an intense affection for the mother, and its subsequent repression, are effectively responsible for these changes. So, in the idiom of “wishes”: “[R]epression transformed his longing into a voracious anxiety capable of swallowing up Hans’s emotional life” (104, my italics).
Now Lear’s “developmental” reading, as he has taken to calling it, complicates Freud’s idea of the “path” from unconscious to conscious. For according to Freud’s official account, a higher organization is achieved when the “thing-representation” of archaic mental life is “linked with an appropriate word-representation” (105). But as Lear argues, Freud’s own case history suggests that considerably more is involved than “the attachment of a word to a thing-representation” (106). It is not as though archaic mental phenomena — associative, imagistic, self-contradictory — are in any condition simply to be “labeled” by the determinate, discrete, mutually-exclusive, and fixed concepts borne by words. Before any such “attachment” can be established, the anarchy of primary-process must itself be called into some kind of order. “The thing-representations themselves must be disciplined so that a word can legitimately be applied” (106). Hence what is finally entailed in making an unconscious thought a conscious one is “the acquisition of a concept” (106). That is, the unconscious thought lacks more than a “word,” to which it can be externally attached; as yet it lacks the conceptual form that would enable that application.
Little Hans’s development exhibits, among other things, “the incorporation of a concept at the level of both word and thing” (106). In fact, his horse-phobia illustrates precisely an attempt to achieve this higher psychical organization — with mixed success, of course. The phobia imparts a concept to Hans’s diffuse, free-floating anxiety — anxiety originating in recently repressed Oedipal longings and threats. Anxiety, “fear of an unconceptualized object” (107), contracts in phobias into fear-proper: a particular object or class of objects. (One may subsequently “manage” this fear by, for example, avoiding the object; whereas anxiety überhaupt admits of no such management.) This emotional shift from anxiety to fear, pace Freud’s own picture of emotion-as-discharge, signals a new world-orientation. Horses now “show up” for Hans as objects to fear; his experience is re-organized accordingly.
Again, Freud himself interprets that, while the anxiety is initially connected with Hans’s father, repression prevents Hans from becoming fearful of the “proper” object. (Horses become consciously admissible “receptacles” for another fear that is in itself determinate.)This theorization implies that Hans’s “fear of the father” (108) is a tidy and determinate — albeit unconscious — thought-content, which could simply be “transferred onto horses” (109). Thus it is one and same fear, at one time of a father-object, at another of a horse-object. This, in any case, is the official line: “Repression consists in sundering the idea of the father and attaching the emotion to another object” (109).
Though Freud’s topic is no longer Breuer, hysterics, and cathartic method, the wording of these descriptions suggest a return of sorts. For if Hans’s psychic dilemma really were as Freud reconstructs it, it would follow that the boy had erroneously displaced one and the same quantum of psychic energy — his fear — from father to horse. And the phobia could be resolved by “discharging” the emotion onto its appropriate object.
But we have seen that Lear rejects this model, and why. If Lear’s conception of emotional development is correct, though — if, in particular, the path from unconscious content to conscious idea involves more than external attachment but, beyond this, the incorporation of a concept — then we must explain the narrative of Hans, too, along different lines. This theoretical revision will affect our view of repression, as well. Lear writes:
“On the developmental model…that which would have resolved itself into fear of the father is prevented from doing so. Repression consists in inhibiting this process of resolution and in promoting the wrong sort of conceptualization” (109).
Again, it is not as though the phobic Hans possesses a fully-determinate “concept” — something like, ‘I am afraid of my father’ — with the merely formal qualification that this conceptual self-understanding is “unconscious” rather that “conscious.” Nor is it the case that the (relatively conceptualized) self-understanding Hans does consciously enjoy — ‘I am afraid of horses’ — simply reflects the “transfer” of a determinate fear from the “right” to the “wrong,” symbolically-associated object.
Rather, the original situation — given Freud’s own understanding of primary process — is that Hans’s fear of his father was proto-conceptual. Repression precisely obstructed this fear’s articulation into the right sort of conceptual, conscious, and appropriately-directed form. Indeed, it is for just this reason that the imagistic, indeterminate fear could articulate itself through the associative links of Hans’s eventual phobia. As Lear puts it: “But it is not that the conscious idea of a horse is substituted for the unconscious idea of the father. Rather, for Hans’s unconscious, there is no significant difference between fathers and horses” (109). An analysis, finally, would usher this fear into a form it has never actually assumed: namely, that “concept” provided by a sound interpretation. Strictly speaking, Hans neither consciously nor unconsciously “fears his father” — in that conceptual form — until interpretation “realizes” it for him.
We will conclude our discussion of Chapter 4 in the next entry.
Jonathan Lear, Love and its Place in Nature (1990). Chapter 4 (XI)
The fourth chapter of Love and its Place in Nature, “Interpretation and Transformation” — the book’s shortest — reexamines the case of “Little Hans” for the light it throws on “infantile wishes.” Lear effectively does here for “proto-desires” what he has just done for the “proto-beliefs” contained in archaic mind’s “emotional orientation.”
Both are necessary. Recall that, for Lear, the “intelligibility” of dreams and other unconscious phenomena approximates that of action. The latter — action qua action — implies both desire and and belief. On this analogy, then, something “like” an elementary desire and belief ought to be identifiable in our object. The joint presence of the pair, however latent, is a condition of possibility for “interpretation” — provided that we think, as Freud and Lear do, that analytic interpretation discloses a “rational” mind where the irrational seems to prevail.
In the third chapter, Lear emphasized the essentially orientating function of emotions: they are not, pace Freud, mere dischargeable quanta of psychic energy, but incline the dreamer in particular “ideational” directions. That is to say: even archaic emotions “make sense” of themselves by generating ideas, rationalizations, “beliefs” — albeit according to the laws of primary process. The successful dream interpretation imputes to the adult dreamer such infantile “proto-beliefs” as, for instance: father’s love for me is jeopardized by my intimacy with mother; or the arrival of a sibling will diminish the amount of love I receive — hence dispatching the sibling will restore the lost situation — yet I will be punished if I eliminate the rival. Such “conceptuality,” while hardly explicit to the child — or the child’s adult descendant, archaic mind — is nonetheless presupposed by an “emotion” like jealousy, which presses for meaningful expression (note bene: not “discharge) in whatever manner, and with whatever resources it is able. Analysis done well can escort the proto-beliefs embedded in these emotions, via decipherment, into fully fledged “beliefs” — whereupon they may admit of conscious affirmation, rejection, or some other action. But no resolution like this would be possible, were it not that emotions are so-constituted from the start.
But what can we say, by analogy, of the “counterpart” to archaic mind’s proto-beliefs — namely, its proto-desires or, in Freud’s idiom, “wishes”? These latter are infantile precursors to the mature adult’s conscious — and consciously endorsable — desires. To repeat: we will recognize the rationality of archaic mind, after the pattern of action, when it manifests something approximating beliefs and desires. Freud’s case history of Little Hans, Lear claims, presents “the infantile wish as it exists in the infant’s soul” (98).
I repeat: in order to redeem its “scientific” promise, analysis must locate proto-desires in addition to proto-beliefs — some inchoate aim. One without the other would not suffice for interpretation and its “rationality seeking” agenda. Just as an action will seem unintelligible — not fully “action" at all — if it expresses a belief but no desire related to that belief (‘Why is she doing that? To what end?’), likewise, the infantile world-orientation is only really accessible to us once we’ve identified its “wish.” But how, Lear wonders, should we go about making this identification? And what, epistemically speaking, entitles us to postulate such an item which, if anything, appears to be less determinate, and more deeply buried, than the infant’s proto-beliefs?
The case history of Little Hans, Lear writes, indicates “what is involved in making a psychoanalytic interpretation of a symptom, fantasy or dream in terms of infantile wishes” (103). In this “material” — in case histories generally, as in less exemplary forms — “Freud had two related phenomena to work with: the transformation of little Hans’s emotions and the development of his fantasies” (103-4). In other words, the interpretation of wishes will depend upon a record of diachronic movement and unfolding in the child’s mental life, some of which “responds” to Freud’s own analytic interventions. (Thus Lear implies, without saying so explicitly, that a synchronic inventory or snapshot of the child’s mental life would not provide the necessary basis for wish-attribution.) The vicissitudes of Hans’s emotions and fantasies are “indexed” to episodes in the boy’s “outer” life — including, later on, the analysis itself. (In fact, the question of whether these interventions amount to a proper “analysis” is difficult to answer. Notoriously, Freud did not treat Little Hans directly, but through the intermediary of the boy’s father.)
Freud believed that the “wishes” expressed in dreams, discernible through analysis, are vestiges of infantile experience that remain part of the adult unconscious. If this claim is true, though, then we ought to be able to observe these infantile wishes in the child him- or herself in their relatively undiluted purity. There is a freshness and immediacy to the emotional expressions of children that is lacking in adults, who are supposedly well past the phase of repression which separates them from their own childhood mental lives. Nonetheless, we meet here with problems of “communication” that challenge even a dedicated, impartial “observer.” And Lear explicates some of these problems in the remainder of the chapter.
For example, Hans is famously preoccupied with both his own “widdler” and all the other “widdlers” he observes or infers in others: in father and mother, in his sister, in other children, in animals — indeed, in anything “animate.” Lear shows that, in fact, there is no viable basis for Freud’s conviction that Hans has made a “mistake” in his undiscerning applications of this concept. For calling these applications mistaken presupposes that Hans possesses something like a determinate, crystallized concept that could match, or fail to match. its object. In those instances where we seem to be in a position to verify this assumption — ‘But don’t you notice that your sister doesn’t have a “widdler”?’ — we may well simply be correcting his concept, rather than its erroneous application. We’d have no reliable way of determining which has occurred. If afterwards Hans no longer assigned a “widdler” to his younger sister, this could be taken as evidence either that he was persuaded, through closer scrutiny, that she did not possess the “organ” (about whose concept he was never in doubt), or that his very concept of a widdler had been revised, “disciplined” by the pedagogical intervention of his parents” (98-103). “There is…a severe limit to the extent to which anyone can go native in a tribe that consists of one three-and-a-half-year-old speaker” (103).
It follows that, even in childhood, when infantile wishes are ostensibly in full flower, they are not directly, undisguisedly available to analysis, but must be “reconstructed” from the data supplied both by the child’s outward behavior and through his intrinsically-ambiguous communications. These communications are ambiguous, again, because the child’s language reflects “concepts” that are still inchoate and very far from the adult’s successor-concepts.
I will take up some of these issues in the next entry.
Jonathan Lear, Love and its Place in Nature (1990). Chapter 3 (X)
We concluded the last entry with Lear’s critical account of one, infamous dichotomy in Freud’s thinking: namely, between the “pleasure” and “reality” principles. In particular, Lear critiques the putatively stark separation between the modes of thinking characteristic of each: so-called “primary” and “secondary” process. He writes:
“The point is only that the transition from primary to secondary process lies on a developmental continuum of mental functioning. The concrete images of primary process may be preconceptual, but they are also protoconceptual. They are that from which concepts emerge.” (84-85)
With this qualification in place, we are free to regard adult desires and beliefs as attempts, more or less successful, to impart mature, conceptual form to their infantile ancestors: “wishes” and — as I will call them — “convictions” (93-94). (Lear himself does not give the concept this name, or any, but continues to describe it as a “proto-belief.”) Such wishes and convictions, subject to the laws of primary process law, will seem “strange” when examined from the adult standpoint, whose conscious desires and beliefs have meanwhile been called into some kind of explicit, logical order. Nonetheless, they will never be so strange that, with enough analytic attention, they cannot be deciphered as intelligible precursors of the adult orientation. This is because, as we have said, the in-built conatus of these inchoate bits of infantile experience — archaic mental functioning — is just towards the self-clarifying terminus finally reached in psychoanalysis, which delivers the needed interpretation.
By this point, moreover, Lear is positioned to challenge another dichotomous doxa of Freudian theory: the claim that ideas, but not emotions, can be made unconscious through repression. That is, “emotions must be conscious” (88), or “we must in some way be aware of an emotion when it is occurring” (88). As Lear sees it, Freud arrives at this result by restricting the meaning of emotion to the patent physiological feeling that announces it. (One is conscious, for instance, of an elevated pulse.)
But once emotions are construed as vehicles of “world-orientation,” Lear infers, hence undercutting any clear separation between idea and the emotion bearing that idea, then a fortiori the construction of a “repressed” idea alongside an “unrepressed” emotion makes little sense. As an ontological matter, there is only the emotional-orientation. In non-neurotic conditions, this orientation may achieve a high degree of “ideational” coherence and conscious explication; or it may neurotically stall in its development, confined to archaic self-expression, which will assuredly strike consciousness as a strange “not-I.” At no stage, however, will emotion and idea separate into discrete “entities,” one of which — but not the other — submits to repression.
Along these same lines, Lear criticizes Freud’s use of a “soldering” metaphor, mobilized both in the theory of dreams (91) and of sexuality (131). In both contexts, Freud’s metaphor rests on a single, untenable assumption: that one item (an idea; a love-object) may be arbitrarily “soldered together” with another item (an emotion; a sexual drive) that has no intrinsic connection with it. In fact, Freud’s practice indicates just the opposite. While the connections (in both dreams and sexual life) may seem bizarre from the standpoint of secondary-process, there is nothing “arbitrary” about them when situated in their proper context. They are, in fact, the best expressions of meaning attainable by archaic mental functioning, given the “merely" associative, imagistic resources at its disposal.
Thus the adult dreamer, with secondary-process sophistication, supposes the dream “emotion” and “idea” have been arbitrarily soldered together — since, for example, in his dream “fear” is felt in a “situation” in which, logically, it is out of place. But interpretation reveals that, on the contrary, the “idea” of that situation is (for the dreamer) a perfectly appropriate expression of the emotion in question. For it follows an associative semantic chain built unerringly by archaic mind.
In other words, emotion and idea alike must submit to repression because they are inseparable even in thought. To say that an idea has been made unconscious, as Freud officially teaches, is just to say that the emotion which ought to reach expression as that idea — or: the full emotional orientation of which the idea is one semantic ingredient — has been waylaid at a more archaic level, where it “expresses” itself in its native tongue, in the grammar of primary process, in those “ideas” it can articulate.
“What analysis does, them, is to rescue the rationality of an emotion” (90) — a rationality clothed in primary-process garb, to whose patterns the more integrated mind is generally obtuse. This way of stating things makes sense. After all, how could analysis or interpretation function at all, if its “latent” object (emotion, drive, etc.) were not logically expressed, however crudely, in the “manifestations” investigated? Analysis can only “get started” because “an emotion and its appropriate idea do constitute an indissoluble organic unity” (91).
A dream in which an emotion really were arbitrary connected, “soldered together” with an idea that in no conceivable way merited that emotion, would be uninterpretable, by definition. To be sure, dream connections may seem arbitrary in this way. For example, someone may dream of being attacked by a bear, and yet — in the dream itself — feels the “inappropriate” emotion of delight. But the premise of a Freudian interpretation is that, appearances notwithstanding, the idea of a bear attack is — in some figurative way — the appropriate, even “logical” expression of the felt delight. The correct interpretation will depend, of course, on this hypothetical dreamer’s associations to the episode. Perhaps it will emerge that he is “delighted” because he identifies with the powerful, attacking bear; or because the bear is a symbol of caring, protection, or humor; or because the bear is, more specifically, an infantile representation of a parent, or amalgam of important figures, whose aggressive “seduction” is desired.
What matters is that, beginning from the “pointer” (91) provided by an emotion, we may reasonably ask: in what way is the purportedly mystifying “idea” or “manifest content” in truth an appropriate, reasonable expression of that emotion? “[W]hen analysis penetrates deeper…it finds an underlying unity. It reveals that the emotion is always attached to its appropriate idea” (91). The same premise holds for “all cases of repression” (90), as in phobias, where the intensity of aversion and fear may be out of all logical proportion to its object — say, a harmless spider. Beginning from just this intense emotion, though, we examine the ways in which the spider “idea” is its apt, primary-process expression.