The Paradoxical Legacy of Sigmund Freud

Frances Moran

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781855757257
• eBook ISBN:
  9780429921667
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: History & Theory in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

By way of a new reading of The Complete Works of Sigmund Freud, this book introduces the notion of a theory of practice to the psychoanalytic endeavour. Spelled out in terms of interdependent components, namely; aim, technique and theoretical premises, the author takes the reader through Freud's oeuvre so that he emerges as a relentless, theoretically grounded, practitioner. Moran argues that the nub of the Freudian inheritance is the concept of human subjectivity. In the light of this finding and her reading of Freud, she presents the work of Paul Verhaeghe (On Being Normal and Other Disorders), anew and calls on Marie Cardinal, (The Words to Say It), to provide telling evidence of what it means to be a Freudian subject. Given the objectifying processes at work in the contemporary culture, the relevance of Freud for our times becomes compelling. Here practitioners will find a clearly presented framework within which to operate and a way of organizing the material that informs their clinical pursuits. The exploration of an underpinning structure to The Complete Works will be of the utmost assistance to those who wish to embark upon a search for knowledge of the human condition through the highways and byways of the legacy of Sigmund Freud.

Chapter One

Much ado about science

Modern science has us enthralled. We believe in its perceived promise. It provides a pathway of hope towards a better future. Today the individual can partake of the benefits science offers in an immediate and personal manner: do I have a pacemaker? do I engage in IVF? are there any alternatives?—these choices touch each close to hand as never before. Furthermore, we have come to think scientifically in our everyday life, accepting scientific criteria as those of authentic value. Today, only that which is evidence-based and quantifiable is accepted as real. And, given the state of current medical technology, why would we consider it to be otherwise? As avid consumers in the marketplace we believe we benefit from medication, procedures, implants, and transplants all of a quality that was unimaginable not so very long ago. With the mapping of the human genome at our fingertips, we hope for more and better medical science and more control over life and death. We have confidence in the notion of unabated progress and are unwilling to take into account more sobering findings such as that, contrary to earlier understandings, ‘junk’ DNA is in fact of vital importance— a matter of huge consequence in the field of genetics where so much is at stake. Regardless, we of the 21st century have unmitigated trust that science will allow humankind to survive.

This somewhat hidden sense of optimism is not new. Science, at least since it has lost its association with the liberal arts, has been apotheosized continuously. The scientific enterprise claims and has gained a status that in the Western world has given much traction to its endeavours. Yet although contextualized differently, the prestige associated with the work of science was of great importance a century ago.

Think of Freud (1856–1939). Here is a man who considered the pursuit of science and its methodology to be of unquestionable value. Not only was he proud to call himself a scientist, but rather he was insistent that his life’s work was one conducted within the scientific paradigm. This is clearly evident where he writes that his An Autobiographical Study (1925d (1924), p. 71) “shows how psychoanalysis came to be the whole content of my life and rightly assumes that no personal experiences of mine are of any interest in comparison to my relations with that science.” He remained adamant throughout his entire life that psychoanalysis was a natural science, “the science of unconscious mental processes” (p. 70). When aware of disparities in his approach to scientists working in other fields, he argued that psychoanalysis does not need its own Weltanschauung. Rather, he states, “it is a part of science and can adhere to the scientific Weltanschauung” (1933a, p. 181).

Nevertheless, even if Freud purported to be clear about the scientific status of his vast endeavour, many have since challenged this perception. The inarguably impressive documentation of his work of approximately half a century, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, is in its own right an intellectual inheritance of immense stature. The question is, however, what is the precise nature of this stature? If psychoanalysis is a science then it could, and possibly should, hold its place in the current marketplace where the science of psychology is in growing demand, supported in some instances by a policy of medical rebate. This, however, is not the reality. Freudian analysis is considered passé in content and disreputable according to the current version of scientific acceptability. So what is the Freudian legacy? Is it no more than an anachronism within the 21st century culture that suffers from what are reported as epidemics of depression, anxiety and obesity?

Freud’s magnum opus

The Standard Edition is a vast labyrinth of complex and changing ideas, written over fifty years, that touch upon and draw from many varied types of knowledge. It contains evidence of logical contradictions and inconsistencies so that it can be said to lack theoretical coherence when taken as a whole. Not surprisingly this situation has given rise to much discussion and debate in the academic tradition focussed in the main on the question of the epistemological status of psychoanalytic theory. Readings of Freud and the stance taken on this question can be organized along three main lines of thought: the idea that (i) psychoanalysis is/is not a natural science¹; (ii) psychoanalysis is best situated within the hermeneutical tradition²; and (iii) we need to question the very notion of science itself with this interrogation undertaken in the light of the findings of psychoanalysis.³ Others challenge the relevance of the question of the scientific status of psychoanalysis but suggest its value lies in its account of human nature.⁴

I will not here discuss the merits or otherwise of these arguments. My own in this book is an entirely different one. In essence, I contend that although Freud wanted to be and believed himself to be a scientist, he was first and foremost a practitioner dealing with the mental life of his patients. His aim was a practical one. He needed to make a living and he needed to build a reputation as one who could treat his patients successfully. As Freud worked and theorized his understanding of his treatment of the mind, he constructed what is best described as a theory of practice, a concept to be considered more fully later on; specifically, a theory of psychoanalytic practice. This theory is one that has an aim, principles of justification and a method, all three components being integrally interrelated. Interestingly, this phrase a “theory of practice” has been used by Fink (2007, p. 275) but without any conceptual development.

As a clinician, Freud gained knowledge, not for its own sake, but for a practical purpose, to achieve a desired end. He claimed that psychoanalysis was “not only a method of research into the neuroses but also a method of treatment” (1913m (1911), p. 207), as if these two were separate aspects of his endeavour. Yet a considered reading of the Standard Edition suggests otherwise. As a consultant, Freud was presented with the problem of a suffering patient. His goal was to relieve that suffering. In order to justify his clinical activity he drew upon whatever knowledge was at his disposal to achieve his aim. Freud did not develop a theory then deduce from it his clinical activity. Rather, in the light of his aim he drew upon all the fields of knowledge that he considered relevant in his attempt to give theoretical justification for his activity. Freud was what we might call an anchored clinical theoretician, that is, one whose theory is anchored to the practical goal at hand.

Before proceeding it is important that I clarify what might be confusing for the reader. I do not hold that Freud consciously intended to develop a theory of practice in the sense proposed here. Not at all. Freud wanted to construct a scientific theory—he thought scientifically—and so, like all scientists, considered that there was a gap between theory and practice. He believed that the all-important thing was the theory or knowledge and that therapy was but merely one possible use of this knowledge. The knowledge he tried to gain was considered distinct from its application. I will expand this point a little in terms of Freud’s style of thought and motivation.

Freud’s scientific thought and motivation

Ernest Jones, in his three-volume biography of Freud, explains that although Freud derived his knowledge of the deeper layers of the mind from his investigation of the psychoneuroses, he was, from the very beginning, interested in the wider bearing of his work: “Freud had only scientific ambitions—to discover” (Jones, 1953, p. 372). Indeed, Jones claims that Freud wanted to incorporate his discoveries about repression and so on into the body of psychopathology and then work through this into a normal psychology which would be transformed into a “new science” (Jones, 1953, p. 381). Freud’s (1985) own words to Fliess—an ear, nose and throat specialist, friend and confidant—corroborate this in his letter of 25.5.1895, where he describes his intense interest in psychology:

I am tormented by two aims: to examine what shape the theory of mental functioning takes if one introduces quantitative considerations, a sort of economics of nerve forces; and, second, to peel off from psychopathology a gain for normal psychology. Actually, a satisfactory general conception of neuropsychotic disturbances is impossible if one cannot link it with clear assumptions about normal mental processes (p. 129).

This was Freud’s aim but he never actually achieved it and left the major project of a scientific psychology aside to give his time and attention to the aetiology of the neuroses. This was an area of more direct practical and professional application. Freud no doubt had wide cultural interests. Rose (1998) has argued that Freud and others were involved in the pursuit of cultural science, but I maintain Freud’s theory construction was limited by the confining arena of his clinical context. And this is so, regardless of his own stance that therapy was of secondary importance. This latter point he makes very clear in a letter to August Stärcke, a promising analyst, where he writes on 25.2.1912: “The therapeutic point of view, however, is certainly not the only one for which psychoanalysis claims interest, nor is it the most important…. So,” he continues, “there is a great deal to be said on the subject even without putting therapy in the forefront” (Jones, 1955, p. 141). Given Freud’s espoused scientific aim, that is, knowledge for the sake of knowledge, and, given the disjunction he clearly proposes between theory and clinical practice, it can well be argued that there is a necessary and fundamental gap between psychoanalytic theory and practice. This perceived gap, I contend, is in part the result of what I have termed Freud’s scientific thinking.

Not only is the gap a consequence of Freud’s style of thought, but also involved is the more personal element, namely, his scientific motivation. His relentless quest, that which carried him through half a century of rigorous theory construction, was, it seems, generated by a deep-set curiosity. Freud did not really enjoy being a therapist. He was not motivated by therapeutic zeal. His major interest was knowledge, not the welfare of his patients. He saw himself, so he told Fliess, not as a man of science, not as an observer or experimenter or even as a thinker. But, he says: “I am by temperament nothing but a conquistador—an adventurer, if you want it translated—with all the curiosity, daring, and tenacity characteristic of a man of this sort” (Freud, 1985, p. 398). This contents of 1.2.1900 was endorsed in his much later autobiographical study where in 1925 he says that he never had a predilection for the career of a doctor, but was moved by “a sort of curiosity which was, however, directed more towards human concerns than towards natural objects …” (1925d (1924), p. 8). What is more, Freud’s therapeutic commitment could be seen to be an expression of his understandable need for money. Freud was the breadwinner of a large family—he needed to have a substantial income. And it was this practical element that saved him from falling into the naturalistic fallacy, because no matter what he said or how he described this ambition, he always had a practical aim in mind, albeit unacknowledged. It was the dragon practice that grounded him.

The dragon: Practice

In his correspondence with his closest friends over the years, Freud makes numerous and constant reference to his need for money. In 1897 he wrote to tell Fliess that he now had ten patients and had earned 700 florins the preceding week (Freud, 1985, p. 230), yet how it was at times very difficult for him to cope. In a letter dated 12.2.1900, he explains that his practice has picked up and that the period in which he saw only one patient in five consulting hours seemed to be over, and mentions again, as he has in the past, how his moods and working ability are tied up with his earnings. Much as he loved the theoretical side of his work, he was driven by necessity to its practical implementation: “I should be delighted to discuss all these things with you again, but there is no respite from the necessity of earning money”, he wrote to Abraham, analyst and colleague, on 18.12.1910 (Freud & Abraham, 1965, p. 98). Here again we find that Freud himself saw the two domains as separate. He had his scientific work and he had his practice. Nowhere do we see this better described than in his 1911 correspondence with his then friend, Carl Jung.

Jung at this time, July, wrote to tell Freud how difficult it was for him to hold his practice at arm’s length. He had been able, he explains, to set aside time for “some scientific work” (Freud & Jung, 1974, p. 435). In his reply Freud warns Jung not to take him as a model but writes: “… you must arm yourself, before it is too late, against the dragon Practice.” Furthermore, he warns: “Give your charming, clever, and ambitious wife the pleasure of saving you from losing yourself in the business of money-making. My wife often says she would be only too proud if she were able to do the same for me” (Freud & Jung, 1974, p. 436). Jung replies on 26.7.1911 that he needs a large practice in order to gain experience and to demonstrate to himself that he is able to make money in order to rid himself of the thought that he is non-viable. He goes on to say that while financial success may be important, it is scientific work that does far more good.

Without further detail it is quite clear that Freud saw himself first and foremost as a scientist in search of scientific knowledge per se. Nevertheless he had to earn a living and wanted to do this in the area of so-called mental illness. Hence, his knowledge, if it were to be of practical use, had to have practical effects. In other words Freud needed to be able to use his knowledge to bring about desired results. Even if Freud separated theory and practice in his own conceptualization of his endeavour, he was forced to interrelate them in his day to day experience. It would have been little practical benefit if he had knowledge with no practice and he could not have conducted a reputable practice without a framework of knowledge to inform his action. So, much as Freud may have given priority to science, he was a practitioner who derived his theoretical postulations from and in the light of his clinical experience, as he himself declares in his letter to his long-time friend Pfister, a Protestant clergyman: “If only we could get our opponents to understand that all our conclusions are derived from experiences … and are not sucked out of our fingers or put together at a writing table” (Jones, 1955, p. 139). It is not a case of either/or, nor even merely a case of priorities. There could be no theory without a practical aim and no practical work without theoretical justification. Freud may well have preferred speculative thought, writing and discussion to his hours beside the couch, but there could not have been such thought, papers or conferences without the practical attempt, the aim, to cure those with troubled minds.

Freud’s theory of practice

Although I have argued that Freud conceptualized a gap between theory and practice, there is much evidence available that supports the view that Freudian psychoanalysis has the structure of a theory of practice. This notion will be given fuller elaboration in the chapters to follow, but for the present what is important is to see how crucial Freud’s practical aim was within the context of his theory construction. This is important because the defining characteristic of a theory of practice is that one of its components is a practical goal.

Freud was a serious practitioner, curious by nature and a genius. He knew that to cure he needed to understand what he was dealing with and why he might work along one line rather than another. His goal was, in simple terms, to make his patients better. The inevitable link between theory and practice is perhaps best exemplified in his early letters to Fliess. His theory construction, right from its very beginning, centred on treatment—how to help a patient function in a more profitable way. In a letter of 16.10.1895, Freud tells Fliess that he is “almost certain” that he has “solved the riddles of hysteria and obsessional neurosis with the formulas of infantile sexual shock and sexual pleasure” and that he is “equally certain that both neuroses are, in general, curable—not just individual symptoms but the neurotic disposition itself.” This statement he follows with words expressive of his own pleasure: “This gives me a kind of faint joy—for having lived some forty years not quite in vain—and yet no genuine satisfaction because the psychological gap in the new knowledge claims my entire interest” (Freud, 1985, p. 145). Not long afterwards, he writes of his daughter Anna’s birth and how he and his wife Martha like to think of it in connection with the increase in his practice:

The child, we like to think, has brought an increase of my practice, doubling what it usually is. I have trouble keeping up with it, can decline what appears disadvantageous, and am beginning to dictate my fees. I am simply gaining confidence in the diagnosis and treatment of the two neuroses and believe I can see how the city is gradually beginning to realize that something is to be had from me (Freud, 1985, p. 154).

Further to this point we find that in the following year he is still intensely involved with the development of a theory of his psychoanalytic practice. He writes encouragingly to Fliess about both their efforts and makes the point that is crucial to my argument. Freud may not have wanted to be a therapist, but his is a theory of practice: to be Freud, the creator of psychoanalysis, he had to be a clinician. His theory of the neurosis is a theory derived from his attempt to combat the neuroses. It is not simply a speculative theory derived from the social context, but one formulated within and challenged by his clinical experience. Yes, Freud was a clinician against his will—we can only imagine that it was necessity itself that brought about such a situation. This neces...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• CONTENTS
• FOREWORD
• CHAPTER ONE Much ado about science
• CHAPTER TWO Establishing the freudian field
• PART I: THE MASTERPLAN
• PART II: THE INHERITANCE
• BIBLIOGRAPHY
• INDEX