Part 6

We have already treated slips of the tongue in great detail, yet there is still something to add. There are certain small affective manifestations related to slips of the tongue which are not entirely without interest. No one likes to think he has made a slip of the tongue; one often fails to hear it when made by oneself, but never when made by someone else. Slips of the tongue are in a certain sense infectious; it is not at all easy to speak of them without making them oneself. It is not hard to detect the motivation of even the most trifling forms of them, although these do not throw any particular light on hidden mental processes. If, for instance, anyone pronounces a long vowel as a short one, in consequence of a disturbance over the word, no matter how motivated, he will as a result soon after lengthen a short vowel and commit a new slip in compensation for the first. The same thing occurs if anyone pronounces a diphthong indistinctly and carelessly, for instance, “ew” or “oy” as “i”; he tries to correct it by changing a subsequent “i” into “ew” or “oy.” Some consideration relating to the hearer seems to be behind this behaviour, as though he were not to be allowed to think that the speaker is indifferent how he treats his mother-tongue. The second, compensating distortion actually has the purpose of drawing the hearer’s attention to the first and assuring him that it has not escaped the speaker either. The most frequent, insignificant, and simple forms of slips consist in contractions and anticipations in inconspicuous parts of the speech. In a long sentence, for instance, slips of the tongue would be of the kind in which the last word intended influences the sound of an earlier word. This gives an impression of a certain impatience to be done with the sentence, and in general it points to a certain resistance against the communication of this sentence, or the speech altogether. From this we come to border-line cases, in which the differences between the psycho-analytical and the ordinary physiological conception of slips of the tongue become merged. We assume that in these cases a disturbing tendency is opposing the intended speech; but it can only betray its presence and not what its own purpose is. The interference which it causes follows some sound-influence or associative connection and may be regarded as a distraction of attention away from the intended speech. But neither in this distraction of attention, nor in the associative tendency which has been activated, lies the essence of the occurrence; the essence lies rather in the hint the occurrence gives of the presence of some other intention interfering with the intended speech, the nature of which cannot in this case be discovered from its effects, as is possible in all the more pronounced cases of slips of the tongue.

Slips of the pen, to which I now turn, are so like slips of the tongue in their mechanism that no new points of view are to be expected from them. Perhaps a small addition to our knowledge from this group will content us. Those very common little slips of the pen, contractions, anticipations of later words, particularly of the last words, point to a general distaste for writing and to an impatience to be done; more pronounced effects in slips of the pen allow the nature and intention of the interference to be recognized. In general, if one finds a slip of the pen in a letter one knows that the writer’s mind was not working smoothly at the moment; what was the matter one cannot always establish. Slips of the pen are frequently as little noticed by those who make them as slips of the tongue. The following observation is striking in this connection. There are, of course, some persons who have the habit of always re-reading every letter they write before sending it. Others do not do this; but if the latter make an exception and re-read a letter they then always have an opportunity of finding and correcting a striking slip of the pen. How is this to be explained? It almost looks as if such people knew that they had made a slip in writing the letter. Are we really to believe that this is so?

There is an interesting problem connected with the practical significance of slips of the pen. You may recall the case of the murderer H. who managed, by asserting himself to be a bacteriologist, to obtain cultures of highly dangerous disease-germs from scientific institutions, but used them for the purpose of doing away in this most modern fashion with people connected with him. This man once complained to the authorities of one of these institutions about the ineffectiveness of the cultures sent him, but committed a slip of the pen and, instead of the words “in my experiments on mice and guinea-pigs (_Mäusen und Meerschweinchen_)”, the words “in my experiments on people (_Menschen_)” were plainly legible. This slip even attracted the attention of the doctors at the institute but, so far as I know, they drew no conclusion from it. Now, what do you think? Would it not have been better if the doctors had taken the slip of the pen as a confession and started an investigation so that the murderer’s proceedings might have been arrested in time? In this case, does not ignorance of our conception of errors result in neglect which, in actuality, may be very important? Well, I know that such a slip of the pen would certainly rouse great suspicion in me; but there is an important objection against regarding it as a confession. The matter is not so simple. The slip of the pen is certainly an indication but, alone, it would not have justified an enquiry. It does indeed betray that the man is occupied with the thought of infecting human beings; but it does not show with certainty whether this thought is a definite plan to do harm or a mere phantasy of no practical importance. It is even possible that a person making such a slip will deny, with the soundest subjective justification, the existence of such a phantasy in himself, and will reject the idea as a thing utterly alien to him. Later, when we come to consider the difference between psychical reality and material reality you will be better able to appreciate these possibilities. But this again is a case in which an error was found subsequently to have unsuspected significance.

Misreading brings us to a mental situation which is clearly different from that of slips of the tongue or the pen. One of the two conflicting tendencies is here replaced by a sensory excitation and is perhaps therefore less tenacious. What one is reading is not a product of one’s own mind, as is that which one is going to write. In the large majority of cases, therefore, misreading consists in complete substitution. A different word is substituted for the word to be read, without there necessarily being any connection in the content between the text and the effect of the mistake, and usually by means of a resemblance between the words. Lichtenberg’s example of this, “_Agamemnon_” instead of “_angenommen_,” is the best of this group. To discover the interfering tendency which causes the mistake one may put aside the original text altogether; the analytic investigation may begin with two questions: What is the first idea occurring in free association to the effect of the misreading (the substitute), and in what circumstances did the misreading occur? Occasionally a knowledge of the latter is sufficient in itself to explain the misreading, as, for instance, when someone wandering about a strange town, driven by urgent needs, reads the word “_Closethaus_” on a large sign on the first storey. He has just time to wonder that the board has been fixed at that height when he discovers that the word on it is actually “_Corsethaus_.” In other cases where there is a lack of connection in content between the text and the slip a thorough analysis is necessary, which cannot be accomplished without practice in psycho-analytic technique and confidence in it. But it is not usually so difficult to come by the explanation of a case of misreading. In the example “_Agamemnon_,” the substituted word betrays without further difficulty the line of thought from which the disturbance arose. In this time of war, for instance, it is very common for one to read everywhere names of towns, generals, and military expressions, which are continually in one’s ears, wherever one sees a word at all resembling them. Whatever interests and occupies the mind takes the place of what is alien and as yet uninteresting. The shadows of thoughts in the mind dim the new perceptions.

Another kind of misreading is possible, in which the text itself arouses the disturbing tendency, whereupon it is usually changed into its opposite. Someone is required to read something which he dislikes, and analysis convinces him that a strong wish to reject what is read is responsible for the alteration.

In the first-mentioned, more frequent cases of misreading two factors to which we ascribed great importance in the mechanism of errors are inconspicuous; these are, the conflict between two tendencies and the forcing back of one of them which compensates itself by producing the error. Not that anything contradictory of this occurs in misreading, but nevertheless the importunity of the train of thought tending to the mistake is far more conspicuous than the restraint which it may have previously undergone. Just these two factors are most clearly observable in the different situations in which errors occur through forgetfulness.

The forgetting of resolutions has positively but one meaning; the interpretation of it, as we have heard, is not denied even by the layman. The tendency interfering with the resolution is always an opposing one, an unwillingness, concerning which it only remains to enquire why it does not come to expression in a different and less disguised form; for the existence of this opposing tendency is beyond doubt. Sometimes it is possible, too, to infer something of the motives which necessitate the concealment of this antipathy; one sees that it would certainly have been condemned if it declared its opposition openly, whereas by craft, in the error, it always achieves its end. When an important change in the mental situation occurs between the formation of the resolution and its execution, in consequence of which the execution would no longer be required, then if it were forgotten the occurrence could no longer come within the category of errors. There would be nothing to wonder at in the error, for one recognizes that it would have been superfluous to remember the resolution; it had been either permanently or temporarily cancelled. Forgetting to carry out a resolution can only be called an error when there is no reason to believe that any such cancellation has occurred.

Cases of forgetting to carry out resolutions are usually so uniform and transparent, that they are of no interest for our researches. There are two points, nevertheless, at which something new can be learnt by studying this type of error. We have said that forgetting and not executing a resolution indicates an antagonistic tendency in opposition to it. This is certainly true, but our own investigations show that this ‘counter-will’ may be of two kinds, either immediate or mediate. What is meant by the latter is best explained by one or two examples. When the patron forgets to say a good word for his protégé to some third person, it may happen because he is actually not much interested in the protégé and therefore has no great inclination to do it. This, in any case, will be the protégé’s view of the patron’s omission. But the matter may be more complicated. The antipathy against executing the resolution may come from some other source in the patron and be directed to some other point. It need have nothing at all to do with the protégé, but is perhaps directed against the third person to whom the recommendation was to be made. Here again, you see, what objections there are against applying our interpretations practically. In spite of having correctly interpreted the error, the protégé is in danger of becoming too suspicious and of doing his patron a grave injustice. Again, if someone forgets an appointment which he had promised and was resolved to attend, the commonest cause is certainly a direct disinclination to meet the other person. But analysis might produce evidence that the interfering tendency was concerned, not with the person, but with the place of meeting, which was avoided on account of some painful memory associated with it. Or if one forgets to post a letter the opposing tendency may be concerned with the contents of the letter; but this does not exclude the possibility that the letter in itself is harmless and becomes the subject of a counter-tendency only because something in it reminds the writer of another letter, written previously, which did in fact afford a direct basis for antipathy. It may then be said that the antipathy has been _transferred_ from the earlier letter, where it was justified, to the present one where it actually has no object. So you see that restraint and caution must be exercised in applying our quite well-founded interpretations; that which is psychologically equivalent may in actuality have many meanings.

That such things should be must seem very strange to you. Perhaps you will be inclined to assume that the “indirect” counter-will is enough to characterize the incident as pathological. But I can assure you that it is also found within the boundaries of health and normality. And further, do not misunderstand me; this is in no sense a confession on my part that our analytic interpretations are not to be relied on. I have said that forgetting to execute a plan may bear many meanings, but this is so only in those cases where no analysis is undertaken and which we have to interpret according to our general principles. If an analysis of the person in the case is carried out it can always be established with sufficient certainty whether the antipathy is a direct one, or what its source is otherwise.

The following is a second point: when we find proof in a large majority of cases that the forgetting of an intention proceeds from a counter-will, we gain courage to extend this solution to another group of cases in which the person analysed does not confirm, but denies, the presence of the counter-will inferred by us. Take as an example of this such exceedingly frequent occurrences as forgetting to return borrowed books or to pay bills or debts. We will be so bold as to suggest, to the person in question, that there is an intention in his mind of keeping the books and not paying the debts, whereupon he will deny this intention but will not be able to give us any other explanation of his conduct. We then insist that he has this intention but is not aware of it; it is enough for us, though, that it betrays itself by the effect of the forgetting. He may then repeat that he had merely forgotten about it. You will recognize the situation as one in which we have already been placed once before. If we intend to carry through, to their logical conclusions, the interpretations of errors which have been proved justified in so many cases, we shall be unavoidably impelled to the assumption that tendencies exist in human beings which can effect results without their knowing of them. With this, however, we place ourselves in opposition to all views prevailing in life and in psychology.

Forgetting proper names, and foreign names and words, can be traced in the same way to a counter-tendency aiming either directly or indirectly against the name in question. I have already given you several examples of such direct antipathy. Indirect causation is particularly frequent here and careful analysis is generally required to elucidate it. Thus, for instance, in the present time of war which forces us to forego so many of our former pleasures, our ability to recall proper names suffers severely by connections of the most far-fetched kind. It happened to me lately to be unable to remember the name of the harmless Moravian town of Bisenz; and analysis showed that I was guilty of no direct antagonism in the matter, but that the resemblance to the name of the Palazzo Bisenzi in Orvieto, where I had spent many happy times in the past, was responsible. As a motive of the tendency opposing the recollection of this name, we here for the first time encounter a principle which will later on reveal itself to be of quite prodigious importance in the causation of neurotic symptoms: namely, the aversion on the part of memory against recalling anything connected with painful feelings that would revive the pain if it were recalled. In this tendency towards _avoidance of pain_ from recollection or other mental processes, this flight of the mind from that which is unpleasant, we may perceive the ultimate purpose at work behind not merely the forgetting of names, but also many other errors, omissions, and mistakes.

The forgetting of names seems, however, to be especially facilitated psycho-physiologically, and therefore does occur on occasions where the intervention of an unpleasantness-motive cannot be established. When anyone has a tendency to forget names, it can be confirmed by analytic investigation that names escape, not merely because he does not like them or because they remind him of something disagreeable, but also because the particular name belongs to some other chain of associations of a more intimate nature. The name is anchored there, as it were, and is refused to the other associations activated at the moment. If you recall the devices of memory systems you will realize with some surprise that the same associations which are there artificially introduced, in order to save names from being forgotten, are also responsible for their being forgotten. The most conspicuous example of this is afforded by proper names of persons, which naturally possess quite different values for different people. For instance, take a first name, such as Theodore. For some of you it will have no particular significance; for others it will be the name of father, brother, friend, or your own name. Analytic experience will show you that the former among you will be in no danger of forgetting that some stranger bears this name; whereas the latter will be continually inclined to grudge to strangers a name which to them seems reserved for an intimate relationship. Now let us assume that this inhibition due to associations may coincide with the operation of the “pain”-principle, and in addition with an indirect mechanism; you will then be able to form a commensurate idea of the complexity, in causation, of such temporary forgetting of names. An adequate analysis that does justice to the facts will, however, completely disclose all these complications.

The forgetting of impressions and experiences shows the working of the tendency to ward off from memory that which is unpleasant much more clearly and invariably than the forgetting of names. It does not of course belong in its entirety to the category of errors, but only in so far as it appears to us remarkable and unjustified, judged by the standard of general experience; as, for instance, where recent or important impressions are forgotten, or where one memory is forgotten out of an otherwise well-remembered sequence. How and why we have the capacity of forgetting in general, particularly how we are able to forget experiences which have certainly left the deepest impression on us, such as the events of our childhood, is quite a different problem, in which the defence against painful associations plays a certain part but is far from explaining everything. That unwelcome impressions are easily forgotten is an indubitable fact. Various psychologists have remarked it; and the great Darwin was so well aware of it that he made a golden rule for himself of writing down with particular care observations which seemed unfavourable to his theory, having become convinced that just these would be inclined to slip out of recollection.

Those who bear for the first time of this principle of defence against unpleasant memory by forgetfulness seldom fail to raise the objection that, on the contrary, in their experience it is just that which is painful which it is hard to forget, since it always comes back to mind to torture the person against his will—as, for example, the recollection of grievances or humiliations. This fact is quite correct, but the objection is not sound. It is important to begin early to reckon with the fact that the mind is an arena, a sort of tumbling-ground, for the struggles of antagonistic impulses; or, to express it in non-dynamic terms, that the mind is made up of contradictions and pairs of opposites. Evidence of one particular tendency does not in the least preclude its opposite; there is room for both of them. The material questions are: How do these opposites stand to one another and what effects proceed from one of them and what from the other?

Losing and mislaying objects is of especial interest on account of the numerous meanings it may have, and the multiplicity of the tendencies in the service of which these errors may be employed. What is common to all the cases is the wish to lose something; what varies in them is the reason for the wish and the aim of it. One loses something if it has become damaged; if one has an impulse to replace it with a better; if one has ceased to care for it; if it came from someone with whom unpleasantness has arisen; or if it was acquired in circumstances that one no longer wishes to think of. Letting things fall, spoiling, or breaking things, serves the same tendency. In social life it is said that unwelcome and illegitimate children are found to be far more often weakly than those conceived in happier circumstances. This result does not imply that the crude methods of the so-called baby-farmer have been employed; some degree of carelessness in the supervision of the child should be quite enough. The preservation, or otherwise, of objects may well follow the same lines as that of children.

Then too it may happen that a thing will become destined to be lost without its having shed any of its value—that is, when there is an impulse to sacrifice something to fate in order to avert some other dreaded loss. According to the findings of analysis, such conjurings of fate are still very common among us, so that our losses are often voluntary sacrifices. Losing may equally well serve the impulses of spite or of self-punishment; in short, the more remote forms of motivation behind the impulse to do away with something by losing cannot easily be exhausted.

Mistaking of objects, or erroneous performance of actions, like other errors, is often made use of to fulfil a wish which should be denied; the intention masquerades as a lucky chance. Thus, as once happened to one of our friends, one has to take a train, most unwillingly, in order to pay a visit in the suburbs and then, in changing trains at a connection, one gets by mistake into one which is returning to town; or, on a journey one would greatly like to make a halt at some stopping-place, which cannot be done owing to fixed engagements elsewhere, whereupon one mistakes or misses the connection, so that the desired delay is forced upon one. Or, as happened to one of my patients whom I had forbidden to telephone to the lady he was in love with, he “by mistake” and “thoughtlessly” gave the wrong number when he meant to telephone to me, so that he was suddenly connected with her. The following account by an engineer is a pretty example of the conditions under which damage to material objects may be done, and also demonstrates the practical significance of directly faulty actions.