Part 2

It often is the unsuspected and subconscious secret of our judgments, our sentiments, and impulses.

It is the process which most commonly induces dreams and furnishes the material out of which they are constructed.

It is the basis of many hypnotic phenomena.

In the field of pathology, memory, through its perversions, takes part in and helps to determine the form of a variety of disturbances such as obsessions, impulsions, tics, habit psychoses and neuroses, many of the manifestations of that great protean psychosis, hysteria, and other common ailments which it is the fashion of the day to term neurasthenia and psychasthenia. It is largely responsible for the conscious and subconscious conflicts which disrupt the human mind and result in various pathological states.

Finally, upon the utilization of the processes of memory modern psychotherapeutics, or the educational treatment of disease, is largely based. For many of these reasons an understanding of the mechanism of memory is essential for an understanding of the subconscious. In short, memory furnishes a standpoint from which we can productively study the normal and abnormal processes of the mind—conscious and subconscious.

These somewhat dogmatic general statements—which I have put before you much after the fashion of the lawyer who presents a general statement of his case in anticipation of the evidence—I hope will become clear and their truth evident as we proceed; likewise, their bearing upon the facts of abnormal psychology. To make them clear it will be necessary to explain in some detail the generally accepted theory of memory as a process and to cite the numerous data upon which it rests.

There may be, as, indeed, you will find there are, wide differences of opinion as to the exact psychological mechanism by which a memory-process plays its part in the larger processes of mental life, normal and abnormal, such as I have just mentioned, but that the memory-process is a fundamental factor is revealed by whatever method the problems are attacked. A study, therefore, of this fundamental factor and a determination of its mechanism are a prerequisite for a study of the more complex processes in which it takes part. For this reason I shall begin the study of the Unconscious (subconscious), to which I shall ask your attention in these lectures, with a consideration of the processes of memory.

If you ask the average person, as I have often done, how or why he remembers he will be puzzled and he is apt to reply, “Why, I just remember,” or, “I never thought of that before.” If you push him a bit and ask what becomes of ideas after they have passed out of mind and have given place to other ideas, and how an idea that has passed out of mind, that has gone, disappeared, can be brought back again as memory, he becomes further puzzled. We know that ideas that have passed out of mind may be voluntarily recalled, or reproduced, as memory; we may say that meantime they have become what may be called dormant. But surely something must have happened to enable these conscious experiences to be conserved in some way and recalled. Ideas are not material things which, like books, can be laid away on a shelf to be taken up again when wanted, and yet we can recall, or reproduce, many ideas when we want them just as we can go to a shelf and take down any book we want.

We learn the alphabet and the multiplication table in childhood. During the greater part of our lives the sensory images, auditory language symbols, etc., which may be summarized as ideas representing these educational experiences, are out of our minds and do not form a continuous part of our conscious experiences, but they may be recalled at any moment as memory. In fact, try as hard as we may, we cannot forget our alphabet or multiplication table. Why is this?

The older psychology did not bother itself much with these questions which puzzle the average man. It was content for the most part with a descriptive statement of the facts of conscious memory. It did not concern itself with the process by which memory is effected; nor, so long as psychology dealt only with phases of consciousness, was it of much consequence. It has been only since subconscious processes have loomed large in psychology and have been seen to take part on the one hand in the mechanism of conscious thought and on the other to produce various bodily phenomena, that the process of memory has acquired great practical importance. For it has been seen that in these subconscious processes previous conscious experiences are resurrected to take part as subconscious memory, consequently a conscious experience that has passed out of mind may not only recur again as conscious memory, but may recur subconsciously below the threshold of awareness. The study of subconscious processes therefore necessarily includes the processes of memory. And so it has become a matter of considerable moment to follow the fate of experiences after they have passed out of mind with a view to determining the mechanism by which they can be reproduced consciously and subconsciously. More than this it is important that the theory of memory should be removed if possible from the domain of purely speculative psychological concepts and placed on a sound basis of observation and experiment like other accepted theories of science.

From the point of view of animism, and indeed of dualism, nothing becomes of the ideas that have passed out of mind; they simply, for the time being, cease to exist. Consciousness changes its form. Nothing is preserved, nothing is stored up. This is still the popular notion according to which a mental experience at any given moment—the content of my consciousness, for instance, at this moment as I speak to you—is only one of a series of kaleidoscopic changes or phases of my self-consciousness. In saying this what is meant plainly must be that the content of consciousness at any given moment is a phase of a continuing psychical something. We may, perhaps, call this my self-consciousness, and say that when I reproduce an experience as memory I simply bring back (by the power of self-determination) that same previous phase of the psychical something. If I cannot bring it back my failure may be due to a failure of the power of self-determination or—and here is a weak point—to a failure in the formative cohesion of the elementary ideas of that experience. In this latter alternative no note is taken of a seeming contradiction paradox. If nothing is preserved, if nothing continues to exist, if memory is only one of a series of kaleidoscopic phases of consciousness, how can there be any cohesion or organization within what does not exist? Consciousness according to this notion might be likened to the water of a lake in which vortices were constantly being formed, either by the current of inflowing springs from the bottom or the influences of external agencies. One vortex would give place to a succeeding vortex. Memory would be analogous to the reproduction of a previously occurring vortex.

When, however, such a notion of memory is examined in the light of all the facts which have to be explained it will be found to be descriptive only of our conscious experiences. It does not explain memory; it does not answer the question of the ordinary man, “How can ideas which have ceased to exist be reproduced again as memory?” For, putting aside various psychological difficulties such as, How can I determine the reproduction of a former phase of consciousness—that is, memory—without first _remembering_ what I want to determine?, or, if this be answered, “By the association of phases (ideas),” how can there be any bond of association between an existing idea and one that does not exist?, and, therefore, how can association bring back that which has ceased to exist?—putting aside such questions, there are a number of psycho-physiological facts which this conception of memory will be found inadequate to meet. As a matter of fact, investigations into the behavior of mental processes, particularly under artificial and pathological conditions, have disclosed certain phenomena which can be adequately explained only on the supposition that ideas as they pass out of mind—the mental experiences of the moment—leave something behind, some residuum which is preserved, stored up as it were, and which plays a subsequent part in the process of memory. These phenomena seem to require what may be called a psycho-physiological theory of memory. Although the theory has long been one of the concepts of normal psychology it can be said to have been satisfactorily validated only by the investigations of recent years in abnormal psychology.

The full significance as well as the validity of this theory can be properly estimated only in the light of the facts which have been revealed by modern technical methods of investigation. After all, it is the consequences of a theory which count, and this will be seen to be true particularly as respects memory. The pragmatic point of view of counting the consequences, of determining the difference that the theory makes in the understanding of the mental processes of normal and abnormal life, reveals the importance to us of validating the theory. The consequences of the psycho-physiological theory are so far-reaching, in view of its bearing upon a large number of problems in normal and abnormal psychology, that it is worthy of sustained and exhaustive examination. I will, therefore, briefly résumé the various classes of facts which support the theory and which any adequate theory of memory must satisfactorily explain. For, as will appear, besides the common facts of memory pertaining to everyday life, there are a large number of other facts which can be observed only when the mind is dissected, so to speak, by pathological processes, and by the production of artificial conditions, and when investigations are carried out by special technic. Irrespective of any theory of explanation, a knowledge of these facts is extremely important for an understanding of many phenomena in the domain of both normal and abnormal psychology.

=The meaning of conservation.=—We all know, as an everyday experience of mankind, that at one time we can recall what happened to us at some particular moment in the past, and at another time we cannot. We know that when we have forgotten some experience if we stimulate or refresh our memory, as the lawyers say to us on the witness-stand, by reference to our notes, appropriately called memoranda, the original experience may come back to mind. Often at one moment we cannot recall a verse, or a name, or a piece of acquired knowledge, while at another time, a little later, we can. We have a feeling, a perhaps justifiable belief, that a desired piece of knowledge is not lost, that it is back somewhere in our minds but we cannot get at it. If, sooner or later, under one circumstance or another, with or without the aid of some kind of stimulus, we can recall the desired knowledge we say it was preserved (or conserved). If we continue, under all circumstances and at all moments, to be unable to recall it we say it is lost, that our memory of it is not conserved. So the notion of conservation of knowledge being something apart from recollection enters even into popular language. What sort of thing conservation is, popular language does not attempt to define. It is clear, however, that we may with propriety speak of the conservation of experiences, using this term in a descriptive sense without forming any definite concept of the nature of conservation. Provisionally, then, I shall speak of conservation of a given experience in this sense only, meaning that the memory of it is not permanently lost but that under certain particular circumstances we can recall it.

Now a large mass of observations demonstrate that there are an enormous number of experiences, belonging to both normal and abnormal mental life, which we are unable to voluntarily recall during any period of our lives, no matter how hard we try, or what aids to memory we employ. For these experiences there is life-long amnesia. Nevertheless, it is easy to demonstrate that, though the personal consciousness of everyday life cannot recall them, they are not lost, properly speaking, but conserved; for when the personal consciousness has undergone a peculiar change, at moments when certain special alterations have taken place in the conditions of the personal consciousness, at such moments you find that the subject under investigation recalls the apparently lost experiences. These moments are those of hypnosis, abstraction, dreams, and certain pathological states. Again, in certain individuals it is possible by technical devices to awaken secondary mental processes in the form of a subconsciousness which may manifest the memories of the forgotten experiences without awareness therefor on the part of the personal consciousness. These manifestations are known as automatic writing and speech. Then, again, by means of certain post-hypnotic phenomena, it is easy to study conservation experimentally. We can make, as you will later see, substantially everything that happened to the subject of the experiment in hypnosis—his thoughts, his speech, his actions, for all of which he has complete and irretrievable loss of memory in a waking state—we can make memory for all these lost experiences reappear when hypnosis is again induced. Thus we can prove conservation when voluntary memory for experiences is absolutely lost. These experiments, among others, as we shall also see, also give an insight into the nature of conservation which is the real problem involved in an investigation into the process of memory.

Before undertaking to solve this problem—so far as may be done—it is well to obtain a full realization of the extent to which experiences which have been forgotten may be still conserved. I will therefore, as I promised you, résumé the experimental and other evidence supporting this principle, making use of both personal observations and those of others.

_NOTE—In the following exposition of the evidence for the theory of memory it has been necessary to make use of phenomena subsuming subconscious processes before the subconscious itself has been demonstrated. A few words in explanation of the terms used is therefore desirable to avoid confusing the reader._

_Dividing as I do the subconscious into the unconscious and the coconscious, the former is either simply a neural disposition, or an active neural process without any quality of consciousness; the latter is an actual subconscious idea or a process of thought of which, nevertheless, we are not aware. An unconscious and a coconscious process are both, therefore, only particular types of a subconscious process. I might have used the single term subconscious throughout the first seven lectures, but in that case, though temporarily less confusing, the data necessary for the appreciation of the division of the subconscious into two orders would not have been at hand. Typical phenomena having been described as unconscious or coconscious (instead of simply subconscious), the reader will have already become familiar with examples of each type and be thus prepared for the final discussion in Lecture VIII. PROVISIONALLY, these three terms may be regarded as synonyms. To indicate the synonym, the term “subconscious” has often been added in parenthesis in the text to one or other of the subdivisional terms, and vice versa._

Footnote 1:

In this connection it is a satisfaction to the author to note that more recently a committee was appointed by the American Psychological Association (December, 1911) to investigate the relation of psychology to medical education. This committee, after an extensive inquiry by correspondence with all the medical schools of the country, has made a report (Science, Oct. 17, 1913) based upon the preponderating opinion of the best medical schools and of the schools as a whole. The second (in substance) and third conclusions reached in the report were as follows:

2nd: For entrance in certain schools requiring a preliminary college training of greater or less length an introductory or pre-medical course in psychology should be required in the same way as they now require chemistry, biology, physics, etc., or, in lieu thereof, a course in the medical schools.

3rd: “It is the belief of most of the best schools that a second course in psychology should precede the course in clinical psychiatry and neurology. This course should have more of a practical nature, and should deal especially with abnormal mental processes and with the application of psychological principles and facts to medical topics. Although this course should deal chiefly with psychopathology, it should not be permitted to develop, or degenerate, into a course in psychiatry, neurology or psychotherapeutics. This course should be clinical in the sense that, as far as possible, clinical material should be the basis of the course, but it should not be clinical in the sense that the students are given particular cases for the purpose of diagnosis or of treatment. The functions of the courses in psychiatry and neurology should not be assumed by this course.”

The courses, from which I have selected twelve lectures for my present purpose, were designed for just such instruction as is recommended in this report. They were, I believe, the first to be given on these subjects in any medical school or college in this country. Necessarily they covered a wider range of topics than the lectures now published which more properly serve as an introduction to the general subject.

Footnote 2:

“The Birth of the Dream,” _The Independent_, Oct. 30, 1913.

Footnote 3:

A descriptive account of this case, written as a sort of autobiography by the subject herself, was published in the _Journal of Abnormal Psychology_ (Vol. 3, Nos. 4 & 5, 1908-1909) under the title “My Life as a Dissociated Personality.” This remarkable account includes an instructive description of the coconscious self of considerable value.

Footnote 4:

I divide the Subconscious into two parts, namely the Unconscious and the Coconscious. See preface and Lecture VIII.

LECTURE II CONSERVATION OF FORGOTTEN EXPERIENCES OF NORMAL, ARTIFICIAL, AND PATHOLOGICAL LIFE

I. Normal Life

=Evidence obtained by the method of automatic writing.=—If we take a suitable subject, one in whom “_automatic writing_”[5] has been developed, and study the content of the script, we may find that to a large extent it contains references to, i.e., memories of, experiences which have long been forgotten by the subject and which cannot even by the stimulus of memoranda be voluntarily recalled. These experiences may be actions performed even as far back as _childhood_, _or_ passages read in books, or fragments of conversation, etc. Thus B. C. A., who suffers from an intense fear or phobia of cats, particularly _white_ cats, can recall no experience in her life which could have given rise to it. Yet when automatic writing is resorted to the hand writes a detailed account of a fright into which she was thrown, when she was only five or six years of age, by a white kitten which had a fit while she was playing with it. The writing also describes in minute detail the furnishings of the room where the episode occurred, the pattern of the carpet, the decorative designs of the window shades, the furniture, etc. As this observation is typical of many others, it may be well to dwell upon it long enough to describe it in some detail for the benefit of those who are not familiar with this class of phenomena.

After it had been determined, by a searching examination, that B. C. A. could not recall any experience that might throw light upon her phobia, an attempt was made to recover a possible memory in hypnosis. As is well known, the memory often broadens in hypnosis and events which are forgotten when “awake” may be recovered. In this instance the subject was put into two different hypnotic states, but without success. This, again, is a matter of some importance for the principle of conservation. Different hypnotic states in the same individual may be distinguished in that each, among other characteristics, may have different and independent systems of memories, as we shall see later. The memories which belong to one state cannot be recalled in another. Hence the fact that a memory cannot be recovered in one state is not proof that it is not conserved, nor is a failure to recover the memory of an episode in all states of hypnosis evidence of failure of conservation, any more than is the failure to recover a memory in the waking state at any given moment.

In the experiment with B. C. A., after failing to awaken a possible memory in either state of hypnosis, a pencil was put in her hand while she was still hypnotized. The hand then wrote automatically, without the knowledge of the hypnotized subject, the following account of this childhood episode that I have just mentioned:[6]

“I think I know about the cats. I can remember myself, a little child, playing on the floor with a kitten, and it began to run about the room and had a fit, I think, and it jumped on me, and I was alone, and I screamed and cried and called my mother, but no one came, and I was very much frightened. I do not believe I ever told anyone. It was a white kitten. It ran out of the room and after a bit I went on playing.”

To test the extent of the conserved memories still further the hand was asked to describe the furnishings of the room and the plan of the house. It wrote:

“There were two windows on the side of the room. The shades were gray, I think, with a border of grapes, or something of that color. The carpet was green or gray with green figures. There was a large old-fashioned sofa between one window and the door which led into the dining-room. A bookcase and desk-combination, you know. There was a mantle, I think, between the windows. It was the ground floor.”

This childhood episode and the furnishings of the room were completely forgotten by B. C. A. in the sense that they could not be voluntarily recalled. Even after reading the script she could not remember them. She had not seen the room since she was six years of age, the family having removed at that time from the town in which the incident took place. As to the accuracy of the “automatic” account and the possibility of fabrication, the description of the room has been corroborated by the independent and written testimony of an older member of the family. It was not possible to confirm the incident of the kitten as there were no witnesses. This portion of the account, therefore, cannot be proved not to be a fabrication, but I have never known a fabricated statement to be made in this subject’s automatic script, and I have obtained from her a large number of statements of different kinds in the course of several years’ observation.