188

II

THE METHOD OF
DREAM-INTERPRETATION

THE ANALYSIS OF A SPECIMEN DREAM

THE epigraph on the title-
page of this volume indicates the tradition to
which I prefer to ally myself in my conception of the dream. I am pro-
posing to show that dreams are capable of interpretation; and any con-
tributions to the solution of the problem which have already been dis-
cussed will emerge only as possible by-
products in the accomplishment of
my special task. On the hypothesis that dreams are susceptible of inter-
pretation, I at once find myself in disagreement with the prevailing doc-
trine of dreams—in fact, with all the theories of dreams, excepting only
that of Scherner, for “to interpret a dream” is to specify its “meaning,” to
replace it by something which takes its position in the concatenation of
our psychic activities as a link of definite importance and value. But, as
we have seen, the scientific theories of the dream leave no room for a prob-
lem of dream-
interpretation; since, in the first place, according to these
theories, dreaming is not a psychic activity at all, but a somatic process
which makes itself known to the psychic apparatus by means of symbols.
Lay opinion has always been opposed to these theories. It asserts its
privilege of proceeding illogically, and although it admits that dreams
are incomprehensible and absurd, it cannot summon up the courage to
deny that dreams have any significance. Led by a dim intuition, it seems
rather to assume that dreams have a meaning, albeit a hidden one; that
they are intended as a substitute for some other thought-
process, and that
we have only to disclose this substitute correctly in order to discover the
hidden meaning of the dream.

The unscientific world, therefore, has always endeavored to “inter-
pret” dreams, and by applying one or the other of two essentially different
methods. The first of these methods envisages the dream-
content as a
whole, and seeks to replace it by another content, which is intelligible and
in certain respects analogous. This is symbolic dream-
interpretation; and

189

of course it goes to pieces at the very outset in the case of those dreams
which are not only unintelligible but confused. The construction which
the biblical Joseph placed upon the dream of Pharaoh furnishes an ex-
ample of this method. The seven fat kine, after which came seven lean
ones that devoured the former, were a symbolic substitute for seven years
of famine in the land of Egypt, which according to the prediction were
to consume all the surplus that seven fruitful years had produced. Most of
the artificial dreams contrived by the poets ¹ are intended for some such
symbolic interpretation, for they reproduce the thought conceived by the
poet in a guise not unlike the disguise which we are wont to find in our
dreams.

The idea that the dream concerns itself chiefly with the future, whose
form it surmises in advance—a relic of the prophetic significance with
which dreams were once invested—now becomes the motive for translat-
ing into the future the meaning of the dream which has been found by
means of symbolic interpretation.

A demonstration of the manner in which one arrives at such a symbolic
interpretation cannot, of course, be given. Success remains a matter of
ingenious conjecture, of direct intuition, and for this reason dream-inter-
pretation has naturally been elevated into an art which seems to depend
upon extraordinary gifts.² The second of the two popular methods of
dream-interpretation entirely abandons such claims. It might be described
as the “cipher method,” since it treats the dream as a kind of secret code
in which every sign is translated into another sign of known meaning,
according to an established key. For example, I have dreamt of a letter,
and also of a funeral or the like; I consult a “dream-book,” and I find that
“letter” is to be translated by “vexation” and “funeral” by “engage-
ment.” It now remains to establish a connection, which I am again to as-
sume as pertaining to the future, by means of the rigmarole which I have
deciphered. An interesting variant of this cipher procedure, a variant in
which its character of purely mechanical transference is to a certain ex-
tent corrected, is presented in the work on dream-
interpretation by Ar-

1) In a novel Gradiva, by the poet, W. Jensen, I chanced to discover several fictitious
dreams, which were perfectly correct in their construction, and could be interpreted
as though they had not been invented, but had been dreamt by actual persons. The
poet declared, upon my inquiry, that he was unacquainted with my theory of dreams.
I have made use of this agreement between my investigations and the creations of the
poet as a proof of the correctness of my method of dream–analysis (Der Wahn und
die Träume in W. Jensen’s Gradiva, vol. i of the Schriften zur angewandten Seelen-
kunde, 1906, edited by myself, Ges. Schriften, vol. ix).

2) Aristotle expressed himself in this connection by saying that the best interpreter
of dreams is he who can best grasp similarities. For dream–pictures, like pictures in
water, are disfigured by the motion (of the water), so that he hits the target best
who is able to recognize the true picture in the distorted one (Büchsenschütz, p. 65).

190

THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS

temidoros of Daldis.¹ Here not only the dream-content, but also the per-
sonality and social position of the dreamer are taken into consideration,
so that the same dream-content has a significance for the rich man, the
married man, or the orator, which is different from that which applies to
the poor man, the bachelor, or, let us say, the merchant. The essential
point, then, in this procedure is that the work of interpretation is not ap-
plied to the entirety of the dream, but to each portion of the dream-con-
tent severally, as though the dream were a conglomerate in which each
fragment calls for special treatment. Incoherent and confused dreams are
certainly those that have been responsible for the invention of the cipher
method.²

¹ Artemidoros of Daldis, born probably in the beginning of the second century of
our calendar, has furnished us with the most complete and careful elaboration of
dream-interpretation as it existed in the Graeco-Roman world. As Gompertz has
emphasized, he ascribed great importance to the consideration that dreams ought to
be interpreted on the basis of observation and experience, and he drew a definite
line between his own art and other methods, which he considered fraudulent. The
principle of his art of interpretation is, according to Gompertz, identical with that
of magic, i.e. the principle of association. The thing dreamed meant what it recalled
to the memory—to the memory, of course, of the dream-interpreter! This fact—that
the dream may remind the interpreter of various things, and every interpreter of
different things—leads, of course, to uncontrollable arbitrariness and uncertainty.
The technique which I am about to describe differs from that of the ancients in one
essential point, namely, in that it imposes upon the dreamer himself the work of
interpretation. Instead of taking into account whatever may occur to the dream-
interpreter, it considers only what occurs to the dreamer in connection with the
dream-element concerned. According to the recent records of the missionary, Tfink-
dji (Anthropos, 1913), it would seem that the modern dream-interpreters of the
Orient likewise attribute much importance to the co-operation of the dreamer. Of
the dream-interpreters among the Mesopotamian Arabs this writer relates as fol-
lows: “Pour interpréter exactement un songe les oniromanciens les plus habiles s’in-
forment de ceux qui les consultent de toutes les circonstances qu’ils regardent néces-
saires pour la bonne explication. . . . En un mot, nos oniromanciens ne laissent
aucune circonstance leur échapper et ne donnent l’interprétation désirée avant d’avoir
parfaitement saisi et reçu toutes les interrogations désirables.” Among these ques-
tions one always finds demands for precise information in respect to near relatives
(parents, wife, children) as well as the following formula: habistine in hoc nocte
copulam conjugalem ante vel post somnium?—L’idée dominante dans l’interpréta-
tion des songes consiste à expliquer le rêve par son opposé.”
² Dr. Alfred Robitsek calls my attention to the fact that Oriental dream-books, of
which ours are pitiful plagiarisms, commonly undertake the interpretation of dream-
elements in accordance with the assonance and similarity of words. Since these rela-
tionships must be lost by translation into our language, the incomprehensibility of
the equivalents in our popular “dream-books” is hereby explained. Information as
to the extraordinary significance of puns and the play upon words in the old Orien-
tal cultures may be found in the writings of Hugo Winckler. The finest example of a
dream-interpretation which has come down to us from antiquity is based on a play
upon words. Artemidoros relates the following (p. 225): “But it seems to me that
Aristandros gave a most happy interpretation to Alexander of Macedon. When the
latter held Tyros encompassed and in a state of siege, and was angry and depressed
over the great waste of time, he dreamed that he saw a Satyr dancing on his shield.
It happened that Aristandros was in the neighbourhood of Tyros, and in the escort of
the king, who was waging war on the Syrians. By dividing the word Satryos into
σὰ and τῦρος, he induced the king to become more aggressive in the siege. And thus

191

The worthlessness of both these popular methods of interpretation does
not admit of discussion. As regards the scientific treatment of the subject,
the symbolic method is limited in its application, and is not susceptible of
a general exposition. In the cipher method everything depends upon
whether the “key,” the dream-book, is reliable, and for that all guarantees
are lacking. So that one might be tempted to grant the contention of the
philosophers and psychiatrists, and to dismiss the problem of dream-
interpretation as altogether fanciful.¹

I have, however, come to think differently. I have been forced to per-
ceive that here, once more, we have one of those not infrequent cases
where an ancient and stubbornly retained popular belief seems to have
come nearer to the truth of the matter than the opinion of modern science.
I must insist that the dream actually does possess a meaning, and that a
scientific method of dream-interpretation is possible. I arrived at my
knowledge of this method in the following manner:

For years I have been occupied with the resolution of certain psycho-
pathological structures—hysterical phobias, obsessional ideas, and the
like—with therapeutic intentions. I have been so occupied, in fact, ever
since I heard the significant statement of Joseph Breuer, to the effect that
in these structures, regarded as morbid symptoms, solution and treatment
go hand in hand.² Where it has been possible to trace a pathological idea
back to those elements in the psychic life of the patient to which it owed
its origin, this idea has crumbled away, and the patient has been relieved
of it. In view of the failure of our other therapeutic efforts, and in the face
of the mysterious character of these pathological conditions, it seemed to
me tempting, in spite of all the difficulties, to follow the method initiated
by Breuer until a complete elucidation of the subject had been achieved.
I shall have occasion elsewhere to give a detailed account of the form
which the technique of this procedure has finally assumed, and of the
results of my efforts. In the course of these psychoanalytic studies, I hap-
pened upon the question of dream-interpretation. My patients, after I
had pledged them to inform me of all the ideas and thoughts which oc-
curred to them in connection with a given theme, related their dreams,
and thus taught me that a dream may be interpolated in the psychic con-
sciousness.

Alexander became master of the city.” (Σὰ Τῦρος = thine is Tyros.) The dream, in-
deed, is so intimately connected with verbal expression that Ferenczi justly remarks
that every tongue has its own dream-language. A dream is, as a rule, not to be trans-
lated into other languages.

¹After the completion of my manuscript, a paper by Stumpf came to my notice
which agrees with my work in attempting to prove that the dream is full of meaning
and capable of interpretation. But the interpretation is undertaken by means of an
allegorizing symbolism, and there is no guarantee that the procedure is generally
applicable.

²Selected Papers on Hysteria and other Psychoneuroses. Monograph series, Journ
Nerv. Mental Dis. Pub. Co.

192

catenation, which may be followed backwards from a pathological idea
into the patient’s memory. The next step was to treat the dream itself as
a symptom, and to apply to it the method of interpretation which had
been worked out for such symptoms.

For this a certain psychic preparation on the part of the patient is
necessary. A twofold effort is made, to stimulate his attentiveness in
respect of his psychic perceptions, and to eliminate the critical spirit in
which he is ordinarily in the habit of viewing such thoughts as come to
the surface. For the purpose of self-observation with concentrated atten-
tion it is advantageous that the patient should take up a restful position
and close his eyes; he must be explicitly instructed to renounce all criti-
cism of the thought-formations which he may perceive. He must also be
told that the success of the psychoanalysis depends upon his noting and
communicating everything that passes through his mind, and that he must
not allow himself to suppress one idea because it seems to him unim-
portant or irrelevant to the subject, or another because it seems non-
sensical. He must preserve an absolute impartiality in respect to his ideas;
for if he is unsuccessful in finding the desired solution of the dream, the
obsessional idea, or the like, it will be because he permits himself to be
critical of them.

I have noticed in the course of my psychoanalytical work that the psy-
chological state of a man in an attitude of reflection is entirely different
from that of a man who is observing his psychic processes. In reflection
there is a greater play of psychic activity than in the most attentive self-
observation; this is shown even by the tense attitude and the wrinkled
brow of the man in a state of reflection, as opposed to the mimic tran-
quillity of the man observing himself. In both cases there must be concen-
trated attention, but the reflective man makes use of his critical faculties,
with the result that he rejects some of the thoughts which rise into con-
sciousness after he has become aware of them, and abruptly interrupts
others, so that he does not follow the lines of thought which they would
otherwise open up for him; while in respect of yet other thoughts he is
able to behave in such a manner that they do not become conscious at all
—that is to say, they are suppressed before they are perceived. In self-
observation, on the other hand, he has but one task—that of suppressing
criticism; if he succeeds in doing this, an unlimited number of thoughts
enter his consciousness which would otherwise have eluded his grasp.
With the aid of the material thus obtained—material which is new to the
self-observer—it is possible to achieve the interpretation of pathological
ideas, and also that of dream-formations. As will be seen, the point is to
induce a psychic state which is in some degree analogous, as regards the
distribution of psychic energy (mobile attention), to the state of the mind
before falling asleep—and also, of course, to the hypnotic state. On falling

193

asleep the “undesired ideas” emerge, owing to the slackening of a certain
arbitrary (and, of course, also critical) action, which is allowed to in-
fluence the trend of our ideas; we are accustomed to speak of fatigue as
the reason of this slackening; the emerging undesired ideas are changed
into visual and auditory images. In the condition which it utilized for the
analysis of dreams and pathological ideas, this activity is purposely and
deliberately renounced, and the psychic energy thus saved (or some part
of it) is employed in attentively tracking the undesired thoughts which
now come to the surface—thoughts which retain their identity as ideas
(in which the condition differs from the state of falling asleep). “Unde-
sired ideas” are thus changed into “desired” ones.

There are many people who do not seem to find it easy to adopt the
required attitude toward the apparently “freely rising” ideas, and to
renounce the criticism which is otherwise applied to them. The “unde-
sired ideas” habitually evoke the most violent resistance, which seeks to
prevent them from coming to the surface. But if we may credit our great
poet-philosopher Friedrich Schiller, the essential condition of poetical
creation includes a very similar attitude. In a certain passage in his cor-
respondence with Körner (for the tracing of which we are indebted to
Otto Rank), Schiller replies in the following words to a friend who com-
plains of his lack of creative power: “The reason for your complaint lies,
it seems to me, in the constraint which your intellect imposes upon your
imagination. Here I will make an observation, and illustrate it by an
allegory. Apparently it is not good—and indeed it hinders the creative
work of the mind—if the intellect examines too closely the ideas already
pouring in, as it were, at the gates. Regarded in isolation, an idea may be
quite insignificant, and venturesome in the extreme, but it may acquire
importance from an idea which follows it; perhaps, in a certain collocation
with other ideas, which may seem equally absurd, it may be capable of
furnishing a very serviceable link. The intellect cannot judge all these
ideas unless it can retain them until it has considered them in connection
with these other ideas. In the case of a creative mind, it seems to me, the
intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the gates, and the ideas rush in
pell-mell, and only then does it review and inspect the multitude. You
worthy critics, or whatever you may call yourselves, are ashamed or afraid
of the momentary and passing madness which is found in all real creators,
the longer or shorter duration of which distinguishes the thinking artist
from the dreamer. Hence your complaints of unfruitfulness, for you reject
too soon and discriminate too severely” (letter of December 1, 1788).

And yet, such a withdrawal of the watchers from the gates of the in-
tellect, as Schiller puts it, such a translation into the condition of un-
critical self-observation, is by no means difficult.

Most of my patients accomplish it after my first instructions. I myself

194

can do so very completely, if I assist the process by writing down the ideas
that flash through my mind. The quantum of psychic energy by which
the critical activity is thus reduced, and by which the intensity of self-
observation may be increased, varies considerably according to the sub-
ject-matter upon which the attention is to be fixed.

The first step in the application of this procedure teaches us that one
cannot make the dream as a whole the object of one’s attention, but
only the individual components of its content. If I ask a patient who is as
yet unpractised: “What occurs to you in connection with this dream?”
he is unable, as a rule, to fix upon anything in his psychic field of vision. I
must first dissect the dream for him; then, in connection with each frag-
ment, he gives me a number of ideas which may be described as the
“thoughts behind” this part of the dream. In this first and important
condition, then, the method of dream-interpretation which I employ
diverges from the popular, historical and legendary method of interpreta-
tion by symbolism and approaches more nearly to the second or “cipher
method.” Like this, it is an interpretation in detail, not en masse; like
this, it conceives the dream, from the outset, as something built up, as a
conglomerate of psychic formations.

In the course of my psychoanalysis of neurotics I have already sub-
jected perhaps more than a thousand dreams to interpretation, but I do
not wish to use this material now as an introduction to the theory and
technique of dream-
interpretation. For quite apart from the fact that I
should lay myself open to the objection that these are the dreams of
neuropaths, so that the conclusions drawn from them would not apply
to the dreams of healthy persons, there is another reason that impels me
to reject them. The theme to which these dreams point is, of course, al-
ways the history of the malady that is responsible for the neurosis. Hence
every dream would require a very long introduction, and an investigation
of the nature and etiological conditions of the psychoneuroses, matters
which are in themselves novel and exceedingly strange, and which would
therefore distract attention from the dream-problem proper. My pur-
pose is rather to prepare the way, by the solution of the dream-problem,
for the solution of the more difficult problems of the psychology of the
neuroses. But if I eliminate the dreams of neurotics, which constitute my
principal material, I cannot be too fastidious in my treatment of the rest.
Only those dreams are left which have been incidentally related to me by
healthy persons of my acquaintance, or which I find given as examples
in the literature of dream-life. Unfortunately, in all these dreams I am
deprived of the analysis without which I cannot find the meaning of the
dream. My mode of procedure is, of course, less easy than that of the
popular cipher method, which translates the given dream-content by
reference to an established key; I, on the contrary, hold that the same

195

dream-content may conceal a different meaning in the case of different
persons, or in different connections. I must, therefore, resort to my own
dreams as a source of abundant and convenient material, furnished by a
person who is more or less normal, and containing references to many in-
cidents of everyday life. I shall certainly be confronted with doubts as to
the trustworthiness of these “self-analyses,” and it will be said that arbi-
trariness is by no means excluded in such analyses. In my own judgment,
conditions are more likely to be favourable in self-observation than in
the observation of others; in any case, it is permissible to investigate how
much can be accomplished in the matter of dream-interpretation by
means of self-analysis. There are other difficulties which must be over-
come in my own inner self. One has a comprehensible aversion to expos-
ing so many intimate details of one’s own psychic life, and one does not
feel secure against the misinterpretations of strangers. But one must be
able to transcend such considerations. “Tout psychologiste,” writes Del-
bœuf, “est obligé de faire l’aveu même de ses faiblesses s’il croit par là
jeter du jour sur quelque problème obscur.” And I may assume for the
reader that his initial interest in the indiscretions which I must commit
will very soon give way to an exclusive engrossment in the psychological
problems elucidated by them.¹⁾

I shall therefore select one of my own dreams for the purpose of eluci-
dating my method of interpretation. Every such dream necessitates a
preliminary statement; so that I must now beg the reader to make my
interests his own for a time, and to become absorbed, with me, in the
most trifling details of my life; for an interest in the hidden significance
of dreams imperatively demands just such a transference.

PRELIMINARY STATEMENT

In the summer of 1895 I had treated psycho-
analytically a young lady who was an intimate friend of mine and of my family. It will be under-
stood that such complicated relations may excite manifold feelings in the
physician, and especially the psychotherapist. The personal interest of
the physician is greater, but his authority less. If he fails, his friendship
with the patient’s relatives is in danger of being undermined. In this
case, however, the treatment ended in partial success; the patient was
cured of her hysterical anxiety, but not of all her somatic symptoms. At
that time I was not yet quite sure of the criteria which denote the final
cure of an hysterical case, and I expected her to accept a solution which
did not seem acceptable to her. In the midst of this disagreement we dis-
continued the treatment for the summer holidays. One day a younger

¹⁾ However, I will not omit to mention, in qualification of the above statement, that
I have practically never reported a complete interpretation of a dream of my own.
And I was probably right not to trust too far to the reader’s discretion.

196

THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS

colleague, one of my most intimate friends, who had visited the patient—
Irma—and her family in their country residence, called upon me. I asked
him how Irma was, and received the reply: “She is better, but not quite
well.” I realize that these words of my friend Otto’s, or the tone of voice in
which they were spoken, annoyed me. I thought I heard a reproach in the
words, perhaps to the effect that I had promised the patient too much,
and—rightly or wrongly—I attributed Otto’s apparent “taking sides”
against me to the influence of the patient’s relatives, who, I assumed, had
never approved of my treatment. This disagreeable impression, however,
did not become clear to me, nor did I speak of it. That same evening I
wrote the clinical history of Irma’s case, in order to give it, as though to
justify myself, to Dr. M., a mutual friend, who was at that time the
leading personality in our circle. During the night (or rather in the
early morning) I had the following dream, which I recorded immediately
after waking:—¹

Dream of July 23–24, 1895

A great hall—a number of guests, whom we are receiving—among them
Irma, whom I immediately take aside, as though to answer her letter, and
to reproach her for not yet accepting the “solution.” I say to her: “If you
still have pains, it is really only your own fault.”—She answers: “If you
only knew what pains I have now in the throat, stomach, and abdomen—
I am choked by them.” I am startled, and look at her. She looks pale and
puffy. I think that after all I must be overlooking some organic affection.
I take her to the window and look into her throat. She offers some resis-
tance to this, like a woman who has a set of false teeth. I think, surely, she
doesn’t need them.—The mouth then opens wide, and I find a large white
spot on the right, and elsewhere I see extensive grayish-white scabs ad-
hering to curiously curled formations, which are evidently shaped like the
turbinal bones of the nose.—I quickly call Dr. M., who repeats the ex-
amination and confirms it. . . . Dr. M. looks quite unlike his usual self;
he is very pale, he limps, and his chin is clean-shaven. . . . Now my
friend Otto, too, is standing beside her, and my friend Leopold percusses
her covered chest, and says: “She has a dullness below, on the left,” and
also calls attention to an infiltrated portion of skin on the left shoulder
(which I can feel, in spite of the dress). . . . M. says: “There’s no doubt
that it’s an infection, but it doesn’t matter; dysentery will follow and the
poison will be eliminated.” . . . We know, too, precisely how the infec-
tion originated. My friend Otto, not long ago, gave her, when she was
feeling unwell, an injection of a preparation of propyl . . . propyls . . .
propionic acid . . . trimethylamin (the formula of which I see before
 

¹This is the first dream which I subjected to an exhaustive interpretation.

197

me, printed in heavy 
type).. . . One doesn’t give such injections so 
rashly.. . . Probably, too, the syringe was not-
clean.

This dream has an advantage over many others. It is at once obvious 
to what events of the preceding day it is related, and of what subject it 
treats. The preliminary statement explains these matters. The news of 
Irma’s health which I had received from Otto, and the clinical history, 
which I was writing late into the night, had occupied my psychic activi-
ties even during sleep. Nevertheless, no one who had read the preliminary 
report, and had knowledge of the content of the dream, could guess what 
the dream signified. Nor do I myself know. I am puzzled by the morbid 
symptoms of which Irma complains in the dream, for they are not the 
symptoms for which I treated her. I smile at the nonsensical idea of an 
injection of propionic acid, and at Dr. M.’s attempt at consolation. 
Towards the end the dream seems more obscure and quicker in tempo than 
at the beginning. In order to learn the significance of all these details I 
resolve to undertake an exhaustive analysis.

ANALYSIS

The hall—a number of guests, whom we are receiving. We were living 
that summer at Bellevue, an isolated house on one of the hills adjoining 
the Kahlenberg. This house was originally built as a place of entertain-
ment, and therefore has unusually lofty, hall-like rooms. The dream was 
dreamed in Bellevue, a few days before my wife’s birthday. During the 
day my wife had mentioned that she expected several friends, and among 
them Irma, to come to us as guests for her birthday. My dream, then, an-
ticipates this situation: It is my wife’s birthday, and we are receiving a 
number of people, among them Irma, as guests in the large hall of Belle-
vue.

I reproach Irma for not having accepted the “solution,” I say, “If you 
still have pains, it is really your own fault.” I might even have said this 
while awake; I may have actually said it. At that time I was of the opinion 
(recognized later to be incorrect) that my task was limited to informing 
patients of the hidden meaning of their symptoms. Whether they then 
accepted or did not accept the solution upon which success depended— 
for that I was not responsible. I am grateful to this error, which, for-
tunately, has now been overcome, since it made life easier for me at a 
time when, with all my unavoidable ignorance, I was expected to effect 
successful cures. But I note that in the speech which I make to Irma in 
the dream I am above all anxious that I shall not be blamed for the pains 
which she still suffers. If it is Irma’s own fault, it cannot be mine. Should 
the purpose of the dream be looked for in this quarter?

Irma’s complaints—pains in the neck, abdomen, and stomach; she is

198

choked by them. Pains in the stomach belonged to the symptom-complex
of my patient, but they were not very prominent; she complained rather
of qualms and a feeling of nausea. Pains in the neck and abdomen and
constriction of the throat played hardly any part in her case. I wonder
why I have decided upon this choice of symptoms in the dream; for the
moment I cannot discover the reason.

She looks pale and puffy. My patient had always a rosy complexion. I
suspect that here another person is being substituted for her.

I am startled at the idea that I may have overlooked some organic affec-
tion. This, as the reader will readily believe, is a constant fear with the
specialist who sees neurotics almost exclusively, and who is accustomed
to ascribe to hysteria so many manifestations which other physicians treat
as organic. On the other hand, I am haunted by a faint doubt—I do not
know whence it comes—whether my alarm is altogether honest. If Irma’s
pains are indeed of organic origin, it is not my duty to cure them. My
treatment, of course, removes only hysterical pains. It seems to me, in
fact, that I wish to find an error in the diagnosis; for then I could not be
reproached with failure to effect a cure.

I take her to the window in order to look into her throat. She resists a
little, like a woman who has false teeth. I think to myself, she does not
need them. I had never had occasion to inspect Irma’s oral cavity. The
incident in the dream reminds me of an examination, made some time
before, of a governess who at first produced an impression of youthful
beauty, but who, upon opening her mouth, took certain measures to con-
ceal her denture. Other memories of medical examinations, and of petty
secrets revealed by them, to the embarrassment of both physician and
patient, associate themselves with this case.—“She surely does not need
them,” is perhaps in the first place a compliment to Irma; but I suspect
yet another meaning. In a careful analysis one is able to feel whether or
not the arrière-pensées which are to be expected have all been exhausted.
The way in which Irma stands at the window suddenly reminds me of
another experience. Irma has an intimate woman friend of whom I think
very highly. One evening, on paying her a visit, I found her at the window
in the position reproduced in the dream, and her physician, the same Dr.
M., declared that she had a diphtheritic membrane. The person of Dr.
M. and the membrane return, indeed, in the course of the dream. Now it
occurs to me that during the past few months I have had every reason to
suppose that this lady too is hysterical. Yes, Irma herself betrayed the
fact to me. But what do I know of her condition? Only the one thing, that
like Irma in the dream she suffers from hysterical choking. Thus, in the
dream I have replaced my patient by her friend. Now I remember that I
have often played with the supposition that this lady, too, might ask me
to relieve her of her symptoms. But even at the time I thought it improb-

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THE METHOD OF DREAM-INTERPRETATION

able, since she is extremely reserved. She resists, as the dream shows.
Another explanation might be that she does not need it; in fact, until now
she has shown herself strong enough to master her condition without out-
side help. Now only a few features remain, which I can assign neither to
Irma nor to her friend; pale, puffy, false teeth. The false teeth led me to
the governess. I now feel inclined to be satisfied with bad teeth. Here
another person, to whom these features may allude, occurs to me. She is
not my patient, and I do not wish her to be my patient, for I have noticed
that she is not at her ease with me, and I do not consider her a docile pa-
tient. She is generally pale, and once, when she had not felt particularly
well, she was puffy.¹⁾ I have thus compared my patient Irma with two
others, who would likewise resist treatment. What is the meaning of the
fact that I have exchanged her for her friend in the dream? Perhaps that
I wish to exchange her; either her friend arouses in me stronger sym-
pathies, or I have a higher regard for her intelligence. For I consider Irma
foolish because she does not accept my solution. The other woman would
be more sensible, and would thus be more likely to yield. The mouth then
opens readily; she would tell more than Irma.²⁾

What I see in the throat: a white spot and scabby turbinal bones. The
white spot recalls diphtheria, and thus Irma’s friend, but it also recalls the
grave illness of my eldest daughter two years earlier, and all the anxiety
of that unhappy time. The scab on the turbinal bones reminds me of my
anxiety concerning my own health. At that time I frequently used cocaine
in order to suppress distressing swellings in the nose, and I had heard a
few days previously that a lady patient who did likewise had contracted
an extensive necrosis of the nasal mucous membrane. In 1885 it was I
who had recommended the use of cocaine, and I had been gravely re-
proached in consequence. A dear friend, who had died before the date of
this dream, had hastened his end by the misuse of this remedy.

I quickly call Dr. M., who repeats the examination. This would sim-
ply correspond to the position which M. occupies among us. But the
word “quickly” is striking enough to demand a special examination. It
reminds me of a sad medical experience. By continually prescribing a
drug (sulphonal), which at that time was still considered harmless, I was
once responsible for a condition of acute poisoning in the case of a woman

¹⁾The complaint of pains in the abdomen, as yet unexplained, may also be referred to
this third person. It is my own wife, of course, who is in question; the abdominal
pains remind me of one of the occasions on which her shyness became evident to me.
I must admit that I do not treat Irma and my wife very gallantly in this dream, but
let it be said, in my defence, that I am measuring both of them against the ideal of
the courageous and docile female patient.

²⁾I suspect that the interpretation of this portion has not been carried far enough
to follow every hidden meaning. If I were to continue the comparison of the three
women, I should go far afield. Every dream has at least one point at which it is
unfathomable; a central point, as it were, connecting it with the unknown.

200

patient, and hastily turned for assistance to my older and more experi-
enced colleague. The fact that I really had this case in mind is confirmed
by a subsidiary circumstance. The patient, who succumbed to the toxic
effects of the drug, bore the same name as my eldest daughter. I had never
thought of this until now; but now it seems to me almost like a retribution
of fate—as though the substitution of persons had to be continued in
another sense: this Matilda for that Matilda; an eye for an eye, a tooth
for a tooth. It is as though I were seeking every opportunity to reproach
myself for a lack of medical conscientiousness.

Dr. M. is pale; his chin is shaven, and he limps. Of this so much is cor-
rect, that his unhealthy appearance often arouses the concern of his
friends. The other two characteristics must belong to another person. An
elder brother living abroad occurs to me, for he, too, shaves his chin, and
if I remember him rightly, the M. of the dream bears on the whole a cer-
tain resemblance to him. And some days previously the news arrived that
he was limping on account of an arthritic affection of the hip. There must
be some reason why I fuse the two persons into one in my dream. I re-
member that, in fact, I was on bad terms with both of them for similar
reasons. Both had rejected a certain proposal which I had recently made
them.

My friend Otto is now standing next to the patient, and my friend
Leopold examines her and calls attention to a dulness low down on the
left side. My friend Leopold also is a physician, and a relative of Otto’s.
Since the two practise the same speciality, fate has made them competi-
tors, so that they are constantly being compared with one another. Both
of them assisted me for years, while I was still directing a public clinic
for neurotic children. There, scenes like that reproduced in my dream had
often taken place. While I would be discussing the diagnosis of a case
with Otto, Leopold would examine the child anew and make an unex-
pected contribution towards our decision. There was a difference of char-
acter between the two men like that between Inspector Brasig and his
friend Karl. Otto was remarkably prompt and alert; Leopold was slow
and thoughtful, but thorough. If I contrast Otto and the cautious Leopold
in the dream I do so, apparently, in order to extol Leopold. The compari-
son is like that made above between the disobedient patient Irma and her
friend, who was believed to be more sensible. I now become aware of one
of the tracks along which the association of ideas in the dream proceeds:
from the sick child to the children’s clinic. Concerning the dulness low on
the left side, I have the impression that it corresponds with a certain case
of which all the details were similar, a case in which Leopold impressed me
by his thoroughness. I thought vaguely, too, of something like a metastatic
affection, but it might also be a reference to the patient whom I should

201

have liked to have in Irma’s place. For this lady, as far as I can gather,
exhibited symptoms which imitated tuberculosis.

An infiltrated portion of skin on the left shoulder. I know at once that
this is my own rheumatism of the shoulder, which I always feel if I lie
awake long at night. The very phrasing of the dream sounds ambiguous:
“Something which I can feel, as he does, in spite of the dress.” “Feel on
my own body” is intended. Further, it occurs to me how unusual the
phrase “infiltrated portion of skin” sounds. We are accustomed to the
phrase: “an infiltration of the upper posterior left”; this would refer to
the lungs, and thus, once more, to tuberculosis.

In spite of the dress. This, to be sure, is only an interpolation. At the
clinic the children were, of course, examined undressed; here we have some
contrast to the manner in which adult female patients have to be exam-
ined. The story used to be told of an eminent physician that he always ex-
amined his patients through their clothes. The rest is obscure to me; I have,
frankly, no inclination to follow the matter further.

Dr. M. says: “It’s an infection, but it doesn’t matter; dysentery will
follow, and the poison will be eliminated.” This, at first, seems to me
ridiculous; nevertheless, like everything else, it must be carefully an-
alysed; more closely observed it seems after all to have a sort of meaning.
What I had found in the patient was a local diphtheritis. I remember the
discussion about diphtheritis and diphtheria at the time of my daughter’s
illness. Diphtheria is the general infection which proceeds from local
diphtheritis. Leopold demonstrates the existence of such a general infec-
tion by the dulness, which also suggests a metastatic focus. I believe,
however, that just this kind of metastasis does not occur in the case of
diphtheria. It reminds me rather of pyaemia.

It doesn’t matter is a consolation. I believe it fits in as follows: The
last part of the dream has yielded a content to the effect that the patient’s
sufferings are the result of a serious organic affection. I begin to suspect
that by this I am only trying to shift the blame from myself. Psychic
treatment cannot be held responsible for the continued presence of a
diphtheritic affection. Now, indeed, I am distressed by the thought of hav-
ing invented such a serious illness for Irma, for the sole purpose of ex-
culpating myself. It seems so cruel. Accordingly, I need the assurance that
the outcome will be benign, and it seems to me that I made a good choice
when I put the words that consoled me into the mouth of Dr. M. But here
I am placing myself in a position of superiority to the dream; a fact which
needs explanation.

But why is this consolation so nonsensical?

Dysentery. Some sort of far-fetched theoretical notion that the toxins
of disease might be eliminated through the intestines. Am I thereby trying
to make fun of Dr. M.’s remarkable store of far-fetched explanations, his

202

habit of conceiving curious pathological relations? Dysentery suggests
something else. A few months ago I had in my care a young man who was
suffering from remarkable intestinal troubles; a case which had been
treated by other colleagues as one of “anaemia with malnutrition.” I
realized that it was a case of hysteria; I was unwilling to use my psycho-
therapy on him, and sent him off on a sea-voyage. Now a few days pre-
viously I had received a despairing letter from him; he wrote from Egypt,
saying that he had had a fresh attack, which the doctor had declared to be
dysentery. I suspect that the diagnosis is merely an error on the part of
an ignorant colleague, who is allowing himself to be fooled by the hys-
teria; yet I cannot help reproaching myself for putting the invalid in a
position where he might contract some organic affection of the bowels in
addition to his hysteria. Furthermore, dysentery sounds not unlike diph-
theria, a word which does not occur in the dream.

Yes, it must be the case that with the consoling prognosis, “Dysentery
will develop, etc.,” I am making fun of Dr. M., for I recollect that years
ago he once jestingly told a very similar story of a colleague. He had been
called in to consult with him in the case of a woman who was very seriously
ill, and he felt obliged to confront his colleague, who seemed very hope-
ful, with the fact that he found albumen in the patient’s urine. His col-
league, however, did not allow this to worry him, but answered calmly:
“That does not matter, my dear sir; the albumen will soon be excreted!”
Thus I can no longer doubt that this part of the dream expresses derision
for those of my colleagues who are ignorant of hysteria. And, as though in
confirmation, the thought enters my mind: “Does Dr. M. know that the
appearances in Irma’s friend, his patient, which gave him reason to fear
tuberculosis, are likewise due to hysteria? Has he recognized this hysteria,
or has he allowed himself to be fooled?”

But what can be my motive in treating this friend so badly? That is
simple enough: Dr. M. agrees with my solution as little as does Irma
herself. Thus, in this dream I have already revenged myself on two per-
sons: on Irma in the words, “If you still have pains, it is your own fault,”
and on Dr. M. in the wording of the nonsensical consolation which has
been put into his mouth.

We know precisely how the infection originated. This precise knowl-
edge in the dream is remarkable. Only a moment before this we did not
yet know of the infection, since it was first demonstrated by Leopold.

My friend Otto gave her an injection not long ago, when she was
feeling unwell. Otto had actually related during his short visit to Irma’s
family that he had been called in to a neighbouring hotel in order to give
an injection to someone who had been suddenly taken ill. Injections re-
mind me once more of the unfortunate friend who poisoned himself with
cocaine. I had recommended the remedy for internal use only during the

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THE METHOD OF DREAM-
INTERPRETATION
withdrawal of morphia; but he immediately gave himself injections of
cocaine.

With a preparation of propyl . . . propyls . . . propionic acid. How
on earth did this occur to me? On the evening of the day after I had written
the clinical history and dreamed about the case, my wife opened a bottle
of liqueur labelled “Ananas,”¹⁾ which was a present from our friend Otto.
He had, as a matter of fact, a habit of making presents on every possible
occasion; I hope he will some day be cured of this by a wife.²⁾ This liqueur
smelt so strongly of fusel oil that I refused to drink it. My wife suggested:
“We will give the bottle to the servants,” and I, more prudent, objected,
with the philanthropic remark: “They shan’t be poisoned either.” The
smell of fusel oil (amyl . . .) has now apparently awakened my memory
of the whole series: propyl, methyl, etc., which furnished the preparation
of propyl mentioned in the dream. Here, indeed, I have effected a substi-
tution: I dreamt of propyl after smelling amyl; but substitutions of this
kind are perhaps permissible, especially in organic chemistry.

Trimethylamin. In the dream I see the chemical formula of this sub-
stance—which at all events is evidence of a great effort on the part of my
memory—and the formula is even printed in heavy type, as though to
distinguish it from the context as something of particular importance.
And where does trimethylamin thus forced on my attention lead me?
To a conversation with another friend, who for years has been familiar
with all my germinating ideas, and I with his. At that time he had just in-
formed me of certain ideas concerning a sexual chemistry, and had men-
tioned, among others, that he thought he had found in trimethylamin one
of the products of sexual metabolism. This substance thus leads me to
sexuality, the factor to which I attribute the greatest significance in respect
of the origin of these nervous affections which I am trying to cure. My
patient Irma is a young widow; if I am required to excuse my failure to
cure her, I shall perhaps do best to refer to this condition, which her ad-
mirers would be glad to terminate. But in what a singular fashion such a
dream is fitted together! The friend who in my dream becomes my pa-
tient in Irma’s place is likewise a young widow.

I surmise why it is that the formula of trimethylamin is so insistent in
the dream. So many important things are centred about this one word:
trimethylamin is an allusion, not merely to the all-important factor of
sexuality, but also to a friend whose sympathy I remember with satisfac-
tion whenever I feel isolated in my opinions. And this friend, who plays
such a large part in my life: will he not appear yet again in the concatena-

¹⁾ “Ananas,” moreover, has a remarkable assonance with the family name of my
patient Irma.

²⁾ In this the dream did not turn out to be prophetic. But in another sense it proved
correct, for the “unsolved” stomach pains, for which I did not want to be blamed,
were the forerunners of a serious illness, due to gall-stones.

204

tion of ideas peculiar to this dream? Of course; he has a special knowledge
of the results of affections of the nose and the sinuses, and has revealed to
science several highly remarkable relations between the turbinal bones
and the female sexual organs. (The three curly formations in Irma’s
throat.) I got him to examine Irma, in order to determine whether her
gastric pains were of nasal origin. But he himself suffers from suppurative
rhinitis, which gives me concern, and to this perhaps there is an allusion
in pyaemia, which hovers before me in the metastasis of the dream.
One doesn’t give such injections so rashly. Here the reproach of rash-
ness is hurled directly at my friend Otto. I believe I had some such
thought in the afternoon, when he seemed to indicate, by word and look,
that he had taken sides against me. It was, perhaps: “How easily he is
influenced; how irresponsibly he pronounces judgment.” Further, the
above sentence points once more to my deceased friend, who so irrespon-
sibly resorted to cocaine injections. As I have said, I had not intended
that injections of the drug should be taken. I note that in reproaching
Otto I once more touch upon the story of the unfortunate Matilda, which
was the pretext for the same reproach against me. Here, obviously, I am
collecting examples of my conscientiousness, and also of the reverse.
Probably too the syringe was not clean. Another reproach directed at
Otto, but originating elsewhere. On the previous day I happened to meet
the son of an old lady of eighty-two, to whom I am obliged to give two in-
jections of morphia daily. At present she is in the country, and I have
heard that she is suffering from phlebitis. I immediately thought that this
might be a case of infiltration caused by a dirty syringe. It is my pride
that in two years I have not given her a single infiltration; I am always
careful, of course, to see that the syringe is perfectly clean. For I am
conscientious. From the phlebitis I return to my wife, who once suffered
from thrombosis during a period of pregnancy, and now three related sit-
uations come to the surface in my memory, involving my wife, Irma, and
the dead Matilda, whose identity has apparently justified my putting
these three persons in one another’s places.

I have now completed the interpretation of the dream.¹ In the course of
this interpretation I have taken great pains to avoid all those notions
which must have been suggested by a comparison of the dream-content
with the dream-thoughts hidden behind this content. Meanwhile the
“meaning” of the dream has dawned upon me. I have noted an intention
which is realized through the dream, and which must have been my mo-
tive in dreaming. The dream fulfils several wishes, which were awakened

¹Even if I have not, as might be expected, accounted for everything that occurred
to me in connection with the work of interpretation.

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THE METHOD OF DREAM–INTERPRETATION

within me by the events of the previous evening (Otto’s news, and the
writing of the clinical history). For the result of the dream is, that it is
not I who am to blame for the pain which Irma is still suffering, but that
Otto is to blame for it. Now Otto has annoyed me by his remark about
Irma’s imperfect cure; the dream avenges me upon him, in that it turns
the reproach upon himself. The dream acquits me of responsibility for
Irma’s condition, as it refers this condition to other causes (which do, in-
deed, furnish quite a number of explanations). The dream represents a
certain state of affairs, such as I might wish to exist; the content of the
dream is thus the fulfilment of a wish; its motive is a wish.

This much is apparent at first sight. But many other details of the
dream become intelligible when regarded from the standpoint of wish-
fulfilment. I take my revenge on Otto, not merely for too readily taking
sides against me, in that I accuse him of careless medical treatment (the
injection), but I revenge myself also for the bad liqueur which smells of
fusel oil, and I find an expression in the dream which unites both these
reproaches: the injection of a preparation of propyl. Still I am not satis-
fied, but continue to avenge myself by comparing him with his more re-
liable colleague. Thereby I seem to say: “I like him better than you.” But
Otto is not the only person who must be made to feel the weight of my
anger. I take my revenge on the disobedient patient, by exchanging her
for a more sensible and more docile one. Nor do I pass over Dr. M.’s con-
tradiction; for I express, in an obvious allusion, my opinion of him:
namely, that his attitude in this case is that of an ignoramus (“Dysentery
will develop, etc.”). Indeed, it seems as though I were appealing from him
to someone better informed (my friend, who told me about trimethyl-
amin), just as I have turned from Irma to her friend, and from Otto to
Leopold. It is as though I were to say: Rid me of these three persons, re-
place them by three others of my own choice, and I shall be rid of the re-
proaches which I am not willing to admit that I deserve! In my dream the
unreasonableness of these reproaches is demonstrated for me in the most
elaborate manner. Irma’s pains are not attributable to me, since she her-
self is to blame for them, in that she refuses to accept my solution. They
do not concern me, for being as they are of an organic nature, they cannot
possibly be cured by psychic treatment.—Irma’s sufferings are satisfac-
torily explained by her widowhood (trimethylamin!); a state which I
cannot alter.—Irma’s illness has been caused by an incautious injection
administered by Otto, an injection of an unsuitable drug, such as I should
never have administered.—Irma’s complaint is the result of an injection
made with an unclean syringe, like the phlebitis of my old lady patient,
whereas my injections have never caused any ill effects. I am aware that
these explanations of Irma’s illness, which unite in acquitting me, do not

206

agree with one ano-
ther; that they even exclude one another. The whole
plea—for this dream is nothing else—recalls vividly the defence offered
by a man who was accused by his neighbour of having returned a kettle
in a damaged condition. In the first place, he said, he had returned the
kettle undamaged; in the second place it already had holes in it when he
borrowed it; and in the third place, he had never borrowed it at all. A
complicated defence, but so much the better; if only one of these three
lines of defence is recognized as valid, the man must be acquitted.

Still other themes play a part in the dream, and their relation to my
non-responsibility for Irma’s illness is not so apparent: my daughter’s
illness, and that of a patient with the same name; the harmfulness of co-
caine; the affection of my patient, who was traveling in Egypt; concern
about the health of my wife; my brother, and Dr. M.; my own physical
troubles, and anxiety concerning my absent friend, who is suffering from
suppurative rhinitis. But if I keep all these things in view, they combine
into a single train of thought, which might be labelled: concern for the
health of myself and others; professional conscientiousness. I recall a
vaguely disagreeable feeling when Otto gave me the news of Irma’s con-
dition. Lastly, I am inclined, after the event, to find an expression of this
fleeting sensation in the train of thoughts which forms part of the dream.
It is as though Otto had said to me: “You do not take your medical duties
seriously enough; you are not conscientious; you do not perform what
you promise.” Thereupon this train of thought placed itself at my service,
in order that I might give proof of my extreme conscientiousness, of my
intimate concern about the health of my relatives, friends and patients.
Curiously enough, there are also some painful memories in this material,
which confirm the blame attached to Otto rather than my own exculpa-
tion. The material is apparently impartial, but the connection between
this broader material, on which the dream is based, and the more limited
theme from which emerges the wish to be innocent of Irma’s illness, is,
nevertheless, unmistakable.

I do not wish to assert that I have entirely revealed the meaning of the
dream, or that my interpretation is flawless.

I could still spend much time upon it; I could draw further explana-
tions from it, and discuss further problems which it seems to propound. I
can even perceive the points from which further mental associations might
be traced; but such considerations as are always involved in every dream
of one’s own prevent me from interpreting it farther. Those who are over-
ready to condemn such reserve should make the experiment of trying to
be more straightforward. For the present I am content with the one fresh
discovery which has just been made: If the method of dream-interpreta-
tion here indicated is followed, it will be found that dreams do really

207

possess a meaning, and are by no means the expression of a disintegrated
cerebral activity, as the writers on the subject would have us believe.
When the work of interpretation has been completed the dream can be
recognized as a wish-fulfilment.