{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20842/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20842","id":"gutenberg_20842","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20842","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Psychiatry/Psychology","Dreams","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Psychology"],"text":"Produced by Bryan Ness, Hillary Fischer and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nbook was produced from scanned images of public domain\nmaterial from the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDREAMS\n\nBY\n\nHENRI BERGSON\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY\n\nEDWIN E. SLOSSON\n\n\n\n\nNEW YORK\n\nB. W. HUEBSCH\n\n1914\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1913, By THE INDEPENDENT\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1914, By B. W. HUEBSCH\n\n\nFirst printing, April, 1914\n\nSecond printing, November, 1914\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED IN U. S. A.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nBefore the dawn of history mankind was engaged in the study of dreaming.\nThe wise man among the ancients was preeminently the interpreter of\ndreams. The ability to interpret successfully or plausibly was the\nquickest road to royal favor, as Joseph and Daniel found it to be;\nfailure to give satisfaction in this respect led to banishment from\ncourt or death. When a scholar laboriously translates a cuneiform tablet\ndug up from a Babylonian mound where it has lain buried for five\nthousand years or more, the chances are that it will turn out either an\nastrological treatise or a dream book. If the former, we look upon it\nwith some indulgence; if the latter with pure contempt. For we know that\nthe study of the stars, though undertaken for selfish reasons and\npursued in the spirit of charlatanry, led at length to physical science,\nwhile the study of dreams has proved as unprofitable as the dreaming of\nthem. Out of astrology grew astronomy. Out of oneiromancy has\ngrown--nothing.\n\nThat at least was substantially true up to the beginning of the present\ncentury. Dream books in all languages continued to sell in cheap\neditions and the interpreters of dreams made a decent or, at any rate, a\ncomfortable living out of the poorer classes. But the psychologist\nrarely paid attention to dreams except incidentally in his study of\nimagery, association and the speed of thought. But now a change has come\nover the spirit of the times. The subject of the significance of dreams,\nso long ignored, has suddenly become a matter of energetic study and of\nfiery controversy the world over.\n\nThe cause of this revival of interest is the new point of view brought\nforward by Professor Bergson in the paper which is here made accessible\nto the English-reading public. This is the idea that we can explore the\nunconscious substratum of our mentality, the storehouse of our memories,\nby means of dreams, for these memories are by no means inert, but have,\nas it were, a life and purpose of their own, and strive to rise into\nconsciousness whenever they get a chance, even into the\nsemi-consciousness of a dream. To use Professor Bergson's striking\nmetaphor, our memories are packed away under pressure like steam in a\nboiler and the dream is their escape valve.\n\nThat this is more than a mere metaphor has been proved by Professor\nFreud and others of the Vienna school, who cure cases of hysteria by\ninducing the patient to give expression to the secret anxieties and\nemotions which, unknown to him, have been preying upon his mind. The\nclue to these disturbing thoughts is generally obtained in dreams or\nsimilar states of relaxed consciousness. According to the Freudians a\ndream always means something, but never what it appears to mean. It is\nsymbolic and expresses desires or fears which we refuse ordinarily to\nadmit to consciousness, either because they are painful or because they\nare repugnant to our moral nature. A watchman is stationed at the gate\nof consciousness to keep them back, but sometimes these unwelcome\nintruders slip past him in disguise. In the hands of fanatical Freudians\nthis theory has developed the wildest extravagancies, and the voluminous\nliterature of psycho-analysis contains much that seems to the layman\nquite as absurd as the stuff which fills the twenty-five cent dream\nbook.\n\nIt is impossible to believe that the subconsciousness of every one of us\ncontains nothing but the foul and monstrous specimens which they dredge\nup from the mental depths of their neuropathic patients and exhibit with\nsuch pride.\n\nBergson's view seems to me truer as it is certainly more agreeable, that\nwe keep stored away somewhere all our memories, the good as well as the\nevil, the pleasant together with the unpleasant. There may be nightmares\ndown cellar, as we thought as a child, but even in those days we knew\nhow to dodge them when we went after apples; that is, take down a light\nand slam the door quickly on coming up.\n\nMaeterlinck, too, knew this trick of our childhood. When in the Palace\nof Night scene of his fairy play, the redoubtable Tyltyl unlocks the\ncage where are confined the nightmares and all other evil imaginings, he\nshuts the door in time to keep them in and then opens another revealing\na lovely garden full of blue birds, which, though they fade and die when\nbrought into the light of common day, yet encourage him to continue his\nsearch for the Blue Bird that never fades, but lives everlastingly. The\nnew science of dreams is giving a deeper significance to the trite wish\nof \"Good night and pleasant dreams!\" It means sweet sanity and mental\nhealth, pure thoughts and good will to all men.\n\nProfessor Bergson's theory of dreaming here set forth in untechnical\nlanguage, fits into a particular niche in his general system of\nphilosophy as well as does his little book on _Laughter_. With the main\nfeatures of his philosophy the English-reading public is better\nacquainted than with any other contemporary system, for his books have\nsold even more rapidly here than in France. When Professor Bergson\nvisited the United States two years ago the lecture-rooms of Columbia\nUniversity, like those of the College de France, were packed to the\ndoors and the effect of his message was enhanced by his eloquence of\ndelivery and charm of personality. The pragmatic character of his\nphilosophy appeals to the genius of the American people as is shown by\nthe influence of the teaching of William James and John Dewey, whose\npoint of view in this respect resembles Bergson's.\n\nDuring the present generation chemistry and biology have passed from the\ndescriptive to the creative stage. Man is becoming the overlord of the\nmineral, vegetable and animal kingdoms. He is learning to make gems and\nperfumes, drugs and foods, to suit his tastes, instead of depending upon\nthe chance bounty of nature. He is beginning consciously to adapt means\nto ends and to plan for the future even in the field of politics. He has\nopened up the atom and finds in it a microcosm more complex than the\nsolar system. He beholds the elements melting with fervent heat and he\nturns their rays to the healing of his sores. He drives the lightning\nthrough the air and with the product feeds his crops. He makes the\ndesert to blossom as the rose and out of the sea he draws forth dry\nland. He treats the earth as his habitation, remodeling it in accordance\nwith his ever-varying needs and increasing ambitions.\n\nThis modern man, planning, contriving and making, finds Paley's watch as\nlittle to his mind as Lucretius's blind flow of atoms. A universe wound\nup once for all and doing nothing thereafter but mark time is as\nincomprehensible to him as a universe that never had a mind of its own\nand knows no difference between past and future. The idea of eternal\nrecurrence does not frighten him as it did Nietzsche, for he feels it to\nbe impossible. The mechanistic interpretation of natural phenomena\ndeveloped during the last century he accepts at its full value, and\nwould extend experimentally as far as it will go, for he finds it not\ninvalid but inadequate.\n\nTo minds of this temperament it is no wonder that Bergson's _Creative\nEvolution_ came with the force of an inspiration. Men felt themselves\nakin to this upward impulse, this _elan vital_, which, struggling\nthroughout the ages with the intractableness of inert matter, yet\nfinally in some way or other forces it to its will, and ever strives\ntoward the increase of vitality, mentality, personality.\n\nBergson has been reluctant to commit himself on the question of\nimmortality, but he of late has become quite convinced of it. He even\ngoes so far as to think it possible that we may find experimental\nevidence of personal persistence after death. This at least we might\ninfer from his recent acceptance of the presidency of the British\nSociety for Psychical Research. In his opening address before the\nSociety, May 28, 1913, he discussed the question of telepathy and in\nthat connection he explained his theory of the relation of mind and\nbrain in the following language. I quote from the report in the London\n_Times_:\n\n\n     The _role_ of the brain is to bring back the remembrance of an\n     action, to prolong the remembrance in movements. If one could see\n     all that takes place in the interior of the brain, one would find\n     that that which takes place there corresponds to a small part only\n     of the life of the mind. The brain simply extracts from the life of\n     the mind that which is capable of representation in movement. The\n     cerebral life is to the mental life what the movements of the baton\n     of a conductor are to the Symphony.\n\n     The brain, then, is that which allows the mind to adjust itself\n     exactly to circumstances. It is the organ of attention to life.\n     Should it become deranged, however slightly, the mind is no longer\n     fitted to the circumstances; it wanders, dreams. Many forms of\n     mental alienation are nothing else. But from this it results that\n     one of the _roles_ of the brain is to limit the vision of the\n     mind, to render its action more efficacious. This is what we\n     observe in regard to the memory, where the _role_ of the brain is\n     to mask the useless part of our past in order to allow only the\n     useful remembrances to appear. Certain useless recollections, or\n     dream remembrances, manage nevertheless to appear also, and to form\n     a vague fringe around the distinct recollections. It would not be\n     at all surprising if perceptions of the organs of our senses,\n     useful perceptions, were the result of a selection or of a\n     canalization worked by the organs of our senses in the interest of\n     our action, but that there should yet be around those perceptions a\n     fringe of vague perceptions, capable of becoming more distinct in\n     extraordinary, abnormal cases. Those would be precisely the cases\n     with which psychical research would deal.\n\n\nThis conception of mental action forms, as will be seen, the foundation\nof the theory of dreams which Professor Bergson first presented in a\nlecture before the _Institut psychologique_, March 26, 1901. It was\npublished in the _Revue scientifique_ of June 8, 1901. An English\ntranslation, revised by the author and printed in _The Independent_ of\nOctober 23 and 30, 1913, here appears for the first time in book form.\n\nIn this essay Professor Bergson made several contributions to our\nknowledge of dreams. He showed, in the first place, that dreaming is not\nso unlike the ordinary process of perception as had been hitherto\nsupposed. Both use sense impressions as crude material to be molded and\ndefined by the aid of memory images. Here, too, he set forth the idea,\nwhich he, so far as I know, was the first to formulate, that sleep is a\nstate of disinterestedness, a theory which has since been adopted by\nseveral psychologists. In this address, also, was brought into\nconsideration for the first time the idea that the self may go through\ndifferent degrees of tension--a theory referred to in his _Matter and\nMemory_.\n\nIts chief interest for the general reader will, however, lie in the\nexplanation it gives him of the cause of some of his familiar dreams. He\nmay by practice become the interpreter of his own visions and so come to\nan understanding of the vagaries of that mysterious and inseparable\ncompanion, his dream-self.\n\n\n                                            EDWIN E. SLOSSON.\n\n  NEW YORK CITY,\n  FEBRUARY 10, 1914.\n\n\n\n\nDREAMS\n\n\nThe subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so\nmany questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological,\nothers physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a\ncomplete manner it requires such a long development--and we have so\nlittle space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all\npreamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of\nthe question.\n\nA dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see\nmen; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no\none there and I have not spoken. It is all _as if_ real things and real\npersons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and\nthings. How does this happen?\n\nBut, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not\npresented a certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our\ntouch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?\n\nClose the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our\nvision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing\ngoes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount\nof practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily.\nBut just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will\ndistinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black\nbackground. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points\nwhich come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More\noften, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the\ncontrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare\nwith it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color,\nconstantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and\ngradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity.\nWhence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and the\npsychologists have studied this play of colors. \"Ocular spectra,\"\n\"colored spots,\" \"phosphenes,\" such are the names that they have given\nto the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications\nwhich occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure\nthat the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical\nexcitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and\nthe name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and\nit constitutes--I may say at once--the principal material of which we\nshape our dreams, \"such stuff as dreams are made on.\"\n\nThirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M.\nd'Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling\nasleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves,\ntake on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the\npersons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be\naccepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half\nasleep. More recently an American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of\nYale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application,\nbecause it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the\nhabit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and\nretaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of\nvision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one\nsees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little\ninto phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the\neye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a\nnewspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the\nnewspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with\nblack marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us\nupon the open sea--round about us the ocean spreads its waves of\nyellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening,\nit is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with\nbrilliant points. The spot was there, the brilliant points were there.\nThere was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust,\nand it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.\n\nWill this alone suffice? Still considering the sensation of sight, we\nought to add to these visual sensations which we may call internal all\nthose which continue to come to us from an external source. The eyes,\nwhen closed, still distinguish light from shade, and even, to a certain\nextent, different lights from one another. These sensations of light,\nemanating from without, are at the bottom of many of our dreams. A\ncandle abruptly lighted in the room will, for example, suggest to the\nsleeper, if his slumber is not too deep, a dream dominated by the image\nof fire, the idea of a burning building. Permit me to cite to you two\nobservations of M. Tissie on this subject:\n\n\"B---- Leon dreams that the theater of Alexandria is on _fire_; the\nflame lights up the whole place. All of a sudden he finds himself\ntransported to the midst of the fountain in the public square; a line\nof _fire_ runs along the chains which connect the great posts placed\naround the margin. Then he finds himself in Paris at the exposition,\nwhich is on _fire_. He takes part in terrible scenes, etc. He wakes with\na start; his eyes catch the rays of light projected by the dark lantern\nwhich the night nurse flashes toward his bed in passing. M---- Bertrand\ndreams that he is in the marine infantry where he formerly served. He\ngoes to Fort-de-France, to Toulon, to Loriet, to Crimea, to\nConstantinople. He sees lightning, he hears thunder, he takes part in a\ncombat in which he sees _fire_ leap from the mouths of cannon. He wakes\nwith a start. Like B., he was wakened by a flash of light projected from\nthe dark lantern of the night nurse.\" Such are often the dreams provoked\nby a bright and sudden light.\n\nVery different are those which are suggested by a mild and continuous\nlight like that of the moon. A. Krauss tells how one day on awakening he\nperceived that he was extending his arm toward what in his dream\nappeared to him to be the image of a young girl. Little by little this\nimage melted into that of the full moon which darted its rays upon him.\nIt is a curious thing that one might cite other examples of dreams where\nthe rays of the moon, caressing the eyes of the sleeper, evoked before\nhim virginal apparitions. May we not suppose that such might have been\nthe origin in antiquity of the fable of Endymion--Endymion the shepherd,\nlapped in perpetual slumber, for whom the goddess Selene, that is, the\nmoon, is smitten with love while he sleeps?\n\nI have spoken of visual sensations. They are the principal ones. But the\nauditory sensations nevertheless play a role. First, the ear has also\nits internal sensations, sensations of buzzing, of tinkling, of\nwhistling, difficult to isolate and to perceive while awake, but which\nare clearly distinguished in sleep. Besides that we continue, when once\nasleep, to hear external sounds. The creaking of furniture, the\ncrackling of the fire, the rain beating against the window, the wind\nplaying its chromatic scale in the chimney, such are the sounds which\ncome to the ear of the sleeper and which the dream converts, according\nto circumstances, into conversation, singing, cries, music, etc.\nScissors were struck against the tongs in the ears of Alfred Maury while\nhe slept. Immediately he dreamt that he heard the tocsin and took part\nin the events of June, 1848. Such observations and experiences are\nnumerous. But let us hasten to say that sounds do not play in our dreams\nso important a role as colors. Our dreams are, above all, visual, and\neven more visual than we think. To whom has it not happened--as M. Max\nSimon has remarked--to talk in a dream with a certain person, to dream a\nwhole conversation, and then, all of a sudden, a singular phenomenon\nstrikes the attention of the dreamer. He perceives that he does not\nspeak, that he has not spoken, that his interlocutor has not uttered a\nsingle word, that it was a simple exchange of thought between them, a\nvery clear conversation, in which, nevertheless, nothing has been heard.\nThe phenomenon is easily enough explained. It is in general necessary\nfor us to hear sounds in a dream. From nothing we can make nothing. And\nwhen we are not provided with sonorous material, a dream would find it\nhard to manufacture sonority.\n\nThere is much more to say about the sensations of touch than about those\nof hearing, but I must hasten. We could talk for hours about the\nsingular phenomena which result from the confused sensations of touch\nduring sleep. These sensations, mingling with the images which occupy\nour visual field, modify them or arrange them in their own way. Often in\nthe midst of the night the contact of our body with its light clothing\nmakes itself felt all at once and reminds us that we are lightly\nclothed. Then, if our dream is at the moment taking us through the\nstreet, it is in this simple attire that we present ourselves to the\ngaze of the passers-by, without their appearing to be astonished by it.\nWe are ourselves astonished in the dream, but that never appears to\nastonish other people. I cite this dream because it is frequent. There\nis another which many of us must have experienced. It consists of\nfeeling oneself flying through the air or floating in space. Once having\nhad this dream, one may be quite sure that it will reappear; and every\ntime that it recurs the dreamer reasons in this way: \"I have had before\nnow in a dream the illusion of flying or floating, but this time it is\nthe real thing. It has certainly proved to me that we may free ourselves\nfrom the law of gravitation.\" Now, if you wake abruptly from this dream,\nyou can analyze it without difficulty, if you undertake it immediately.\nYou will see that you feel very clearly that your feet are not touching\nthe earth. And, nevertheless, not believing yourself asleep, you have\nlost sight of the fact that you are lying down. Therefore, since you are\nnot lying down and yet your feet do not feel the resistance of the\nground, the conclusion is natural that you are floating in space. Notice\nthis also: when levitation accompanies the flight, it is on one side\nonly that you make an effort to fly. And if you woke at that moment you\nwould find that this side is the one on which you are lying, and that\nthe sensation of effort for flight coincides with the real sensation\ngiven you by the pressure of your body against the bed. This sensation\nof pressure, dissociated from its cause, becomes a pure and simple\nsensation of effort and, joined to the illusion of floating in space, is\nsufficient to produce the dream.\n\nIt is interesting to see that these sensations of pressure, mounting, so\nto speak, to the level of our visual field and taking advantage of the\nluminous dust which fills it, effect its transformation into forms and\ncolors. M. Max Simon tells of having a strange and somewhat painful\ndream. He dreamt that he was confronted by two piles of golden coins,\nside by side and of unequal height, which for some reason or other he\nhad to equalize. But he could not accomplish it. This produced a feeling\nof extreme anguish. This feeling, growing moment by moment, finally\nawakened him. He then perceived that one of his legs was caught by the\nfolds of the bedclothes in such a way that his two feet were on\ndifferent levels and it was impossible for him to bring them together.\nFrom this the sensation of inequality, making an irruption into the\nvisual field and there encountering (such at least is the hypothesis\nwhich I propose) one or more yellow spots, expressed itself visually by\nthe inequality of the two piles of gold pieces. There is, then, immanent\nin the tactile sensations during sleep, a tendency to visualize\nthemselves and enter in this form into the dream.\n\nMore important still than the tactile sensations, properly speaking, are\nthe sensations which pertain to what is sometimes called internal touch,\ndeep-seated sensations emanating from all points of the organism and,\nmore particularly, from the viscera. One cannot imagine the degree of\nsharpness, of acuity, which may be obtained during sleep by these\ninterior sensations. They doubtless already exist as well during waking.\nBut we are then distracted by practical action. We live outside of\nourselves. But sleep makes us retire into ourselves. It happens\nfrequently that persons subject to laryngitis, amygdalitis, etc., dream\nthat they are attacked by their affection and experience a disagreeable\ntingling on the side of their throat. When awakened, they feel nothing\nmore, and believe it an illusion; but a few hours later the illusion\nbecomes a reality. There are cited maladies and grave accidents, attacks\nof epilepsy, cardiac affections, etc., which have been foreseen and, as\nit were, prophesied in dreams. We need not be astonished, then, that\nphilosophers like Schopenhauer have seen in the dream a reverberation,\nin the heart of consciousness, of perturbations emanating from the\nsympathetic nervous system; and that psychologists like Schemer have\nattributed to each of our organs the power of provoking a\nwell-determined kind of dream which represents it, as it were,\nsymbolically; and finally that physicians like Artigues have written\ntreatises on the semeiological value of dreams, that is to say, the\nmethod of making use of dreams for the diagnosis of certain maladies.\nMore recently, M. Tissie, of whom we have just spoken, has shown how\nspecific dreams are connected with affections of the digestive,\nrespiratory, and circulatory apparatus.\n\nI will summarize what I have just been saying. When we are sleeping\nnaturally, it is not necessary to believe, as has often been supposed,\nthat our senses are closed to external sensations. Our senses continue\nto be active. They act, it is true, with less precision, but in\ncompensation they embrace a host of \"subjective\" impressions which pass\nunperceived when we are awake--for then we live in a world of\nperceptions common to all men--and which reappear in sleep, when we live\nonly for ourselves. Thus our faculty of sense perception, far from being\nnarrowed during sleep at all points, is on the contrary extended, at\nleast in certain directions, in its field of operations. It is true that\nit often loses in energy, in _tension_, what it gains in extension. It\nbrings to us only confused impressions. These impressions are the\nmaterials of our dreams. But they are only the materials, they do not\nsuffice to produce them.\n\nThey do not suffice to produce them, because they are vague and\nindeterminate. To speak only of those that play the principal role, the\nchanging colors and forms, which deploy before us when our eyes are\nclosed, never have well-defined contours. Here are black lines upon a\nwhite background. They may represent to the dreamer the page of a book,\nor the facade of a new house with dark blinds, or any number of other\nthings. Who will choose? What is the form that will imprint its decision\nupon the indecision of this material? This form is our memory.\n\nLet us note first that the dream in general creates nothing. Doubtless\nthere may be cited some examples of artistic, literary and scientific\nproduction in dreams. I will recall only the well-known anecdote told of\nTartini, a violinist-composer of the eighteenth century. As he was\ntrying to compose a sonata and the muse remained recalcitrant, he went\nto sleep and he saw in a dream the devil, who seized his violin and\nplayed with master hand the desired sonata. Tartini wrote it out from\nmemory when he woke. It has come to us under the name of \"The Devil's\nSonata.\" But it is very difficult, in regard to such old cases, to\ndistinguish between history and legend. We should have auto-observations\nof certain authenticity. Now I have not been able to find anything more\nthan that of the contemporary English novelist, Stevenson. In a very\ncurious essay entitled \"A Chapter on Dreams,\" this author, who is\nendowed with a rare talent for analysis, explains to us how the most\noriginal of his stories have been composed or at least sketched in\ndreams. But read the chapter carefully. You will see that at a certain\ntime in his life Stevenson had come to be in an habitual psychical state\nwhere it was very hard for him to say whether he was sleeping or waking.\nThat appears to me to be the truth. When the mind creates, I would say\nwhen it is capable of giving the effort of organization and synthesis\nwhich is necessary to triumph over a certain difficulty, to solve a\nproblem, to produce a living work of the imagination, we are not really\nasleep, or at least that part of ourselves which labors is not the same\nas that which sleeps. We cannot say, then, that it is a dream. In sleep,\nproperly speaking, in sleep which absorbs our whole personality, it is\nmemories and only memories which weave the web of our dreams. But often\nwe do not recognize them. They may be very old memories, forgotten\nduring waking hours, drawn from the most obscure depths of our past;\nthey may be, often are, memories of objects that we have perceived\ndistractedly, almost unconsciously, while awake. Or they may be\nfragments of broken memories which have been picked up here and there\nand mingled by chance, composing an incoherent and unrecognizable whole.\nBefore these bizarre assemblages of images which present no plausible\nsignificance, our intelligence (which is far from surrendering the\nreasoning faculty during sleep, as has been asserted) seeks an\nexplanation, tries to fill the lacunae. It fills them by calling up other\nmemories which, presenting themselves often with the same deformations\nand the same incoherences as the preceding, demand in their turn a new\nexplanation, and so on indefinitely. But I do not insist upon this point\nfor the moment. It is sufficient for me to say, in order to answer the\nquestion which I have propounded, that the formative power of the\nmaterials furnished to the dream by the different senses, the power\nwhich converts into precise, determined objects the vague and indistinct\nsensations that the dreamer receives from his eyes, his ears, and the\nwhole surface and interior of his body, is the memory.\n\nMemory! In a waking state we have indeed memories which appear and\ndisappear, occupying our mind in turn. But they are always memories\nwhich are closely connected with our present situation, our present\noccupation, our present action. I recall at this moment the book of M.\nd'Hervey on dreams; that is because I am discussing the subject of\ndreams and this act orients in a certain particular direction the\nactivity of my memory. The memories that we evoke while waking, however\ndistant they may at first appear to be from the present action, are\nalways connected with it in some way. What is the role of memory in an\nanimal? It is to recall to him, in any circumstance, the advantageous or\ninjurious consequences which have formerly arisen in analogous\ncircumstances, in order to instruct him as to what he ought to do. In\nman memory is doubtless less the slave of action, but still it sticks to\nit. Our memories, at any given moment, form a solid whole, a pyramid, so\nto speak, whose point is inserted precisely into our present action. But\nbehind the memories which are concerned in our occupations and are\nrevealed by means of it, there are others, thousands of others, stored\nbelow the scene illuminated by consciousness. Yes, I believe indeed that\nall our past life is there, preserved even to the most infinitesimal\ndetails, and that we forget nothing, and that all that we have felt,\nperceived, thought, willed, from the first awakening of our\nconsciousness, survives indestructibly. But the memories which are\npreserved in these obscure depths are there in the state of invisible\nphantoms. They aspire, perhaps, to the light, but they do not even try\nto rise to it; they know that it is impossible and that I, as a living\nand acting being, have something else to do than to occupy myself with\nthem. But suppose that, at a given moment, I become _disinterested_ in\nthe present situation, in the present action--in short, in all which\npreviously has fixed and guided my memory; suppose, in other words, that\nI am asleep. Then these memories, perceiving that I have taken away the\nobstacle, have raised the trapdoor which has kept them beneath the floor\nof consciousness, arise from the depths; they rise, they move, they\nperform in the night of unconsciousness a great dance macabre. They rush\ntogether to the door which has been left ajar. They all want to get\nthrough. But they cannot; there are too many of them. From the\nmultitudes which are called, which will be chosen? It is not hard to\nsay. Formerly, when I was awake, the memories which forced their way\nwere those which could involve claims of relationship with the present\nsituation, with what I saw and heard around me. Now it is more vague\nimages which occupy my sight, more indecisive sounds which affect my\near, more indistinct touches which are distributed over the surface of\nmy body, but there are also the more numerous sensations which arise\nfrom the deepest parts of the organism. So, then, among the phantom\nmemories which aspire to fill themselves with color, with sonority, in\nshort with materiality, the only ones that succeed are those which can\nassimilate themselves with the color-dust that we perceive, the external\nand internal sensations that we catch, etc., and which, besides, respond\nto the affective tone of our general sensibility.[1] When this union is\neffected between the memory and the sensation, we have a dream.\n\nIn a poetic page of the Enneades, the philosopher Plotinus, interpreter\nand continuator of Plato, explains to us how men come to life. Nature,\nhe says, sketches the living bodies, but sketches them only. Left to her\nown forces she can never complete the task. On the other hand, souls\ninhabit the world of Ideas. Incapable in themselves of acting, not even\nthinking of action, they float beyond space and beyond time. But, among\nall the bodies, there are some which specially respond by their form to\nthe aspirations of some particular souls; and among these souls there\nare those which recognize themselves in some particular body. The body,\nwhich does not come altogether viable from the hand of nature, rises\ntoward the soul which might give it complete life; and the soul, looking\nupon the body and believing that it perceives its own image as in a\nmirror, and attracted, fascinated by the image, lets itself fall. It\nfalls, and this fall is life. I may compare to these detached souls the\nmemories plunged in the obscurity of the unconscious. On the other hand,\nour nocturnal sensations resemble these incomplete bodies. The\nsensation is warm, colored, vibrant and almost living, but vague. The\nmemory is complete, but airy and lifeless. The sensation wishes to find\na form on which to mold the vagueness of its contours. The memory would\nobtain matter to fill it, to ballast it, in short to realize it. They\nare drawn toward each other; and the phantom memory, incarnated in the\nsensation which brings to it flesh and blood, becomes a being with a\nlife of its own, a dream.\n\nThe birth of a dream is then no mystery. It resembles the birth of all\nour perceptions. The mechanism of the dream is the same, in general, as\nthat of normal perception. When we perceive a real object, what we\nactually see--the sensible matter of our perception--is very little in\ncomparison with what our memory adds to it. When you read a book, when\nyou look through your newspaper, do you suppose that all the printed\nletters really come into your consciousness? In that case the whole day\nwould hardly be long enough for you to read a paper. The truth is that\nyou see in each word and even in each member of a phrase only some\nletters or even some characteristic marks, just enough to permit you to\ndivine the rest. All of the rest, that you think you see, you really\ngive yourself as an hallucination. There are numerous and decisive\nexperiments which leave no doubt on this point. I will cite only those\nof Goldscheider and Mueller. These experimenters wrote or printed some\nformulas in common use, \"Positively no admission;\" \"Preface to the\nfourth edition,\" etc. But they took care to write the words incorrectly,\nchanging and, above all, omitting letters. These sentences were exposed\nin a darkened room. The person who served as the subject of the\nexperiment was placed before them and did not know, of course, what had\nbeen written. Then the inscription was illuminated by the electric light\nfor a very short time, too short for the observer to be able to perceive\nreally all the letters. They began by determining experimentally the\ntime necessary for seeing one letter of the alphabet. It was then easy\nto arrange it so that the observer could not perceive more than eight or\nten letters, for example, of the thirty or forty letters composing the\nformula. Usually, however, he read the entire phrase without difficulty.\nBut that is not for us the most instructive point of this experiment.\n\nIf the observer is asked what are the letters that he is sure of having\nseen, these may be, of course, the letters really written, but there may\nbe also absent letters, either letters that we replaced by others or\nthat have simply been omitted. Thus an observer will see quite\ndistinctly in full light a letter which does not exist, if this letter,\non account of the general sense, ought to enter into the phrase. The\ncharacters which have really affected the eye have been utilized only to\nserve as an indication to the unconscious memory of the observer. This\nmemory, discovering the appropriate remembrance, _i.e._, finding the\nformula to which these characters give a start toward realization,\nprojects the remembrance externally in an hallucinatory form. It is\nthis remembrance, and not the words themselves, that the observer has\nseen. It is thus demonstrated that rapid reading is in great part a work\nof divination, but not of abstract divination. It is an externalization\nof memories which take advantage, to a certain extent, of the partial\nrealization that they find here and there in order to completely realize\nthemselves.\n\nThus, in the waking state and in the knowledge that we get of the real\nobjects which surround us, an operation is continually going on which is\nof quite the same nature as that of the dream. We perceive merely a\nsketch of the object. This sketch appeals to the complete memory, and\nthis complete memory, which by itself was either unconscious or simply\nin the thought state, profits by the occasion to come out. It is this\nkind of hallucination, inserted and fitted into a real frame, that we\nperceive. It is a shorter process: it is very much quicker done than to\nsee the thing itself. Besides, there are many interesting observations\nto be made upon the conduct and attitude of the memory images during\nthis operation. It is not necessary to suppose that they are in our\nmemory in a state of inert impressions. They are like the steam in a\nboiler, under more or less tension.\n\nAt the moment when the perceived sketch calls them forth, it is as if\nthey were then grouped in families according to their relationship and\nresemblances. There are experiments of Muensterberg, earlier than those\nof Goldscheider and Mueller, which appear to me to confirm this\nhypothesis, although they were made for a very different purpose.\nMuensterberg wrote the words correctly; they were, besides, not common\nphrases; they were isolated words taken by chance. Here again the word\nwas exposed during the time too short for it to be entirely perceived.\nNow, while the observer was looking at the written word, some one spoke\nin his ear another word of a very different significance. This is what\nhappened: the observer declared that he had seen a word which was not\nthe written word, but which resembled it in its general form, and which\nbesides recalled, by its meaning, the word which was spoken in his ear.\nFor example, the word written was \"tumult\" and the word spoken was\n\"railroad.\" The observer read \"tunnel.\" The written word was \"Trieste\"\nand the spoken word was the German \"Verzweiflung\" (despair). The\nobserver read \"Trost,\" which signifies \"consolation.\" It is as if the\nword \"railroad,\" pronounced in the ear, wakened, without our knowing it,\nhopes of conscious realization in a crowd of memories which have some\nrelationship with the idea of \"railroad\" (car, rail, trip, etc.). But\nthis is only a hope, and the memory which succeeds in coming into\nconsciousness is that which the actually present sensation had already\nbegun to realize.\n\nSuch is the mechanism of true perception, and such is that of the dream.\nIn both cases there are, on one hand, real impressions made upon the\norgans of sense, and upon the other memories which encase themselves in\nthe impression and profit by its vitality to return again to life.\n\nBut, then, what is the essential difference between perceiving and\ndreaming? What is sleep? I do not ask, of course, how sleep can be\nexplained physiologically. That is a special question, and besides is\nfar from being settled. I ask what is sleep psychologically; for our\nmind continues to exercise itself when we are asleep, and it exercises\nitself as we have just seen on elements analogous to those of waking, on\nsensations and memories; and also in an analogous manner combines them.\nNevertheless we have on the one hand normal perception, and on the other\nthe dream. What is the difference, I repeat? What are the psychological\ncharacteristics of the sleeping state?\n\nWe must distrust theories. There are a great many of them on this point.\nSome say that sleep consists in isolating oneself from the external\nworld, in closing the senses to outside things. But we have shown that\nour senses continue to act during sleep, that they provide us with the\noutline, or at least the point of departure, of most of our dreams. Some\nsay: \"To go to sleep is to stop the action of the superior faculties of\nthe mind,\" and they talk of a kind of momentary paralysis of the higher\ncenters. I do not think that this is much more exact. In a dream we\nbecome no doubt _indifferent_ to logic, but not _incapable_ of logic.\nThere are dreams when we reason with correctness and even with subtlety.\nI might almost say, at the risk of seeming paradoxical, that the mistake\nof the dreamer is often in reasoning too much. He would avoid the\nabsurdity if he would remain a simple spectator of the procession of\nimages which compose his dream. But when he strongly desires to explain\nit, his explanation, intended to bind together incoherent images, can be\nnothing more than a bizarre reasoning which verges upon absurdity. I\nrecognize, indeed, that our superior intellectual faculties are relaxed\nin sleep, that generally the logic of a dreamer is feeble enough and\noften resembles a mere parody of logic. But one might say as much of all\nof our faculties during sleep. It is then not by the abolition of\nreasoning, any more than by the closing of the senses, that we\ncharacterize dreaming.\n\nSomething else is essential. We need something more than theories. We\nneed an intimate contact with the facts. One must make the decisive\nexperiment upon oneself. It is necessary that on coming out of a dream,\nsince we cannot analyze ourselves in the dream itself, we should watch\nthe transition from sleeping to waking, follow upon the transition as\nclosely as possible, and try to express by words what we experience in\nthis passage. This is very difficult, but may be accomplished by forcing\nthe attention. Permit, then, the writer to take an example from his own\npersonal experience, and to tell of a recent dream as well as what was\naccomplished on coming out of the dream.\n\nNow the dreamer dreamed that he was speaking before an assembly, that he\nwas making a political speech before a political assembly. Then in the\nmidst of the auditorium a murmur rose. The murmur augmented; it became a\nmuttering. Then it became a roar, a frightful tumult, and finally there\nresounded from all parts timed to a uniform rhythm the cries, \"Out!\nOut!\" At that moment he wakened. A dog was baying in a neighboring\ngarden, and with each one of his \"Wow-wows\" one of the cries of \"Out!\nOut!\" seemed to be identical. Well, here was the infinitesimal moment\nwhich it is necessary to seize.\n\nThe waking ego, just reappearing, should turn to the dreaming ego, which\nis still there, and, during some instants at least, hold it without\nletting it go. \"I have caught you at it! You thought it was a crowd\nshouting and it was a dog barking. Now, I shall not let go of you until\nyou tell me just what you were doing!\" To which the dreaming ego would\nanswer, \"I was doing nothing; and this is just where you and I differ\nfrom one another. You imagine that in order to hear a dog barking, and\nto know that it is a dog that barks, you have nothing to do. That is a\ngreat mistake. You accomplish, without suspecting it, a considerable\neffort. You take your entire memory, all your accumulated experience,\nand you bring this formidable mass of memories to converge upon a\nsingle point, in such a way as to insert exactly in the sounds you heard\nthat one of your memories which is the most capable of being adapted to\nit. Nay, you must obtain a perfect adherence, for between the memory\nthat you evoke and the crude sensation that you perceive there must not\nbe the least discrepancy; otherwise you would be just dreaming. This\nadjustment you can only obtain by an effort of the memory and an effort\nof the perception, just as the tailor who is trying on a new coat pulls\ntogether the pieces of cloth that he adjusts to the shape of your body\nin order to pin them. You exert, then, continually, every moment of the\nday, an enormous effort. Your life in a waking state is a life of labor,\neven when you think you are doing nothing, for at every minute you have\nto choose and every minute exclude. You choose among your sensations,\nsince you reject from your consciousness a thousand subjective\nsensations which come back in the night when you sleep. You choose, and\nwith extreme precision and delicacy, among your memories, since you\nreject all that do not exactly suit your present state. This choice\nwhich you continually accomplish, this adaptation, ceaselessly renewed,\nis the first and most essential condition of what is called common\nsense. But all this keeps you in a state of uninterrupted tension. You\ndo not feel it at the moment, any more than you feel the pressure of the\natmosphere, but it fatigues you in the long run. Common sense is very\nfatiguing.\n\n\"So, I repeat, I differ from you precisely in that I do nothing. The\neffort that you give without cessation I simply abstain from giving. In\nplace of attaching myself to life, I detach myself from it. Everything\nhas become indifferent to me. I have become disinterested in everything.\nTo sleep is to become disinterested. One sleeps to the exact extent to\nwhich he becomes disinterested. A mother who sleeps by the side of her\nchild will not stir at the sound of thunder, but the sigh of the child\nwill wake her. Does she really sleep in regard to her child? We do not\nsleep in regard to what continues to interest us.\n\n\"You ask me what it is that I do when I dream? I will tell you what you\ndo when you are awake. You take me, the me of dreams, me the totality of\nyour past, and you force me, by making me smaller and smaller, to fit\ninto the little circle that you trace around your present action. That\nis what it is to be awake. That is what it is to live the normal\npsychical life. It is to battle. It is to will. As for the dream, have\nyou really any need that I should explain it? It is the state into which\nyou naturally fall when you let yourself go, when you no longer have the\npower to concentrate yourself upon a single point, when you have ceased\nto will. What needs much more to be explained is the marvelous mechanism\nby which at any moment your will obtains instantly, and almost\nunconsciously, the concentration of all that you have within you upon\none and the same point, the point that interests you. But to explain\nthis is the task of normal psychology, of the psychology of waking, for\nwilling and waking are one and the same thing.\"\n\nThis is what the dreaming ego would say. And it would tell us a great\nmany other things still if we could let it talk freely. But let us sum\nup briefly the essential difference which separates a dream from the\nwaking state. In the dream the same faculties are exercised as during\nwaking, but they are in a state of tension in the one case, and of\nrelaxation in the other. The dream consists of the entire mental life\nminus the tension, the effort and the bodily movement. We perceive\nstill, we remember still, we reason still. All this can abound in the\ndream; for abundance, in the domain of the mind, does not mean effort.\nWhat requires an effort is the precision of adjustment. To connect the\nsound of a barking dog with the memory of a crowd that murmurs and\nshouts requires no effort. But in order that this sound should be\nperceived as the barking of a dog, a positive effort must be made. It is\nthis force that the dreamer lacks. It is by that, and by that alone,\nthat he is distinguished from the waking man.\n\nFrom this essential difference can be drawn a great many others. We can\ncome to understand the chief characteristics of the dream. But I can\nonly outline the scheme of this study. It depends especially upon three\npoints, which are: the incoherence of dreams, the abolition of the sense\nof duration that often appears to be manifested in dreams, and, finally,\nthe order in which the memories present themselves to the dreamer,\ncontending for the sensations present where they are to be embodied.\n\nThe incoherence of the dream seems to me easy enough to explain. As it\nis characteristic of the dream not to demand a complete adjustment\nbetween the memory image and the sensation, but, on the contrary, to\nallow some play between them, very different memories can suit the same\nsensation. For example, there may be in the field of vision a green spot\nwith white points. This might be a lawn spangled with white flowers. It\nmight be a billiard-table with its balls. It might be a host of other\nthings besides. These different memory images, all capable of utilizing\nthe same sensation, chase after it. Sometimes they attain it, one after\nthe other. And so the lawn becomes a billiard-table, and we watch these\nextraordinary transformations. Often it is at the same time, and\naltogether that these memory images join the sensation, and then the\nlawn will be a billiard-table. From this come those absurd dreams where\nan object remains as it is and at the same time becomes something else.\nAs I have just said, the mind, confronted by these absurd visions, seeks\nan explanation and often thereby aggravates the incoherence.\n\nAs for the abolition of the sense of time in many of our dreams, that is\nanother effect of the same cause. In a few seconds a dream can present\nto us a series of events which will occupy, in the waking state, entire\ndays. You know the example cited by M. Maury: it has become classic, and\nalthough it has been contested of late, I regard it as probable, because\nof the great number of analogous observations that I found scattered\nthrough the literature of dreams. But this precipitation of the images\nis not at all mysterious. When we are awake we live a life in common\nwith our fellows. Our attention to this external and social life is the\ngreat regulator of the succession of our internal states. It is like\nthe balance wheel of a watch, which moderates and cuts into regular\nsections the undivided, almost instantaneous tension of the spring. It\nis this balance wheel which is lacking in the dream. Acceleration is no\nmore than abundance a sign of force in the domain of the mind. It is, I\nrepeat, the precision of adjustment that requires effort, and this is\nexactly what the dreamer lacks. He is no longer capable of that\nattention to life which is necessary in order that the inner may be\nregulated by the outer, and that the internal duration fit exactly into\nthe general duration of things.\n\nIt remains now to explain how the peculiar relaxation of the mind in the\ndream accounts for the preference given by the dreamer to one memory\nimage rather than others, equally capable of being inserted into the\nactual sensations. There is a current prejudice to the effect that we\ndream mostly about the events which have especially preoccupied us\nduring the day. This is sometimes true. But when the psychological life\nof the waking state thus prolongs itself into sleep, it is because we\nhardly sleep. A sleep filled with dreams of this kind would be a sleep\nfrom which we come out quite fatigued. In normal sleep our dreams\nconcern themselves rather, other things being equal, with the thoughts\nwhich we have passed through rapidly or upon objects which we have\nperceived almost without paying attention to them. If we dream about\nevents of the same day, it is the most insignificant facts, and not the\nmost important, which have the best chance of reappearing.\n\nI agree entirely on this point with the observation of W. Robert, of\nDelage and of Freud. I was in the street, I was waiting for a\nstreet-car, I stood beside the track and did not run the least risk. But\nif, at the moment when the street-car passed, the idea of possible\ndanger had crossed my mind or even if my body had instinctively recoiled\nwithout my having been conscious of feeling any fear, I might dream that\nnight that the car had run over my body. I watch at the bedside of an\ninvalid whose condition is hopeless. If at any moment, perhaps without\neven being aware of it, I had hoped against hope, I might dream that the\ninvalid was cured. I should dream of the cure, in any case, more\nprobably than that I should dream of the disease. In short, the events\nwhich reappear by preference in the dream are those of which we have\nthought most distractedly. What is there astonishing about that? The ego\nof the dream is an ego that is relaxed; the memories which it gathers\nmost readily are the memories of relaxation and distraction, those which\ndo not bear the mark of effort.\n\nIt is true that in very profound slumber the law that regulates the\nreappearance of memories may be very different. We know almost nothing\nof this profound slumber. The dreams which fill it are, as a general\nrule, the dreams which we forget. Sometimes, nevertheless, we recover\nsomething of them. And then it is a very peculiar feeling, strange,\nindescribable, that we experience. It seems to us that we have returned\nfrom afar in space and afar in time. These are doubtless very old\nscenes, scenes of youth or infancy that we live over then in all their\ndetails, with a mood which colors them with that fresh sensation of\ninfancy and youth that we seek vainly to revive when awake.\n\nIt is upon this profound slumber that psychology ought to direct its\nefforts, not only to study the mechanism of unconscious memory, but to\nexamine the more mysterious phenomena which are raised by \"psychical\nresearch.\" I do not dare express an opinion upon phenomena of this\nclass, but I cannot avoid attaching some importance to the observations\ngathered by so rigorous a method and with such indefatigable zeal by the\nSociety for Psychical Research. If telepathy influences our dreams, it\nis quite likely that in this profound slumber it would have the greatest\nchance to manifest itself. But I repeat, I cannot express an opinion\nupon this point. I have gone forward with you as far as I can; I stop\nupon the threshold of the mystery. To explore the most secret depths of\nthe unconscious, to labor in what I have just called the subsoil of\nconsciousness, that will be the principal task of psychology in the\ncentury which is opening. I do not doubt that wonderful discoveries\nawait it there, as important perhaps as have been in the preceding\ncenturies the discoveries of the physical and natural sciences. That at\nleast is the promise which I make for it, that is the wish that in\nclosing I have for it.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Author's note (1913). This would be the place where\nespecially will intervene those \"repressed desires\" which Freud and\ncertain other psychologists, especially in America, have studied with\nsuch penetration and ingenuity. (See in particular the recent volumes of\nthe _Journal of Abnormal Psychology_, published in Boston by Dr. Morton\nPrince.) When the above address was delivered (1901) the work of Freud\non dreams (_Die Traumdeutung_) had been already published, but\n\"psycho-analysis\" was far from having the development that it has\nto-day. (H. B.)","title":"Dreams","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":9850}