History and Theory: The Question of Psychoanalysis Fred Weinstein; Gerald M. Platt Journal of Interdisciplinary History, Vol. 2, No.

4, Psychoanalysis and History. (Spring, 1972), pp. 419-434.

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Fred Weinstein and Gerald M . Platt

History and Theory: The Question of Psychoanalysis

The historian's work is affected by the social and cultural background within which he works and changing times foster new requirements. Nowhere is this more evident than in the contemporary historian's relationship to the social sciences. The majority of historians today, at least in the United States, have accepted the proposition that theory is useful as a device by which they can structure the data they deal with. The view of the social sciences held by an older generation of historians, a view objecting to the social scientific goal of encapsulating human behavior in general laws or rules, is no longer prevalent or persuasive. Historians have made serious efforts to accolnmodate aspects of social scientific theory to historical work on a number of levels, but little interest has been manifested in the use of psychoanalytic theory. Serious methodological problems stand in the way. The ahistorical bias of p ~ ~ c h o a n a l ~ s i s be mediated by a sociological frame of reference must before it can be applied to history on any level other than biography. But, given the possibility of such mediation, psychoanalytic theory has a remarkable potential for systematically explaining a variety of behaviors that few can imagine, refine, and make use of on their own. In the end, historians have to impute motives to historical actors; they have to explain the fundamental reasons for behavior, not only in terms of interest, but also in terms of the emotional bases for compliance or noncompliance. N o discipline is as well organized to deal with such processes as is psychoanalytic theory.1
Fred Weinstein is Associate Professor of History at the State University of N e w York, Stony Brook. With Gerald M. Platt, Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, he authored The Wish to be Free: Society, Psyche, and Value Change (Berkeley, 1969). I The most cotnprehensive "state of the field" review article is by Hans-Ulrich Wehler, "Zutli Verhiltnis von Geschlchtswissenschaft und Psychoanalyse," Hisforisciie Zeitschrij, CCVIII (1969), 529-554. Wehler's bibliographic efforts can be complemented by reference to Bruce Mazlish (ed.), Psychoanalysis and History (Englewood Cliffs, 1971 ; 2nd ed.), 1-19, 213-217; H . Stuart Hughes, History as Art and as Science: Twin Vistas on the Past (New York, 1964). See Kurt Eissler, Medical Orthodoxy and the Future of Psychoartalysis (New York, 1965), 155-174, for one psychoanalyst's view of the relationship between the two disciplines and on the means by which psychoanalysis can and should become available to historians. See also note 3 3 for our own comnlents on the problem of integrating the two fields.

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The reasons for the historian's reluctance to deal with psychoanalytic theory are not clear. The methodological argument is not decisive-some thought has to be given to the problem, but the positions of the two fields are not irreconcilable. In any case, this is not the argument that is typically raised. Langer, in his attempt to legitimate the employment of psychoanalytic constructs in historical work, asked how it could be that the historian, "who must be as much or more concerned with human beings and their motivation than with ilnpersonal forces and causation, has failed to make use of these findings ?" Langer LL provided what he considered to be the answer: . . . many [historians] no doubt have sharcd the fear that the humanistic appreciation of pcrsonality, as in poetry or drama, might be irretrievably lost through the application of a coldly penetrating calculus."2 It may seem that the psychoanalytic language of mechanism, force, energy, structure, function, and process is too abstract and remote from people and their real concerns. But the historian is facing raw data-feelings, strivings, wishes, ambitions, and ideas-and not the mental structures or the version of them.3 These are only organizing hypotheses, and a felicitous gift for language surmounts this particular barrier. W e could afford to ignore the issue if the historian's typical assumption about his capacity for insight is correct-that he call actually bring the complex factors of personality, behavior, and motivatioll under colltrol through imagination, intuition, and insight without the have historians been in use of theory. The question is: How successf~~l this area? At one level, historians have been able to deal profoundly with the problem of character and motivation from the standpoillts of interest, rationality, and consciousness.~They have had no trouble putting important cultural figures and social policies in perspective by showing how men and policies are tied to self- or class-interest. The mandate of objectivity allied to this level of assumption has permitted a significant degree of insight into personal and social processes. In the process of reconstructing the past, however, historians have
2 William L. Langer, "The Next Assigntnent," in Mazlish, P~ychoartal~sis and History, 90, 89. 3 R o y Schafer, "Ideals, Ego Ideal, and the Ideal Self," in Robert R. Holt (ed.), Motives and Thought: Psychoanalytic Essays in Honor ofDavid Rapaport (New York, 1967), 133, 1 3 ~ n R ; o y Schafer, Aspects ofInfernalization (New York, 1968), 79. 4 The factors of interest, rationality, and consciousness are derived from sociological and psychological thought. Of course, historians d o not necessarily learn about these things in a systematic way. But the origins of these ideas can hardly be overlooked in light of the historian's attitude toward the social sciences.

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failed to deal with that dimension of human behavior and motivation that psycl~oanalysis is especially concerned with: the non-rational and the non-conscious. When tied to a sociological frame of reference, this dimension of reality must be as important as any other. Erikson has written
Psychoanalysis has amply demonstrated the fact that the individual develops an amnesia concerning crucial childhood experiences; there is good reason to suspect that this individual amnesia is paralleled by a universal blind spot in the interpretation of history, a tendency to overlook the fateful function of childhood in the fabric of society.5

This "blind spot" includes not only the role of childhood experiences, but also, to a great degree, an appreciation of the later (adult) ramifications of these experiences, and how they are manifested in social behavior. In a random way, of course, the kind of insight implied in intuitive capacity (i.e., insight comparable to the findings of psychoanalysis) has appeared in historical writing. But such occurrences are hardly adequate for a comprehensive explanation of this aspect of man's behavior. There certainly is no regular, consistent pursuit of these problems of historical writing as there is, for example, of problems of interest. The reason is that the expressive qualities which historians claim for themselves and their work are more readily spoken of than understood or effectively utilized. In short, there is no basis for the claim that the historian's intuition and imagination are sufficient for the comprehension of human behavior at the level of the non-conscious and the non-rational. Such a point of view brings to mind serious questions about history as art and about intuition and imagination in historical work. What are the differences between artistic and historical imagination ? There certainly are differences in form between the two k&ds of literature, the work in each case being bound by different criteria. The artist's reconstruction, for example, can follow his aesthetic conceptions, which may mean that a figure, symbol, or event can be taken out of its objective context. But the historian is bound by laws of logic, causality, and chronology, and he must re-create characters and events in their explicit conidxt. But are there dynamic differences with regard to thought processes which lead to an interest in and a capacity for different kinds of thought content? If so, why should these differences exist, and why
5 Erik H. Erikson, "Wholeness and Totality-A Psychiatric Contribution," in Carl J. Friedrich (ed.), Totalitariarzisrn (New York, 1964), 197.

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should artists exercise a peculiar capacity for insight into areas that are crucial also for the historian to understand ? And, returning to Langer's question with regard to psychoanalysis and the historian, what difference does theory make i11 these terms ? Freud and a number of other p~~choailalysts have tried to understand what art and artistic intuition entail, or what distinguishes art from other approaches to reality. The fact that the artist's insight so strikingly parallels psychoa~lalyticdiscoveries made this attempt illevitable. For his part, Freud confessed that psychoanalysis must "lay down its arms before the problem of the imaginative writer," and that his discipli~le"ca11 do nothing toward elucidating the nature of the ,, artistic gift, nor can it explain the meails by which the artist works. . . . Kris, who contributed the most in this area after Freud, has also stated that, as yet, psychoanalytic theory has little to contribute to an explanation of artistic processes.6 Still, to a degree, Freud, Kris, and others have bee11 able to distinguish aspects of the thought process characteristic of artistic effort, and it is llecessary to examine their ideas here. Psychoanalytic writers have the distinct impression that, in whatfeeling states and analyses ever terms the artist's capacity for re~lderi~lg of motivation may ultimately be understood, this capacity distinguishes his thought processes not only as peculiar, but also as superior to other forms of creative endeavor.7 111Kris' terms, artistic creation is understood to be comprised of two phases-inspiration and elaboration. "The first has many features in common with regressive processes: Impulses and drives, otherwise hidden, emerge. The subjective experience is that of a flow of thought and images driving toward expression. The second has many features in common with what characterizes 'work'-dedication and concentration."s The notion that artistic endeavor is somehow related to regressive processes should not be taken in any pejorative sense. For reasons that cannot now be determined, artists are able (idiosyncratically) to recover, name, and refine a host of impulses, fantasies, and thoughts which are repressed most of the time for most men. The crucial aspect of this process of recovery is that it is controlled. The artist makes deliberate use of this regressive capacity (so that Kris refers to it as "regression in the
6 Emst Kris, Psychoanalytic Explorations in A r t (New York, 1964), 21. For a brief summary of psychoanalytic efforts in this direction, see Michael D. Robbins, "On the Study qf tlze Child, X X I V (19691, 227Psychology of Artistic Creativity," P~~clzoaizalytic 2 3 2 , 228 (on Freud and art). 7 Kris, Explo~ations,2 3 . 8 Ibid., 59.

QUESTION OF PSYCHOANALYSIS

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service of the ego"), and he can move from the first to the second phase of this thought process without being overwhelmed and rendered ineffective by his insight. "In the work of art, as in the dream, unconscious contents are alive; here too, evidences of the primary [unconscious] process are conspicuous, but the ego maintains its control over them, elaborates them in its own right, and sees to it that the distortion does not go too far."9 It is the artist's distinguishing quality, and his merit, that no matter how painful this internal reality may be, he is able to deal with it and to express it. What the artist knows is always stated in symbolic terms, at a level of ambiguity that not only separates him from the full impact of his own sexual and aggressive wishes, but also ties him to an audience which can then identify with the symbols. In this sense, artists have always known and written about that which psychoanalysts have more recently struggled to discover and codify: . . . from Sophocles to Proust the struggle against incestuous impulses, dependency, guilt, and aggression, has remained a topic of Western literature," a fact that is as well established "as any thesis in the social sciences."IO We can infer from these statements that historians do not have this kind of intuitive insight as a rule, and artistic endeavor as we have been discussing it is a qualitatively different experience from historical endeavor. The sense in which history is art, and the relationship of historical writing to intuition is, therefore, not at all clear. Anyone who can manage the two levels of thought discussed by Kris, and who can be introspective in this way, writes novels, drama, or poetry; he does not write history. The historian's work is difficult, rewarding, and has a popular appeal, but his difficulties, rewards, and appeal should not be confused with those characteristic of artistic work. Collingwood concluded on this issue that "As works ofimagination, the historian's work and the novelist's do not differ. . . . The novelist has a single task only: to construct a coherent picture, one that makes sense. The historian has a double task: he has both to do this, and to construct a picture of things as they really were and of events as they really happened."I' These judgments are not accurate, however, and they can lead to confusion because these are two different kinds of
(6

g It was possible within the context of earlier approaches to psychoanalytic theory to

see the artist and art in a less exalted light, and Freud was often prone to this view. See, for example, Lionel Trilling, "Freud and Literature," in Hendrik M. Ruitenbeek (ed.), Psyclzoanalysis and Literature (New York, 1964), esp. 257-261. 10 Kris, Explorations, 17. 11 R. G. Collingwood, The Idea of History (London, 1961), 246.

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literary effort, and each faces obstacles and risks peculiar to it. The novelist's "single task," for example, should be seen in this perspective: The novelist deals with a form of knowledge that is largely derived from internal sources, and this knowledge has a dynamic appeal to others at that same level. The artist must be careful to refine his wishes, fears, and fantasies so that they can be identified with and "borrowed" by others, thereby becoming u b l i c rather than private statements. At the same time, what he writes about must retain the quality of wishes, fears, and fantasies. It would be a mistake to imagine that hstorical effort is more complex than artistic effort. Macaulay observed that "a truly great historian would reclaim the materials which the novelist has appropriated."Iz But this statement again ignores the differences between the two kinds of literature, and, as matters now stand, that is precisely what cannot happen because of this real (if ill-defined) gulf that separates the one kind of writing from the other. In more specific psychoanalytic terms, the problem of art may be approached in two ways, corresponding to the earlier and later theories of mental organization that were constructed by Freud. Freud's earlier theoretical structure was designed to explain what he had discovered with regard to unconscious behavior, sexuality, repression, and symp66 tom formation. This view of mental process is referred to as topographical," and it was intended to define primarily thc quality or degree of consciousness of behavior ; the elements of the topographical frame of reference were the systems unconscious, preconscious, and conscious. In these terms, intrapsychic conflict was conceived of as a struggle between repressing (conscious) forces and the repressed (unconscious) forces. The distinguishing quality of unconscious (or primary) processes is that "they equate reality of thought with external actuality, and 7 , processes arc dominated wishes with their fulfillment. . . . U~lconscious in this scheme by the pleasure principle, and conscious (secondary) processes by the reality principle.I3 Freud later found that he had to account for a variety of other discoveries which were not easily assimilated to this model. For example,
12

Quoted in Hans Meyerhoff*(ed.),T h e Pltilosol~hy of History in O w Titire (New York,

195912 11. 13 Sigmund Freud, "Formulation on tlie Two Principles of Mental Functioning," in

Jatnes Strachey (ed. and trans.), The Standard Editiorz of the Conzplete W o r k s cf S&tr~rltzd Frcnd (London, 1 g ~ 8 ) ,X II, 218-226. See also Merton Gill, "The Primary Process," and Robert R . Holt, "The Development of Prinlary Process: A Structural View," in Holt, iVotives and Thotr~izt,260-298, 345, 383. Freud's essay supplies one of the important definitions of art in psychoanalytic terms (224).

QUESTION OF PSYCHOANALYSIS

425

he had learned that both sides of a lneiltal conflict could be unconscious (i.e., the repressing forces-the so-called defense mechanisms-were mostly unconscious) ; and there was also the problem of unconscious guilt (an affect whose existence Freud inferred from experience with some mental processes that interfered with the success of the therapeutic process). h n d there were other, similar aspects of intrapsychic conflict that had to be accounted for. Thus, thc older model and descriptive terms gave way to what is called the structural model, and the ~neiltal processes (defined by their fuiictions) were then referred to as id, ego, and superego. After 1923, Freud chose to emphasize functional differences in conceptualizing psychic structure, as opposed to an emphasis on the qualities of co~lsciousnessand unconsciousness. There is some question as to whether Freud intended the structural view to replace tile topographical one. But it is still useful to employ the topographical model to describe certain ~nental processes, and this is particularly true of artistic processes. Hence, artistic endeavor can be discussed ill both topographical and structural terms.'4 If we were to render Kris' two phases of thought process in topographical terms, we would say that artists are capable of dealing with primary process thought, while historical endeavor is tied to the secondary process, essentially at the preconscious and conscious 1evels.I~ hilother way of describing the difference between the two styles is that what the artist does depends upon a decrease in couiltercathexis (defenses somehow lapse, fail, or are suspended), while what the historian does depends upon hypercathexis (attention is focused on a particular idea at the preconscious level).I6 Poets and novelists are able to surrender secondary thought processes and permit the~~lselves to be influenced by and thereby capture the more archaic level of thought. The artist has the capacity for rendering feelings through the ~ s of c thought
14 Jacob A. Arlow and Charles Brenner, l~sychoatzalytic Concepts and the Strtrctuval Theory (New York, 1964), argue that the structural model was intended to replace the topographical one. Kurt Eissler, "On the Metapsychology of the Preconscious," Psychoanalytic Stirdy o f the Child, XVII (1962), 9-41> states that this was not the case. Kris, who had done considerable work in the area of art, still employed topographical terms. See also Humberto Nagera, "The Concepts of Structure and Structuralization," Psychoanalytic Study qf the Child, XXII (1967), 93 ; Arnold H. Modell, Object Love and Reality: A t 1 Introduction to a Psychoanalytic Theory of Oiyect Relations (New York, 1968), 125. 15 A good definition of preconscious thought has been written by Louis Fraiberg, "New Views of Art and the Creative Process in Psychoanalytic Ego Psychology," in Hendrik M. Ruitenbeek (ed.), The Creative Ilnaginatiotl: Psyci~oaizalysisand the Genius ojInspiration (Chicago, 1965), 229. 16 Sce Eissler, "Metapsychologp of the Precotlscious," 22-23, 27.

processes which are not always logical, and he can deal with thought before it is structured in logical grammatical and syntactical terms, and before the contradictions in thought (which exist at the level of the unconscious) are eliminated. The mechanisms that Freud discovered at work in dreams are the mechanisms that the artist has learned to use. "Freud discovered in the very organization of the mind those mechanisms by which art makes its effects, such devices as the condensation of meanings and the displacement of accent."I7 Displacement means, for example, that "Almost anything can stand for something else on the grounds of resemblance, often merely a fantastic one, or on those of another unconscious relationshiP."i8 But there are a number of other such mechanisms which facilitate, among other things, the development of neologistic language. Furthermore, the artist is not only able to capture thought before it is organized by logical processes, but he can also tolerate the conterzt of that thought as it occurs at the more archaic levels. Thus, what may appear to others as irrational, embarrassing, or contradictory, or what may be shoved aside or denied because it appears trivial or bizarre is, for the artist, of the greatest importance. Of course, all creative persons <c free associate" and have experiences with fantasy, reverie, dream, and day-dream.19 But, for the most part, individuals can approach primary process contents only in the therapeutic situation where such regression is encouraged, where the individual is advised not to sub~nit his thoughts to rational or moral criteria (to ego or superego processes), and where the analyst acts in support as an auxiliary ego.20
17 Trilling, "Freud and Literature," 267; Kenneth Burke, "Freud-and the Analysis of Poetry," in Ruitenbeek, Psychonrznlysis, 127-128. Metaphor in poetry, according to Kris (Exploratiorzs, 258, 254, 256), "serves as a stimulus to functional regression because the primary process is itself metaphoric and imagistic. The dream lifc, for instance, is predominantly visual, and shows a marked tendency to note silnilarities . . that escape the practical orientation of waking life. Metaphor serves, not to bring poetry closer to the dream, but rather closer to the psychic processes underlying both art and fantasy." Metaphor, of course, is also eiriployed in history and science; but, as Hughes notes (History as Art, 2-3, 77), metaphors are "radically incon~mensurate."On metaphor, see also George S. Klein, "Peremptory Ideation," in Holt, Motives and Thought, 120. 18 For further explanations of this type of mechanism and the relation of primary to secondary thought processes, sec Robert Fliess, "On the Nature of Human Thought," in Morton Levitt (ed.), Readings in Psychoannlytic Psychology (New York, 1959), 213-220. 19 Jose Barchilon, "Development of Artistic Stylization," Psychoanal~~tic Stidy o f the Child, XIX (1964), 271. 20 Sec Rudolf Ekstein, "Thoughts Coiicernillg the Nature of the Interpretive Process," ill Levitt, Readings, 226.

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Kracaucr writes that one cannot discuss the rclatioil between past and present without some reference to Marcel Proust, "one of the highest authorities on thcse matters." Proust is an excellent choice for our discussion because he co~nbines to the greatest degree the depth of insight and the quality of risk that scparates art from history. '111 his [Proust's] view the past gives itself up only to those who lean over backward in an attempt to make it speak; and oilly an 'effort of selftranscendence' in this vein will, perhaps, enable us to arrive at an understanding of our present condition."Z' But Proust leaned so far backward that he fell over, and one does not deliberately make such choices. "During the last thirteen years of his life, Proust isolated himself from ordinary life. A victim of chronic illness and afflicted with a morbid fear of dying, he shut himself off in his apartment, swathed himself like an Egyptian mummy, drew the shutters and curtains to exclude the light, and searched feverishly into the past for memories." O f course, Proust knew a great deal about seeking out and finding the past, and he has left us elaborate descriptions of his several methods ("the association of ideas, a consideration of dreams, and a manipulation of sensations"). But there is no lesson here for the historian-for even if one had the intellectual ambition to follow Proust's path, and if one had the best will in the world, he could not do it on his own. As Joseph Conrad wrote of Proust, "I don't think that there has ever been in the whole of literature such an example of the power of analysis, and I feel safe in saying that there will never be another."z2 The problem of thought process and content, viewed in structural terms, is somewhat differently apprehended. From the structural point of view, activity is understood to be simulta~leouslygratifying at the level of id, ego, and superego. Art, for example, may satisfy superego strivings in the sense that the artist communicates ideals and values, or contributes new ones to the community. Art may also be gratifying in ego terms, in the perfection of a solution, or in the elegance and economy of those means by which a solution is reached. In other words, the artist must exercise control over and master an exacting discipline which has its own formal criteria. But the most familiar and appropriate psychoanalytic definition of art pertains to its unco~lscious

ZI

Siegfried Kracauer, History: The Last T h i q s Bejbre the Last (Ncw York, 1969), 78,

161.

zz The quotes on Proust are from E. James Anthony, "A Study of Screen Sensations," Psychoannlytic Sttrdy of the Child, XVI (1961), zzc-zzz.

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sources and appeal, to id gratifications, and this is the level at which art has its most profound effects.23 It is for this reason that a reader's reaction "may be richer in implication than the creator ever supposed," and that it is possible to say that "The genius builds better than he knows."24 There is an implication here that must be clarified : It happens that some writers achieve a measure of control over processes and contents and deliberately manipulate them-for example, James Joyce and Proust. But artists more regularly achieve their effects without conscious reflection on what they have done; more often artists can neither rationalize what they have intended, nor explain all that they meant by what they have written. This is an important point and we will refer to it again below. History, too, may be gratifying at the level of wish and fantasy; obviously thc historian may identify with a character or group, take pleasure in some victory or defeat, and otherwise express sexual and aggressive strivings through his work. History may also bc gratifying to the superego; the community values historical endeavor because present behavior is morally legitimated by reference to the past and to tradition. But the more important aspects of historical writing are those of control, selection, organization, analysis, and the transmission of accurate observations. History shares with the reader specific intellectual contents (and for this reason may be judged in such terms as true or false, which are not particularly applicable to art), while art shares dynamic processes. The appeal of history is primarily at the conscious, intellectual level, and the appeal of art is primarily at the unconscious, affective l e ~ e l . ~ j It would be a mistake to exaggerate the extent to which these distinctions can be drawn. These two levels of internal experience are not discrete or exclusive. Rather, there is a continuum from primary to secondary process thinking. All creative imagination has its roots it1 primary process-in wishes, fantasies, reveries, dreams, and the like. It is possible that fantasies and day-dreams simplify and focus certain connections, making them more visible or heightening their intellectual impact beyond what one might experience with secondary thought
23 Robert Waelder, Psychoana2ytic Avenries to Art (New York, 1965), 24,44, 8 j. See also Charles Brenner, "The Mechanism of Repression," in Rudolph M. Loewenstein, et a]., Psychoanalysis: A General Psychology (New York, 1966), 393. 24 Ernst Kris, "The Study of Creative Imagination," in Ruitetlbeek, Creative Imagination, 38. z~ See, for example, James W. Hamilton, "Object Loss, Dreaming, and Creativity," Psyclioanalytic Study ofthe Cllild, XXIV (1969), 529.

QUESTION OF PSYCHOANALYSIS

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process alone.26 Scientific thinking, for example, "is in itself never sharply separated from the realm of the unconscious, and the psychoanalysis of inventors and research workers shows that there is an intimate connection between these higher - mental functions and unconscious wishes and desircs and their infantile roots." Einstein said that theories are a "free creation of the imagination," and on a number of occasions important discoveries are said to have come to the discoverer in a dream (e.g., Raymoiid Poincart). Rapaport, one of the most influential contributors to psychoaiialytic theory in the post-Freudian period "set about training himself to write with his eyes closed, in the dark, and to record his streams of thoughts and imagery. The task was by no means easy. . . . But Ile stayed Gith it, developed a capacity for automatic writing, and was able at times to keep writing while dreaming."27 The work of the historian is also no doubt informed by primary .. .. process thlnkmg. The norms and mandates that undergird scientific or objective thought, however, require that the finished product be somewhat removed from the original impulses and from conflict-that the primary process be refined out of the work. Thus, Einstein observed that the 'L free creation of the imagination," out of which theory emerges, is limited by two principles: An empirical one, that the conclusions drawn from the theory be confirmed by experiences and a half-logical, half-aesthetic principle, that the fundamental laws should be as few in number as possible and logically compatible." Now, the accommodation to reality, and elegance, precision, and economy of means-which are also characteristic of historical thought-are ego gratifying, for they serve ego purposes. Jerome Bruner has said : "The elegant rationality of science and the ~netaphoric non-rationality of art operate with deeply different grammars."28 History is not a science, but rational con66

"From the fact that repressed ideas are symbol-inducing motivations, they may occasion unintended but freshinsights into the reality upon which they i~npose themselves -innovative restructurings or symbols which, while for the person being a resolutioll induced by the arousal o f unconscious fantasy, also provide as a happy by-product, a fresh reorganization of, a new slant on, the understanding of reality." Klein, "Pere~nptory Ideation," 127. 1 7 Kris, Explorations, 296-297; Schafer, Aspects, 86-89. Einstein quoted in Heinz Hartmann, Ernst Kris, and Rudolph M. Loewenstein, "The Function of Theory in Psychoanalysis," in Hartmatm, et al., Papers on Psychoanalytic Psychology (New York, 1964)~121n. The statement on Rapaport is reported in Robert R. Holt, "David Rapaport: A Memoir," in Holt, Motives and Thought, g. 28 Quoted in Hughes, History as Art, 2-3.
26

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trol and transmission of data are historical objectives, so that a similar distinction may be made between history and art. The historian must concentrate and draw upon his experience and knowledge to bring together a variety of disparate and often unconnected thoughts (in which consists his originality). Historians are intuitive in this sense (in terms of the pre-conscious), but, at this level of mental functioning, their work brings them closer to that of the social scientist than it does to that of the artist.29 Historical work may be described in such terms as "creative imagination," but, unlike art, this typically does not include the repressed. Indeed, the way that the historian must work (in the context of factual evidence verified by textual criticism rendered according to well-defined criteria) is call culated to inhibit the kind of thought process that characterizes art. That the historian's focus, function, and appeal are different from the artist's should not be construed as a weakness-it should be understood only as a difference. The historian attempts to master another dimension of human experience, the past. History is another instance of man's desire to bring his world under control, and not only for the sake of survival, but also for the sake of understanding. The control and discipline that the historian exercises represents an effort to separate himself from the effects of unco~lscious behavior, and to couiiter the regressive pulls that would plunge him, in an emotional sense, into his material and thus distort it. The historian does not always succeed in this effort, and, paradoxically, the control which the historian exercises prevents him from observing the extent to which unconscious effects interfere with his work because the control inhibits introspective insight. There is a level at which this is an idiosyncratic and random factor; but there is also a lcvel at which social-structural factors intervene in a rather systematic ~ a y . 3 ~ There is no point in dwelling here on the idiosyncratic features that tend to inhibit insight. Historians have accepted the proposition for a long time, and it is easily confirmed by psychoanalytic experience. However, a word must be said on the social-structural factors involved
zg See Heinz Hartmami, "Comments on the Scientific Aspects of Psychoanalysis," in idem., Essays on Ego Psychology: Selected Problerrzs in Psychoanalytic Tl~eory(New York, 19651, 310. 30 Artists also fail but, because of psychosexual (ontogenetic) differences, and perhaps because of constitutional differences between artists and other types of creative people, artists are less likely to be so syste~natically unaware of the meaning and effects of unconscious processes. See Phyllis Greenacre, "The Childhood of the Artist," in Ruitenbeek, Creative btragination, 161-191; Fraiberg, "New Views of Art," 235.

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because it is at this level, in a systematic sense, that the differences between artists and historians must be found. Much of our interest in the past represents a rather necessary attempt to maintain continuity with a tradition that legitimates present action. This can perhaps be more easily seen at a lower level, such as the way in which history is taught in primary and secondary schools. History here is used to provide each individual with a cultural past that facilitates his integration into contemporary social tasks, and the way that history is typically presented to the student allows him to identify with that past so that he can rely on it, rather than on his own personal past. Instead of dwelling on his own motives, for purposes that may be summed up in the concept of "identity," the individual is invited to dwell on his society's motives. History at ;his level is embellished and adorned, and it is subposed to provide measure of stability and to act as one part of a system of control. If man did not have a satisfactory historical past to rely on, he would be forced "to create a curriculum vitae for himselfjust as surely as those who have been deprived of sensory impressions are driven to create false ones ill the form of hallucinations."31 But such a process goes on at the higher professional levels as well. Men very readily interpret the past in the light of present-internalized -modes of behavior, and it is necessary to see that we are often preserving a present identity by giving up (repressing) a significant part of To the p a ~ t . 3 ~ a degree behavior in a modern society such as ours is predicated on rationality and self-discipline-on the deliberate control over emotions which often leads to a denial of emotion. Rationality depends upon a high degree of ego control, but it is itself an affectivelybased cognitive style-and therefore difficult to examine and to surmount. Reality testing may function in one area and not in another; cognitive processes may be applied to some kinds of experience and not to others. This situation has resulted in the effective segregation in historical work of the emotional aspects of the past, and to the virtual absence of any systematic study of this part of human experience. This segregation and denial has been rationalized on a number of familiar

31 Samual Novey, The Second Look: The Reconstvtlction of Personal History in Psychiatry and Psychoanalysis (Baltimore, 1968), 3 8 . 3 2 "The failure of comprehension can come about through one or another ego function, not necessarily through failure of memory alone. Thus, the required loss of comprehension may be achieved by perceptual failure, by breaks in awareness of causal sequences, by miscarriage of judgment (producing attitudes of naivete) etc.-according to whichever of these is best suited to the circuinstances." Klcin, "Peremptory Ideation," 106-107.

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grounds: Other dimensions of the past are more important, or are more characteristic of man; there are insufficient data with w11ich to work; the data are not amenable to analysis; intuition will lead the historian to what is important; and so forth. W e have now dealt, at least tentatively, with two of our questions: how artistic imagination differs from the historical, and why such a difference should exist. W e know of no empirical or theoretical observations that can help us to make this more precise. Still, it is clear that there are such differences. There remains, the; the third of our questions: What difference does theory nuke to the historian in these terms ? The answer is actually implicit in everything that has gone on before. It is necessary and possible for historians to examine non-rational and nonconscious processes as these aRect his present position and as they have been manifest in the past. However, as the historian cannot manage - this on intuitive and imaginative grounds, he must employ theory. Because this level of awareness and this type of study are indispensable to the reconstruction of the past, theory is indispensable to the historian.3" We stress this point in relation to a point we madc earlier-that the artist may have a special capacity for working with priinary process, but he cannot always know or understand what he has done. Primary process thought is one level of thought process and art would lose its
3 3 The systematic use of psychoanalytic theory by historians raises the question o f the relationship of therapy to theory. Psychoanalysts insist that this kind of work cannot be successfully undertaken unless the researcher has undergone a personal analysis. Sometitnes psychoanalysts say even more than this: "It is m y contention that the psychoanalytic anthropic researcher not only needs full clinical traini~lg-such as the two or three supervised analyses that students customarily carry out, in the fulfilltnent of present training programs, before graduation from an institute-but also that he has to have the opportunity for continuous clinical work, if he is to live up to the requiremcnts of his task." Eissler, Medical Ortilodoxy, 164. Erikson speaks more softly: w e tnust ". . .presuppose that the psychohistorian will have developed or acquired a certain self-analytical capacity which would give to his dealings with others, great or small, both the charity of identification and a reasonably good conscience." "On the Nature of Psycho-Historical Evidence: In Search of Ga~ldhi,"Daedalrls, XCVII (1968), 709. It is difficult to say h o w n~ucli Erikson meant by this statement, but he certainly meant a good deal less than Eissler. O u r own opinion on this issue is that the body of theory exists for anyone to employ. A personal analysis is no guarantee of superior insight; as psychoanalysts well know, consciousness does not necessarily tnean control. At the same time, the laclc of a personal analysis does not automatically dootn any effort to failure. N o doubt fools will rush in and a lot of bad history will be written from a psychoanalytic point of view. But a lot of bad history is written frotn every point of view, and it would not be difficult to point to failed efforts. All that really can be said is that everyone should work in the area and with the materials he likes; everyone should write to the best of his ability; and everyone's work should be subtnitted forjudgtnent in the tnantier and by the criteria generally employed by the profession.

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characteristic quality without it. But it is only one level, and the unconscious content in art, or in any creative endeavor, can only be u~zdeevstood at the secondary level, and ~~stentntically understood only in terms of theory. For the historian, this is the primary virtue of Freud's codiiication and communication of psychoanalytic theory. Freud made it possible to understand and to study unconscious processes in a systematic way. W e can best demonstrate what this means by example. W e will quote two statements on the Russian character, one by Dicks, a psychiatrist, which resulted from his "intense interviews" with Soviet defectors; the second by Tarsis, a contemporary Russian novelist. First Dicks, speaking of a manifest ambivalence in Russian character:
It is the manner in which this ambivalence is manifested and countered or disposed of which provides a key to the interpretation of Russian character. It is seen to oscillate in large swings of mood in relation to self, to primary love objects, and to out-groups. The quality of these swings is most readily understood in terms of oral need satisfactions or deprivations. At one end there is the "omnivorousness," and the lusty greed and zest for life, the tendency to rush at things and "swallow them whole" ; the need for quick and full gratification; the spells of manic o~nnipotence ; the overflowing feeling and optimistic belief in unlimited achieve~nent vitality, spontaneity, and anarchic denland for abolition of all bounds and limitations to giving and receiving. At the other end of the spectrum there is melancholy, dreary apathy; frugality; meanness and suspicion of universal hostility; anxious and sullen subn~issiveness;self-depreciation and moral masochism, together with a grudging adnlission of the necessity for a depriving and arbitrary authority, thought of as the only safeguard against the excesses of Russian nature. In this mood we find a diffuse guilt feeling. . . . The Russian can vary between feeling that he is no good and that he is superior to all the rest of mankind.

Then Tarsis :
Russia is a peculiar country, the bald stranger was saying in his curiously dry, rustling voice. Birthday party one day, funeral the next-that's the whole of our history.

A number of things can be said about these two statements. First, the thoughts expressed in the two passages are remarkably similar. One familiar with oral character or oral responses to the environment will realize that Tarsis and Dicks have said about the same thing. Second, the chances that Dicks could do what Tarsis has done are remote, for

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Tarsis' statement is not only characterized by precision and economy of means, but it is also quite close to the primary processes. Third, we cannot say that Tarsis knew what he was writing about: If Tarsis were asked to explain the meaning of his passage, one can only wonder what his answer would be. This is the one clear edge that the psychiatrist has : He can say what all of this means-because he has control over the theory.34 And it is precisely this same edge that the historian can acquire by familiarity with and mastery of the theory. It is not difficult to imagine that this would serve to deepen and broaden the historian's ability to analyze and interpret the past.
34 Henry V. Dicks, "Some Notes on the Russian National Character," in Cyril E. Black (ed.), T h e Tranrfortnation o f R u s s i a n Society: Aspects o f Social C h a n g e Since 1861 (Cambridge, Mass., 1960), 638. Valery Tarsis (trans. Katya Brown), W a r d Ser~erz(New York, 1965), 45. W e chose this material to make an example of our point; w e do not accept this in any way as a final or definitive statement on the Russian national character.

CORRECTIONS
The last footnote in Louise A. Tilly's "The Food Riot as a Form ofpolitical Conflict in France" (Volume 11, Number I) was inadvertently omitted. Since it contained her acknowledgments of comments o n her paper by Natalie Davis, Julian Dent, Steven Kaplan, Orest Ranum, George Rude, and Lawrence Stone, w e arc happy to set the record straight, albeit so belatedly. An error was also made in footnote 10 of Emily R. Coleman's "Medieval Marriage Characteristics: A Neglected Factor in the History of Medieval Serfdom" (Volume 11, Number 2). The footnote should begin: "The libeui, technically, werc legally free individuals. The coloni werc, for the most part. . ."