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Why the Freud Wars Will Never End
His claims may seem unscientific or absurd, but we still inhabit the mental universe that he created. Adam Kirsch reviews ‘Freud: The Making of an Illusion’ by Frederick Crews.
PHOTO: BRIDGEMAN IMAGES
In 1930, Sigmund Freud published “Civilization and Its Discontents,” a short book in which he brought the insights of psychoanalysis to bear on the problems of modern Western culture. The core of Freud’s argument, here and throughout his work, is that “the intention that man should be ‘happy’ is not included in the plan of ‘Creation.’ ” There is, he writes, a permanent opposition between the pleasure principle—the infantile force in us that seeks the satisfaction of desires—and the conditions of our bodily and social existence, which make satisfaction difficult to achieve. This conflict is never resolved but is alleviated by the growth of the reality principle—a mature adaptation to the world as it is, which allows us to take satisfaction in avoiding suffering rather than experiencing full happiness.
Freud believed this process takes place in the life of every individual and is mirrored in the development of civilization, which he presents as an effort of sublimation—the “renunciation of instinct” in favor of higher values such as art, religion and ethics. But it is possible, Freud concludes, that this renunciation is too high a price to pay; civilization may turn out to be “a state of affairs which the individual will be unable to tolerate.” And history would justify his pessimism. As Freud wrote, fascism was on the march in Europe, promising an orgiastic release of all the violent, irrational instincts civilization had worked so hard to repress.
If Freud’s account of how human beings feel, suffer and grow, and his analysis of culture and ethics, still feel intuitively convincing, that is because we still inhabit the mental universe that he created. It is even possible to argue that the course of Western civilization since the 1960s has been an experiment in Freudian de-sublimation, in loosening bonds—especially sexual ones—that had become intolerably strict. As W.H. Auden put it in the elegy he composed after Freud’s death in 1939, “to us he is no more a person / now but a whole climate of opinion.”
FREUD
By Frederick Crews
Metropolitan, 746 pages, $40
Yet in the same poem, Auden also acknowledged that “often he was wrong and, at times, absurd”: The strange thing about Freud is that the absurdity is often inextricable from the wisdom. Take, for instance, the passages in “Civilization and Its Discontents” in which he offers an explanation for how human beings came to master fire, the “quite extraordinary and unexampled achievement” that was the origin of civilization itself. “It is as though,” Freud writes, “primal man had the habit, when he came in contact with fire, of satisfying an infantile desire connected with it, by putting it out with a stream of his urine.” This instinct was rooted in sexual desire, since the “tongues of flame” were symbolic phalluses, so that urinating on them was “a homosexual competition.” The first man to “damp down the fire of his own sexual excitation” and resist the impulse to urinate was the first to carry off the fire and use it for his own purposes. “This great cultural conquest,” Freud concludes, “was thus the reward for his renunciation of instinct.”
What are we to think when a sage comes up with such a bizarre theory? First, note that it is not really a theory at all, in the sense of a scientific hypothesis, because it can neither be verified nor falsified by any imaginable evidence. If anything, it is a myth, a just-so story about prehistory. More, it is a tendentious myth, one that fits too neatly into Freud’s ideas about the link between renunciation and civilization and rests on assumptions about human psychology that are, to put it mildly, counterintuitive—above all, the belief that every human action and motive can be traced back to sexuality.
But if that same assumption lies at the root of Freudian psychoanalysis, does that mean that psychoanalysis, too, is a myth? Do Freudian concepts like the superego and the id, the death drive and the pleasure principle, the dream as a wish-fulfillment, rest on any firmer evidentiary basis than Freud’s idea about urinating on fire? Was Freud, in short, a doctor and a scientist, as he claimed to be and as his patients and disciples believed, or was he a storyteller, an imaginative thinker, or—if you prefer—a fantasist?
This is the main issue at stake in the continuing series of scholarly debates known as the Freud wars, which have flared up again with the publication of Frederick Crews’s quasibiography, “Freud: The Making of an Illusion.” It has been some three decades since critics began a sustained assault on the reputation of Freud, pointing out the many grave defects in his clinical practice, his professional ethics and his theoretical speculations. Freud bullied his patients into accepting his wild interpretations of their dreams and experiences. The patients he wrote about in his case studies—Dora, the Wolf Man, Little Hans—were not actually cured by his interventions. He treated the psychoanalytic movement more like a religious cult than a scientific endeavor, choosing favorites, expelling dissidents and assiduously burnishing his own reputation by rewriting history when it suited him.
The appearance of Mr. Crews’s book, which focuses on the early part of Freud’s career before he became world famous, has renewed all these charges in the press. Mr. Crews is trained as a literary critic, not a psychologist, yet in the course of a decades-long obsession with Freud, he has made himself an expert in everything related to his quarry, from the history of neurology to the side effects of cocaine. The Javert of psychoanalysis, Mr. Crews aims not just to debunk Freud, but to defame him, to banish him from serious consideration forever. The index entries under “Freud, Sigmund” give a sense of the book’s tenor: “abandoned by patients; alcohol, recourse to; bribery on behalf of; impotence of; vindictiveness of” and more. Yet Mr. Crews’s quest remains self-contradictory, for you can’t destroy a thinker’s legacy by attacking him; only oblivion can do that, and criticism is the opposite of forgetting. Reading this book, you can’t help feeling that Freud must be important indeed to inspire such anger and warrant such effort.
Mr. Crews’s full-spectrum attack has the unintended effect of undermining Mr. Crews’s valid insights into the deep flaws of Freud’s thinking. It would be enough to prove Freud was not a scientist, and that psychoanalysis is not a science—claims that are now widely accepted. But when Mr. Crews adds that he was a liar and thief, or speculates that he practiced incest with his sister and adultery with his sister-in-law, the reader starts to lose faith in his impartiality.
The Freud wars have always been as much about Freud as an individual as about his ideas. Indeed, Freud remains inseparable from his work in a way that already marks it as something other than science. The law of gravity doesn’t stand or fall on the character of Isaac Newton ; if you found evidence that Albert Einstein was a kleptomaniac, E=mc 2would still hold true. But when critics of Freud denounce him as an incompetent doctor, a thief of other people’s ideas or an adulterer, they mean to strike at the credibility of Freudian ideas as well. Freud is more like a philosopher or a prophet than a scientist; to accept his premises involves submission to his personal authority. He resembles Karl Marx more than, say, Charles Darwin, to name two figures who dominated the intellectual world of his youth.
It is precisely because Freud was a kind of prophet that he was so hostile to all forms of traditional religion, which he argued in “The Future of an Illusion” were relics of infantile fear and worship of the father. If there is one constant in Freud’s intellectual life, it is his adamant opposition to religion, especially the Judaism that was his family’s tradition. This is not surprising: Freud trained as a medical man in the second half of the 19th century, a time when science was replacing faith as the most powerful and authoritative form of knowledge. It was able to answer ancient mysteries, such as the origin of man, and to transform time and space, with inventions like the railroad and the telegraph. “No, our science is no illusion,” Freud wrote. “But an illusion it would be to suppose that what science cannot give us we can get elsewhere,” by which he meant from religion.
Ironically, what gave Freudianism such appeal was its fusion of religious yearnings with scientific ambitions. Psychoanalysis claimed to reduce human behavior to a system. In doing so, it provided answers to ethical and metaphysical questions that people had traditionally looked to religion to answer. How should we live? Why is there so much unhappiness in the world? Psychoanalysis promised a theory of human suffering and a remedy for it, all at the same time.
For generations, countless people spent countless hours—and dollars—pursuing Freudian analysis because of that promise. Mr. Crews, like other scholars before him, shows that from the beginning the talking cure was an illusion, if not an actual lie: Freud claimed results with his hysterics and neurotics that he did not achieve and made sweeping generalizations based on a handful of cases. His eagerness to leap to a marvelous conclusion meant that he could never frame the kind of step-by-step investigation that results in real scientific discovery.
Freud was, then, a false prophet—which is perhaps implicit in the very definition of a prophet. But like other exploded belief systems, psychoanalysis is so deeply embedded in our cultural self-understanding that it may be impossible to think our way entirely free of it. Unconscious motivation, sexual repression, “Freudian slips,” dream analysis, the family romance—not all these ideas were original to Freud but all come down to us bearing his accent. He is one of those thinkers who cannot be ignored, only argued with and about—which suggests that the Freud wars may be with us to stay.
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