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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dreams, by Henri Bergson

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Title: Dreams
Author: Henri Bergson
Translator: Edwin E. Slosson
Release Date: March 17, 2007 [EBook #20842]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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DREAMS
BY

HENRI BERGSON

TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY


EDWIN E. SLOSSON
NEW YORK
B. W. HUEBSCH

1914

C OPYRIGHT, 1913, By THE INDEPENDENT


C OPYRIGHT, 1914, By B. W. HUEBSCH
First printing, April, 1914
Second printing, November, 1914
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
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CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
DREAMS

INTRODUCTION
Before the dawn of history mankind was engaged in the study of
dreaming. The wise man among the ancients was preminently the
interpreter of dreams. The ability to interpret successfully or plausibly
was the quickest road to royal favor, as Joseph and Daniel found it to
be; failure to give satisfaction in this respect led to banishment from
court or death. When a scholar laboriously translates a cuneiform
tablet dug up from a Babylonian mound where it has lain buried for
five thousand years or more, the chances are that it will turn out either
an astrological treatise or a dream book. If the former, we look upon it
with some indulgence; if the latter with pure contempt. For we know
that the study of the stars, though undertaken for selfish reasons and
pursued in the spirit of charlatanry, led at length to physical science,
while the study of dreams has proved as unprofitable as the dreaming
of them. Out of astrology grew astronomy. Out of oneiromancy has
grownnothing.
That at least was substantially true up to the beginning of the present
century. Dream books in all languages continued to sell in cheap
editions and the interpreters of dreams made a decent or, at any rate,
a comfortable living out of the poorer classes. But the psychologist
rarely paid attention to dreams except incidentally in his study of
imagery, association and the speed of thought. But now a change

[Pg 6]

has come over the spirit of the times. The subject of the significance
of dreams, so long ignored, has suddenly become a matter of
energetic study and of fiery controversy the world over.
The cause of this revival of interest is the new point of view brought
forward by Professor Bergson in the paper which is here made
accessible to the English-reading public. This is the idea that we can
explore the unconscious substratum of our mentality, the storehouse
of our memories, by means of dreams, for these memories are by no
means inert, but have, as it were, a life and purpose of their own, and
strive to rise into consciousness whenever they get a chance, even
into the semi-consciousness of a dream. To use Professor Bergson's
striking metaphor, our memories are packed away under pressure
like steam in a boiler and the dream is their escape valve.

[Pg 7]

That this is more than a mere metaphor has been proved by


Professor Freud and others of the Vienna school, who cure cases of
hysteria by inducing the patient to give expression to the secret
anxieties and emotions which, unknown to him, have been preying
upon his mind. The clue to these disturbing thoughts is generally
obtained in dreams or similar states of relaxed consciousness.
According to the Freudians a dream always means something, but
never what it appears to mean. It is symbolic and expresses desires
or fears which we refuse ordinarily to admit to consciousness, either
because they are painful or because they are repugnant to our moral
nature. A watchman is stationed at the gate of consciousness to keep
them back, but sometimes these unwelcome intruders slip past him in
disguise. In the hands of fanatical Freudians this theory has
developed the wildest extravagancies, and the voluminous literature
of psycho-analysis contains much that seems to the layman quite as
absurd as the stuff which fills the twenty-five cent dream book.
It is impossible to believe that the subconsciousness of every one of
us contains nothing but the foul and monstrous specimens which they
dredge up from the mental depths of their neuropathic patients and
exhibit with such pride.
Bergson's view seems to me truer as it is certainly more agreeable,
that we keep stored away somewhere all our memories, the good as
well as the evil, the pleasant together with the unpleasant. There may
be nightmares down cellar, as we thought as a child, but even in
those days we knew how to dodge them when we went after apples;
that is, take down a light and slam the door quickly on coming up.
Maeterlinck, too, knew this trick of our childhood. When in the Palace
of Night scene of his fairy play, the redoubtable Tyltyl unlocks the
cage where are confined the nightmares and all other evil
imaginings, he shuts the door in time to keep them in and then opens
another revealing a lovely garden full of blue birds, which, though
they fade and die when brought into the light of common day, yet

[Pg 8]

encourage him to continue his search for the Blue Bird that never
fades, but lives everlastingly. The new science of dreams is giving a
deeper significance to the trite wish of "Good night and pleasant
dreams!" It means sweet sanity and mental health, pure thoughts and
good will to all men.
Professor Bergson's theory of dreaming here set forth in untechnical
language, fits into a particular niche in his general system of
philosophy as well as does his little book on Laughter. With the main
features of his philosophy the English-reading public is better
acquainted than with any other contemporary system, for his books
have sold even more rapidly here than in France. When Professor
Bergson visited the United States two years ago the lecture-rooms of
Columbia University, like those of the Collge de France, were
packed to the doors and the effect of his message was enhanced by
his eloquence of delivery and charm of personality. The pragmatic
character of his philosophy appeals to the genius of the American
people as is shown by the influence of the teaching of William James
and John Dewey, whose point of view in this respect resembles
Bergson's.
During the present generation chemistry and biology have passed
from the descriptive to the creative stage. Man is becoming the
overlord of the mineral, vegetable and animal kingdoms. He is
learning to make gems and perfumes, drugs and foods, to suit his
tastes, instead of depending upon the chance bounty of nature. He is
beginning consciously to adapt means to ends and to plan for the
future even in the field of politics. He has opened up the atom and
finds in it a microcosm more complex than the solar system. He
beholds the elements melting with fervent heat and he turns their rays
to the healing of his sores. He drives the lightning through the air and
with the product feeds his crops. He makes the desert to blossom as
the rose and out of the sea he draws forth dry land. He treats the earth
as his habitation, remodeling it in accordance with his ever-varying
needs and increasing ambitions.
This modern man, planning, contriving and making, finds Paley's
watch as little to his mind as Lucretius's blind flow of atoms. A
universe wound up once for all and doing nothing thereafter but mark
time is as incomprehensible to him as a universe that never had a
mind of its own and knows no difference between past and future.
The idea of eternal recurrence does not frighten him as it did
Nietzsche, for he feels it to be impossible. The mechanistic
interpretation of natural phenomena developed during the last
century he accepts at its full value, and would extend experimentally
as far as it will go, for he finds it not invalid but inadequate.
To minds of this temperament it is no wonder that Bergson's Creative
Evolution came with the force of an inspiration. Men felt themselves
akin to this upward impulse, this lan vital, which, struggling

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throughout the ages with the intractableness of inert matter, yet finally
in some way or other forces it to its will, and ever strives toward the
increase of vitality, mentality, personality.

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Bergson has been reluctant to commit himself on the question of


immortality, but he of late has become quite convinced of it. He even
goes so far as to think it possible that we may find experimental
evidence of personal persistence after death. This at least we might
infer from his recent acceptance of the presidency of the British
Society for Psychical Research. In his opening address before the
Society, May 28, 1913, he discussed the question of telepathy and in
that connection he explained his theory of the relation of mind and
brain in the following language. I quote from the report in the London
Times:
T h e rle of the brain is to bring back the
remembrance of an action, to prolong the
remembrance in movements. If one could see all that
takes place in the interior of the brain, one would find
that that which takes place there corresponds to a
small part only of the life of the mind. The brain
simply extracts from the life of the mind that which is
capable of representation in movement. The cerebral
life is to the mental life what the movements of the
baton of a conductor are to the Symphony.
The brain, then, is that which allows the mind to
adjust itself exactly to circumstances. It is the organ of
attention to life. Should it become deranged, however
slightly, the mind is no longer fitted to the
circumstances; it wanders, dreams. Many forms of
mental alienation are nothing else. But from this it
results that one of the rles of the brain is to limit the
vision of the mind, to render its action more
efficacious. This is what we observe in regard to the
memory, where the rle of the brain is to mask the
useless part of our past in order to allow only the
useful remembrances to appear. Certain useless
recollections, or dream remembrances, manage
nevertheless to appear also, and to form a vague
fringe around the distinct recollections. It would not
be at all surprising if perceptions of the organs of our
senses, useful perceptions, were the result of a
selection or of a canalization worked by the organs of
our senses in the interest of our action, but that there
should yet be around those perceptions a fringe of
vague perceptions, capable of becoming more
distinct in extraordinary, abnormal cases. Those
would be precisely the cases with which psychical

[Pg 12]

research would deal.


This conception of mental action forms, as will be seen, the
foundation of the theory of dreams which Professor Bergson first
presented in a lecture before the Institut psychologique, March 26,
1901. It was published in the Revue scientifique of June 8, 1901. An
English translation, revised by the author and printed in The
Independent of October 23 and 30, 1913, here appears for the first
time in book form.
In this essay Professor Bergson made several contributions to our
knowledge of dreams. He showed, in the first place, that dreaming is
not so unlike the ordinary process of perception as had been hitherto
supposed. Both use sense impressions as crude material to be
molded and defined by the aid of memory images. Here, too, he set
forth the idea, which he, so far as I know, was the first to formulate,
that sleep is a state of disinterestedness, a theory which has since
been adopted by several psychologists. In this address, also, was
brought into consideration for the first time the idea that the self may
go through different degrees of tensiona theory referred to in his
Matter and Memory.

[Pg 13]

Its chief interest for the general reader will, however, lie in the
explanation it gives him of the cause of some of his familiar dreams.
He may by practice become the interpreter of his own visions and so
come to an understanding of the vagaries of that mysterious and
inseparable companion, his dream-self.
EDWIN E. SLOSSON.
N EW YORK C ITY,
FEBRUARY 10, 1914.

[Pg 14]

DREAMS
The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so
many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological,
others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a
complete manner it requires such a long developmentand we have
so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all
preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of
the question.
A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see
men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is
no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real
persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both
persons and things. How does this happen?

[Pg 15]

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not
presented a certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our
touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?
Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our
vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing
goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain
amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself
satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will
distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black
background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points
which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately.
More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on
the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot
compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and
color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is
slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous
rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists
and the psychologists have studied this play of colors. "Ocular
spectra," "colored spots," "phosphenes," such are the names that
they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the
slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation,
or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing
a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the
phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs
universally and it constitutesI may say at oncethe principal
material of which we shape our dreams, "such stuff as dreams are
made on."
Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time,
M. d'Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling
asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix
themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and
of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to
be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists
already half asleep. More recently an American psychologist,
Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of
difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in
acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes
closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from
the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of
memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt
away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the
colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed.
One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One
awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite
outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and
there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea
round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with

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here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a


great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The
spot was there, the brilliant points were there. There was really
presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this
dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

[Pg 19]

Will this alone suffice? Still considering the sensation of sight, we


ought to add to these visual sensations which we may call internal all
those which continue to come to us from an external source. The
eyes, when closed, still distinguish light from shade, and even, to a
certain extent, different lights from one another. These sensations of
light, emanating from without, are at the bottom of many of our
dreams. A candle abruptly lighted in the room will, for example,
suggest to the sleeper, if his slumber is not too deep, a dream
dominated by the image of fire, the idea of a burning building. Permit
me to cite to you two observations of M. Tissi on this subject:
"B Lon dreams that the theater of Alexandria is on fire; the flame
lights up the whole place. All of a sudden he finds himself transported
to the midst of the fountain in the public square; a line of fire runs
along the chains which connect the great posts placed around the
margin. Then he finds himself in Paris at the exposition, which is on
fire. He takes part in terrible scenes, etc. He wakes with a start; his
eyes catch the rays of light projected by the dark lantern which the
night nurse flashes toward his bed in passing. M Bertrand
dreams that he is in the marine infantry where he formerly served. He
goes to Fort-de-France, to Toulon, to Loriet, to Crimea, to
Constantinople. He sees lightning, he hears thunder, he takes part in
a combat in which he sees fire leap from the mouths of cannon. He
wakes with a start. Like B., he was wakened by a flash of light
projected from the dark lantern of the night nurse." Such are often the
dreams provoked by a bright and sudden light.
Very different are those which are suggested by a mild and
continuous light like that of the moon. A. Krauss tells how one day on
awakening he perceived that he was extending his arm toward what
in his dream appeared to him to be the image of a young girl. Little by
little this image melted into that of the full moon which darted its rays
upon him. It is a curious thing that one might cite other examples of
dreams where the rays of the moon, caressing the eyes of the
sleeper, evoked before him virginal apparitions. May we not suppose
that such might have been the origin in antiquity of the fable of
EndymionEndymion the shepherd, lapped in perpetual slumber, for
whom the goddess Selene, that is, the moon, is smitten with love
while he sleeps?
I have spoken of visual sensations. They are the principal ones. But
the auditory sensations nevertheless play a rle. First, the ear has
also its internal sensations, sensations of buzzing, of tinkling, of
whistling, difficult to isolate and to perceive while awake, but which

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are clearly distinguished in sleep. Besides that we continue, when


once asleep, to hear external sounds. The creaking of furniture, the
crackling of the fire, the rain beating against the window, the wind
playing its chromatic scale in the chimney, such are the sounds
which come to the ear of the sleeper and which the dream converts,
according to circumstances, into conversation, singing, cries, music,
etc. Scissors were struck against the tongs in the ears of Alfred Maury
while he slept. Immediately he dreamt that he heard the tocsin and
took part in the events of June, 1848. Such observations and
experiences are numerous. But let us hasten to say that sounds do
not play in our dreams so important a rle as colors. Our dreams are,
above all, visual, and even more visual than we think. To whom has it
not happenedas M. Max Simon has remarkedto talk in a dream
with a certain person, to dream a whole conversation, and then, all of
a sudden, a singular phenomenon strikes the attention of the
dreamer. He perceives that he does not speak, that he has not
spoken, that his interlocutor has not uttered a single word, that it was
a simple exchange of thought between them, a very clear
conversation, in which, nevertheless, nothing has been heard. The
phenomenon is easily enough explained. It is in general necessary
for us to hear sounds in a dream. From nothing we can make nothing.
And when we are not provided with sonorous material, a dream
would find it hard to manufacture sonority.
There is much more to say about the sensations of touch than about
those of hearing, but I must hasten. We could talk for hours about the
singular phenomena which result from the confused sensations of
touch during sleep. These sensations, mingling with the images
which occupy our visual field, modify them or arrange them in their
own way. Often in the midst of the night the contact of our body with
its light clothing makes itself felt all at once and reminds us that we
are lightly clothed. Then, if our dream is at the moment taking us
through the street, it is in this simple attire that we present ourselves
to the gaze of the passers-by, without their appearing to be
astonished by it. We are ourselves astonished in the dream, but that
never appears to astonish other people. I cite this dream because it is
frequent. There is another which many of us must have experienced.
It consists of feeling oneself flying through the air or floating in space.
Once having had this dream, one may be quite sure that it will
reappear; and every time that it recurs the dreamer reasons in this
way: "I have had before now in a dream the illusion of flying or
floating, but this time it is the real thing. It has certainly proved to me
that we may free ourselves from the law of gravitation." Now, if you
wake abruptly from this dream, you can analyze it without difficulty, if
you undertake it immediately. You will see that you feel very clearly
that your feet are not touching the earth. And, nevertheless, not
believing yourself asleep, you have lost sight of the fact that you are
lying down. Therefore, since you are not lying down and yet your feet
do not feel the resistance of the ground, the conclusion is natural that

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you are floating in space. Notice this also: when levitation


accompanies the flight, it is on one side only that you make an effort
to fly. And if you woke at that moment you would find that this side is
the one on which you are lying, and that the sensation of effort for
flight coincides with the real sensation given you by the pressure of
your body against the bed. This sensation of pressure, dissociated
from its cause, becomes a pure and simple sensation of effort and,
joined to the illusion of floating in space, is sufficient to produce the
dream.
It is interesting to see that these sensations of pressure, mounting, so
to speak, to the level of our visual field and taking advantage of the
luminous dust which fills it, effect its transformation into forms and
colors. M. Max Simon tells of having a strange and somewhat painful
dream. He dreamt that he was confronted by two piles of golden
coins, side by side and of unequal height, which for some reason or
other he had to equalize. But he could not accomplish it. This
produced a feeling of extreme anguish. This feeling, growing moment
by moment, finally awakened him. He then perceived that one of his
legs was caught by the folds of the bedclothes in such a way that his
two feet were on different levels and it was impossible for him to bring
them together. From this the sensation of inequality, making an
irruption into the visual field and there encountering (such at least is
the hypothesis which I propose) one or more yellow spots, expressed
itself visually by the inequality of the two piles of gold pieces. There
is, then, immanent in the tactile sensations during sleep, a tendency
to visualize themselves and enter in this form into the dream.
More important still than the tactile sensations, properly speaking, are
the sensations which pertain to what is sometimes called internal
touch, deep-seated sensations emanating from all points of the
organism and, more particularly, from the viscera. One cannot
imagine the degree of sharpness, of acuity, which may be obtained
during sleep by these interior sensations. They doubtless already
exist as well during waking. But we are then distracted by practical
action. We live outside of ourselves. But sleep makes us retire into
ourselves. It happens frequently that persons subject to laryngitis,
amygdalitis, etc., dream that they are attacked by their affection and
experience a disagreeable tingling on the side of their throat. When
awakened, they feel nothing more, and believe it an illusion; but a
few hours later the illusion becomes a reality. There are cited
maladies and grave accidents, attacks of epilepsy, cardiac affections,
etc., which have been foreseen and, as it were, prophesied in
dreams. We need not be astonished, then, that philosophers like
Schopenhauer have seen in the dream a reverberation, in the heart of
consciousness, of perturbations emanating from the sympathetic
nervous system; and that psychologists like Schemer have attributed
to each of our organs the power of provoking a well-determined kind
of dream which represents it, as it were, symbolically; and finally that

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physicians like Artigues have written treatises on the semeiological


value of dreams, that is to say, the method of making use of dreams
for the diagnosis of certain maladies. More recently, M. Tissi, of
whom we have just spoken, has shown how specific dreams are
connected with affections of the digestive, respiratory, and circulatory
apparatus.
I will summarize what I have just been saying. When we are sleeping
naturally, it is not necessary to believe, as has often been supposed,
that our senses are closed to external sensations. Our senses
continue to be active. They act, it is true, with less precision, but in
compensation they embrace a host of "subjective" impressions which
pass unperceived when we are awakefor then we live in a world of
perceptions common to all menand which reappear in sleep, when
we live only for ourselves. Thus our faculty of sense perception, far
from being narrowed during sleep at all points, is on the contrary
extended, at least in certain directions, in its field of operations. It is
true that it often loses in energy, in tension, what it gains in extension.
It brings to us only confused impressions. These impressions are the
materials of our dreams. But they are only the materials, they do not
suffice to produce them.

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They do not suffice to produce them, because they are vague and
indeterminate. To speak only of those that play the principal rle, the
changing colors and forms, which deploy before us when our eyes
are closed, never have well-defined contours. Here are black lines
upon a white background. They may represent to the dreamer the
page of a book, or the facade of a new house with dark blinds, or any
number of other things. Who will choose? What is the form that will
imprint its decision upon the indecision of this material? This form is
our memory.
Let us note first that the dream in general creates nothing. Doubtless
there may be cited some examples of artistic, literary and scientific
production in dreams. I will recall only the well-known anecdote told
of Tartini, a violinist-composer of the eighteenth century. As he was
trying to compose a sonata and the muse remained recalcitrant, he
went to sleep and he saw in a dream the devil, who seized his violin
and played with master hand the desired sonata. Tartini wrote it out
from memory when he woke. It has come to us under the name of
"The Devil's Sonata." But it is very difficult, in regard to such old
cases, to distinguish between history and legend. We should have
auto-observations of certain authenticity. Now I have not been able to
find anything more than that of the contemporary English novelist,
Stevenson. In a very curious essay entitled "A Chapter on Dreams,"
this author, who is endowed with a rare talent for analysis, explains to
us how the most original of his stories have been composed or at
least sketched in dreams. But read the chapter carefully. You will see
that at a certain time in his life Stevenson had come to be in an

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habitual psychical state where it was very hard for him to say whether
he was sleeping or waking. That appears to me to be the truth. When
the mind creates, I would say when it is capable of giving the effort of
organization and synthesis which is necessary to triumph over a
certain difficulty, to solve a problem, to produce a living work of the
imagination, we are not really asleep, or at least that part of ourselves
which labors is not the same as that which sleeps. We cannot say,
then, that it is a dream. In sleep, properly speaking, in sleep which
absorbs our whole personality, it is memories and only memories
which weave the web of our dreams. But often we do not recognize
them. They may be very old memories, forgotten during waking
hours, drawn from the most obscure depths of our past; they may be,
often are, memories of objects that we have perceived distractedly,
almost unconsciously, while awake. Or they may be fragments of
broken memories which have been picked up here and there and
mingled by chance, composing an incoherent and unrecognizable
whole. Before these bizarre assemblages of images which present
no plausible significance, our intelligence (which is far from
surrendering the reasoning faculty during sleep, as has been
asserted) seeks an explanation, tries to fill the lacun. It fills them by
calling up other memories which, presenting themselves often with
the same deformations and the same incoherences as the preceding,
demand in their turn a new explanation, and so on indefinitely. But I
do not insist upon this point for the moment. It is sufficient for me to
say, in order to answer the question which I have propounded, that
the formative power of the materials furnished to the dream by the
different senses, the power which converts into precise, determined
objects the vague and indistinct sensations that the dreamer receives
from his eyes, his ears, and the whole surface and interior of his
body, is the memory.
Memory! In a waking state we have indeed memories which appear
and disappear, occupying our mind in turn. But they are always
memories which are closely connected with our present situation, our
present occupation, our present action. I recall at this moment the
book of M. d'Hervey on dreams; that is because I am discussing the
subject of dreams and this act orients in a certain particular direction
the activity of my memory. The memories that we evoke while
waking, however distant they may at first appear to be from the
present action, are always connected with it in some way. What is the
rle of memory in an animal? It is to recall to him, in any
circumstance, the advantageous or injurious consequences which
have formerly arisen in analogous circumstances, in order to instruct
him as to what he ought to do. In man memory is doubtless less the
slave of action, but still it sticks to it. Our memories, at any given
moment, form a solid whole, a pyramid, so to speak, whose point is
inserted precisely into our present action. But behind the memories
which are concerned in our occupations and are revealed by means
of it, there are others, thousands of others, stored below the scene

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illuminated by consciousness. Yes, I believe indeed that all our past


life is there, preserved even to the most infinitesimal details, and that
we forget nothing, and that all that we have felt, perceived, thought,
willed, from the first awakening of our consciousness, survives
indestructibly. But the memories which are preserved in these
obscure depths are there in the state of invisible phantoms. They
aspire, perhaps, to the light, but they do not even try to rise to it; they
know that it is impossible and that I, as a living and acting being,
have something else to do than to occupy myself with them. But
suppose that, at a given moment, I become disinterested in the
present situation, in the present actionin short, in all which
previously has fixed and guided my memory; suppose, in other
words, that I am asleep. Then these memories, perceiving that I have
taken away the obstacle, have raised the trapdoor which has kept
them beneath the floor of consciousness, arise from the depths; they
rise, they move, they perform in the night of unconsciousness a great
dance macabre. They rush together to the door which has been left
ajar. They all want to get through. But they cannot; there are too many
of them. From the multitudes which are called, which will be chosen?
It is not hard to say. Formerly, when I was awake, the memories
which forced their way were those which could involve claims of
relationship with the present situation, with what I saw and heard
around me. Now it is more vague images which occupy my sight,
more indecisive sounds which affect my ear, more indistinct touches
which are distributed over the surface of my body, but there are also
the more numerous sensations which arise from the deepest parts of
the organism. So, then, among the phantom memories which aspire
to fill themselves with color, with sonority, in short with materiality, the
only ones that succeed are those which can assimilate themselves
with the color-dust that we perceive, the external and internal
sensations that we catch, etc., and which, besides, respond to the

[Pg 34]

[Pg 35]

affective tone of our general sensibility.[1] When this union is effected


between the memory and the sensation, we have a dream.
In a poetic page of the Enneades, the philosopher Plotinus,
interpreter and continuator of Plato, explains to us how men come to
life. Nature, he says, sketches the living bodies, but sketches them
only. Left to her own forces she can never complete the task. On the
other hand, souls inhabit the world of Ideas. Incapable in themselves
of acting, not even thinking of action, they float beyond space and
beyond time. But, among all the bodies, there are some which
specially respond by their form to the aspirations of some particular
souls; and among these souls there are those which recognize
themselves in some particular body. The body, which does not come
altogether viable from the hand of nature, rises toward the soul which
might give it complete life; and the soul, looking upon the body and
believing that it perceives its own image as in a mirror, and attracted,
fascinated by the image, lets itself fall. It falls, and this fall is life. I may

[Pg 36]

compare to these detached souls the memories plunged in the


obscurity of the unconscious. On the other hand, our nocturnal
sensations resemble these incomplete bodies. The sensation is
warm, colored, vibrant and almost living, but vague. The memory is
complete, but airy and lifeless. The sensation wishes to find a form on
which to mold the vagueness of its contours. The memory would
obtain matter to fill it, to ballast it, in short to realize it. They are drawn
toward each other; and the phantom memory, incarnated in the
sensation which brings to it flesh and blood, becomes a being with a
life of its own, a dream.
The birth of a dream is then no mystery. It resembles the birth of all
our perceptions. The mechanism of the dream is the same, in
general, as that of normal perception. When we perceive a real
object, what we actually seethe sensible matter of our perception
is very little in comparison with what our memory adds to it. When you
read a book, when you look through your newspaper, do you
suppose that all the printed letters really come into your
consciousness? In that case the whole day would hardly be long
enough for you to read a paper. The truth is that you see in each word
and even in each member of a phrase only some letters or even
some characteristic marks, just enough to permit you to divine the
rest. All of the rest, that you think you see, you really give yourself as
an hallucination. There are numerous and decisive experiments
which leave no doubt on this point. I will cite only those of
Goldscheider and Mller. These experimenters wrote or printed some
formulas in common use, "Positively no admission;" "Preface to the
fourth edition," etc. But they took care to write the words incorrectly,
changing and, above all, omitting letters. These sentences were
exposed in a darkened room. The person who served as the subject
of the experiment was placed before them and did not know, of
course, what had been written. Then the inscription was illuminated
by the electric light for a very short time, too short for the observer to
be able to perceive really all the letters. They began by determining
experimentally the time necessary for seeing one letter of the
alphabet. It was then easy to arrange it so that the observer could not
perceive more than eight or ten letters, for example, of the thirty or
forty letters composing the formula. Usually, however, he read the
entire phrase without difficulty. But that is not for us the most
instructive point of this experiment.
If the observer is asked what are the letters that he is sure of having
seen, these may be, of course, the letters really written, but there may
be also absent letters, either letters that we replaced by others or that
have simply been omitted. Thus an observer will see quite distinctly
in full light a letter which does not exist, if this letter, on account of the
general sense, ought to enter into the phrase. The characters which
have really affected the eye have been utilized only to serve as an
indication to the unconscious memory of the observer. This memory,

[Pg 37]

[Pg 38]

[Pg 39]

discovering the appropriate remembrance, i.e., finding the formula to


which these characters give a start toward realization, projects the
remembrance externally in an hallucinatory form. It is this
remembrance, and not the words themselves, that the observer has
seen. It is thus demonstrated that rapid reading is in great part a work
of divination, but not of abstract divination. It is an externalization of
memories which take advantage, to a certain extent, of the partial
realization that they find here and there in order to completely realize
themselves.
Thus, in the waking state and in the knowledge that we get of the real
objects which surround us, an operation is continually going on
which is of quite the same nature as that of the dream. We perceive
merely a sketch of the object. This sketch appeals to the complete
memory, and this complete memory, which by itself was either
unconscious or simply in the thought state, profits by the occasion to
come out. It is this kind of hallucination, inserted and fitted into a real
frame, that we perceive. It is a shorter process: it is very much quicker
done than to see the thing itself. Besides, there are many interesting
observations to be made upon the conduct and attitude of the
memory images during this operation. It is not necessary to suppose
that they are in our memory in a state of inert impressions. They are
like the steam in a boiler, under more or less tension.
At the moment when the perceived sketch calls them forth, it is as if
they were then grouped in families according to their relationship and
resemblances. There are experiments of Mnsterberg, earlier than
those of Goldscheider and Mller, which appear to me to confirm this
hypothesis, although they were made for a very different purpose.
Mnsterberg wrote the words correctly; they were, besides, not
common phrases; they were isolated words taken by chance. Here
again the word was exposed during the time too short for it to be
entirely perceived. Now, while the observer was looking at the written
word, some one spoke in his ear another word of a very different
significance. This is what happened: the observer declared that he
had seen a word which was not the written word, but which
resembled it in its general form, and which besides recalled, by its
meaning, the word which was spoken in his ear. For example, the
word written was "tumult" and the word spoken was "railroad." The
observer read "tunnel." The written word was "Trieste" and the
spoken word was the German "Verzweiflung" (despair). The observer
read "Trost," which signifies "consolation." It is as if the word
"railroad," pronounced in the ear, wakened, without our knowing it,
hopes of conscious realization in a crowd of memories which have
some relationship with the idea of "railroad" (car, rail, trip, etc.). But
this is only a hope, and the memory which succeeds in coming into
consciousness is that which the actually present sensation had
already begun to realize.

[Pg 40]

[Pg 41]

[Pg 42]

Such is the mechanism of true perception, and such is that of the


dream. In both cases there are, on one hand, real impressions made
upon the organs of sense, and upon the other memories which
encase themselves in the impression and profit by its vitality to return
again to life.

[Pg 43]

But, then, what is the essential difference between perceiving and


dreaming? What is sleep? I do not ask, of course, how sleep can be
explained physiologically. That is a special question, and besides is
far from being settled. I ask what is sleep psychologically; for our
mind continues to exercise itself when we are asleep, and it
exercises itself as we have just seen on elements analogous to those
of waking, on sensations and memories; and also in an analogous
manner combines them. Nevertheless we have on the one hand
normal perception, and on the other the dream. What is the
difference, I repeat? What are the psychological characteristics of the
sleeping state?
We must distrust theories. There are a great many of them on this
point. Some say that sleep consists in isolating oneself from the
external world, in closing the senses to outside things. But we have
shown that our senses continue to act during sleep, that they provide
us with the outline, or at least the point of departure, of most of our
dreams. Some say: "To go to sleep is to stop the action of the
superior faculties of the mind," and they talk of a kind of momentary
paralysis of the higher centers. I do not think that this is much more
exact. In a dream we become no doubt indifferent to logic, but not
incapable of logic. There are dreams when we reason with
correctness and even with subtlety. I might almost say, at the risk of
seeming paradoxical, that the mistake of the dreamer is often in
reasoning too much. He would avoid the absurdity if he would remain
a simple spectator of the procession of images which compose his
dream. But when he strongly desires to explain it, his explanation,
intended to bind together incoherent images, can be nothing more
than a bizarre reasoning which verges upon absurdity. I recognize,
indeed, that our superior intellectual faculties are relaxed in sleep,
that generally the logic of a dreamer is feeble enough and often
resembles a mere parody of logic. But one might say as much of all of
our faculties during sleep. It is then not by the abolition of reasoning,
any more than by the closing of the senses, that we characterize
dreaming.
Something else is essential. We need something more than theories.
We need an intimate contact with the facts. One must make the
decisive experiment upon oneself. It is necessary that on coming out
of a dream, since we cannot analyze ourselves in the dream itself, we
should watch the transition from sleeping to waking, follow upon the
transition as closely as possible, and try to express by words what we
experience in this passage. This is very difficult, but may be

[Pg 44]

[Pg 45]

accomplished by forcing the attention. Permit, then, the writer to take


an example from his own personal experience, and to tell of a recent
dream as well as what was accomplished on coming out of the
dream.
Now the dreamer dreamed that he was speaking before an assembly,
that he was making a political speech before a political assembly.
Then in the midst of the auditorium a murmur rose. The murmur
augmented; it became a muttering. Then it became a roar, a frightful
tumult, and finally there resounded from all parts timed to a uniform
rhythm the cries, "Out! Out!" At that moment he wakened. A dog was
baying in a neighboring garden, and with each one of his "Wowwows" one of the cries of "Out! Out!" seemed to be identical. Well,
here was the infinitesimal moment which it is necessary to seize.
The waking ego, just reappearing, should turn to the dreaming ego,
which is still there, and, during some instants at least, hold it without
letting it go. "I have caught you at it! You thought it was a crowd
shouting and it was a dog barking. Now, I shall not let go of you until
you tell me just what you were doing!" To which the dreaming ego
would answer, "I was doing nothing; and this is just where you and I
differ from one another. You imagine that in order to hear a dog
barking, and to know that it is a dog that barks, you have nothing to
do. That is a great mistake. You accomplish, without suspecting it, a
considerable effort. You take your entire memory, all your
accumulated experience, and you bring this formidable mass of
memories to converge upon a single point, in such a way as to insert
exactly in the sounds you heard that one of your memories which is
the most capable of being adapted to it. Nay, you must obtain a
perfect adherence, for between the memory that you evoke and the
crude sensation that you perceive there must not be the least
discrepancy; otherwise you would be just dreaming. This adjustment
you can only obtain by an effort of the memory and an effort of the
perception, just as the tailor who is trying on a new coat pulls together
the pieces of cloth that he adjusts to the shape of your body in order
to pin them. You exert, then, continually, every moment of the day, an
enormous effort. Your life in a waking state is a life of labor, even
when you think you are doing nothing, for at every minute you have to
choose and every minute exclude. You choose among your
sensations, since you reject from your consciousness a thousand
subjective sensations which come back in the night when you sleep.
You choose, and with extreme precision and delicacy, among your
memories, since you reject all that do not exactly suit your present
state. This choice which you continually accomplish, this adaptation,
ceaselessly renewed, is the first and most essential condition of what
is called common sense. But all this keeps you in a state of
uninterrupted tension. You do not feel it at the moment, any more than
you feel the pressure of the atmosphere, but it fatigues you in the long
run. Common sense is very fatiguing.

[Pg 46]

[Pg 47]

[Pg 48]

"So, I repeat, I differ from you precisely in that I do nothing. The effort
that you give without cessation I simply abstain from giving. In place
of attaching myself to life, I detach myself from it. Everything has
become indifferent to me. I have become disinterested in everything.
To sleep is to become disinterested. One sleeps to the exact extent to
which he becomes disinterested. A mother who sleeps by the side of
her child will not stir at the sound of thunder, but the sigh of the child
will wake her. Does she really sleep in regard to her child? We do not
sleep in regard to what continues to interest us.

[Pg 49]

"You ask me what it is that I do when I dream? I will tell you what you
do when you are awake. You take me, the me of dreams, me the
totality of your past, and you force me, by making me smaller and
smaller, to fit into the little circle that you trace around your present
action. That is what it is to be awake. That is what it is to live the
normal psychical life. It is to battle. It is to will. As for the dream, have
you really any need that I should explain it? It is the state into which
you naturally fall when you let yourself go, when you no longer have
the power to concentrate yourself upon a single point, when you have
ceased to will. What needs much more to be explained is the
marvelous mechanism by which at any moment your will obtains
instantly, and almost unconsciously, the concentration of all that you
have within you upon one and the same point, the point that interests
you. But to explain this is the task of normal psychology, of the
psychology of waking, for willing and waking are one and the same
thing."
This is what the dreaming ego would say. And it would tell us a great
many other things still if we could let it talk freely. But let us sum up
briefly the essential difference which separates a dream from the
waking state. In the dream the same faculties are exercised as during
waking, but they are in a state of tension in the one case, and of
relaxation in the other. The dream consists of the entire mental life
minus the tension, the effort and the bodily movement. We perceive
still, we remember still, we reason still. All this can abound in the
dream; for abundance, in the domain of the mind, does not mean
effort. What requires an effort is the precision of adjustment. To
connect the sound of a barking dog with the memory of a crowd that
murmurs and shouts requires no effort. But in order that this sound
should be perceived as the barking of a dog, a positive effort must be
made. It is this force that the dreamer lacks. It is by that, and by that
alone, that he is distinguished from the waking man.
From this essential difference can be drawn a great many others. We
can come to understand the chief characteristics of the dream. But I
can only outline the scheme of this study. It depends especially upon
three points, which are: the incoherence of dreams, the abolition of
the sense of duration that often appears to be manifested in dreams,
and, finally, the order in which the memories present themselves to

[Pg 50]

[Pg 51]

the dreamer, contending for the sensations present where they are to
be embodied.
The incoherence of the dream seems to me easy enough to explain.
As it is characteristic of the dream not to demand a complete
adjustment between the memory image and the sensation, but, on the
contrary, to allow some play between them, very different memories
can suit the same sensation. For example, there may be in the field of
vision a green spot with white points. This might be a lawn spangled
with white flowers. It might be a billiard-table with its balls. It might be
a host of other things besides. These different memory images, all
capable of utilizing the same sensation, chase after it. Sometimes
they attain it, one after the other. And so the lawn becomes a billiardtable, and we watch these extraordinary transformations. Often it is at
the same time, and altogether that these memory images join the
sensation, and then the lawn will be a billiard-table. From this come
those absurd dreams where an object remains as it is and at the
same time becomes something else. As I have just said, the mind,
confronted by these absurd visions, seeks an explanation and often
thereby aggravates the incoherence.
As for the abolition of the sense of time in many of our dreams, that is
another effect of the same cause. In a few seconds a dream can
present to us a series of events which will occupy, in the waking
state, entire days. You know the example cited by M. Maury: it has
become classic, and although it has been contested of late, I regard it
as probable, because of the great number of analogous observations
that I found scattered through the literature of dreams. But this
precipitation of the images is not at all mysterious. When we are
awake we live a life in common with our fellows. Our attention to this
external and social life is the great regulator of the succession of our
internal states. It is like the balance wheel of a watch, which
moderates and cuts into regular sections the undivided, almost
instantaneous tension of the spring. It is this balance wheel which is
lacking in the dream. Acceleration is no more than abundance a sign
of force in the domain of the mind. It is, I repeat, the precision of
adjustment that requires effort, and this is exactly what the dreamer
lacks. He is no longer capable of that attention to life which is
necessary in order that the inner may be regulated by the outer, and
that the internal duration fit exactly into the general duration of things.
It remains now to explain how the peculiar relaxation of the mind in
the dream accounts for the preference given by the dreamer to one
memory image rather than others, equally capable of being inserted
into the actual sensations. There is a current prejudice to the effect
that we dream mostly about the events which have especially
preoccupied us during the day. This is sometimes true. But when the
psychological life of the waking state thus prolongs itself into sleep, it
is because we hardly sleep. A sleep filled with dreams of this kind

[Pg 52]

[Pg 53]

[Pg 54]

would be a sleep from which we come out quite fatigued. In normal


sleep our dreams concern themselves rather, other things being
equal, with the thoughts which we have passed through rapidly or
upon objects which we have perceived almost without paying
attention to them. If we dream about events of the same day, it is the
most insignificant facts, and not the most important, which have the
best chance of reappearing.
I agree entirely on this point with the observation of W. Robert, of
Delage and of Freud. I was in the street, I was waiting for a street-car,
I stood beside the track and did not run the least risk. But if, at the
moment when the street-car passed, the idea of possible danger had
crossed my mind or even if my body had instinctively recoiled without
my having been conscious of feeling any fear, I might dream that
night that the car had run over my body. I watch at the bedside of an
invalid whose condition is hopeless. If at any moment, perhaps
without even being aware of it, I had hoped against hope, I might
dream that the invalid was cured. I should dream of the cure, in any
case, more probably than that I should dream of the disease. In short,
the events which reappear by preference in the dream are those of
which we have thought most distractedly. What is there astonishing
about that? The ego of the dream is an ego that is relaxed; the
memories which it gathers most readily are the memories of
relaxation and distraction, those which do not bear the mark of effort.
It is true that in very profound slumber the law that regulates the
reappearance of memories may be very different. We know almost
nothing of this profound slumber. The dreams which fill it are, as a
general rule, the dreams which we forget. Sometimes, nevertheless,
we recover something of them. And then it is a very peculiar feeling,
strange, indescribable, that we experience. It seems to us that we
have returned from afar in space and afar in time. These are
doubtless very old scenes, scenes of youth or infancy that we live
over then in all their details, with a mood which colors them with that
fresh sensation of infancy and youth that we seek vainly to revive
when awake.
It is upon this profound slumber that psychology ought to direct its
efforts, not only to study the mechanism of unconscious memory, but
to examine the more mysterious phenomena which are raised by
"psychical research." I do not dare express an opinion upon
phenomena of this class, but I cannot avoid attaching some
importance to the observations gathered by so rigorous a method and
with such indefatigable zeal by the Society for Psychical Research. If
telepathy influences our dreams, it is quite likely that in this profound
slumber it would have the greatest chance to manifest itself. But I
repeat, I cannot express an opinion upon this point. I have gone
forward with you as far as I can; I stop upon the threshold of the
mystery. To explore the most secret depths of the unconscious, to

[Pg 55]

[Pg 56]

labor in what I have just called the subsoil of consciousness, that will
be the principal task of psychology in the century which is opening. I
do not doubt that wonderful discoveries await it there, as important
perhaps as have been in the preceding centuries the discoveries of
the physical and natural sciences. That at least is the promise which I
make for it, that is the wish that in closing I have for it.

FOOTNOTES:
[1]

Author's note (1913). This would be the place where


especially will intervene those "repressed desires"
which Freud and certain other psychologists,
especially in America, have studied with such
penetration and ingenuity. (See in particular the
recent volumes of the Journal of Abnormal
Psychology, published in Boston by Dr. Morton
Prince.) When the above address was delivered
(1901) the work of Freud on dreams (Die
Traumdeutung) had been already published, but
"psycho-analysis" was far from having the
development that it has to-day. (H. B.)

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