VOLUME 2. Novelty, Excitement, and Growth

Part 3. Theory of the Self

XI. Critique of psychoanalytic. Theories of the self.

1: Critique of a Theory that Makes the Self Otiose

The self-function is the figure/background process in boundary-contacts in the organism/environment field. This conception is so available in both ordinary and clinical experience and is also so useful for therapy that we are confronted with the problem of why it is disregarded or overlooked altogether in the current theories. In this chapter, then, let us discuss the shortcomings of these theories of consciousness (generally advanced as Theory of the Ego). Later (Chapter 13) we shall see that the self-function is more adequately treated by Freud himself, except that, because of a faulty theory of repression, he assigns its creative work mostly to the unconscious.

The difficulties of the orthodox theories begin when they distinguish between the healthy consciousness and the diseased consciousness; for the healthy consciousness is regarded as otiose—dynamically otiose in the theory and, therefore, practically otiose in the therapy—it does nothing. It is only the diseased consciousness that is effective and attended to in order to put it out of the way.

Consider the following passage from Anna Freud’s The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense:

“When the relations between the two neighboring powers—ego and id—are peaceful, the former fulfills to admiration its role of observing the latter. Different instinctual impulses are perpetually forcing their way from the id into the ego, where they gain access to the motor system by means of which they attain gratification. In favorable cases the ego does not object to the intruder but puts its own energies at the other’s disposal, and confines itself to perceiving. . . . The ego, if it assents to the impulse, does not enter into the picture at all.”³⁰

In this passage, first, of course, there is an important truth: the impulse assumes dominance by organismic-self-regulation, without deliberate effort; there is an identification with what is given. (In our terms, the ego is a progressing stage of the self-function.) But what a peculiar use of words to say the impulse “forces its way” as an “intruder,” and the ego does “not object,” as if in favorable circumstances there were not a unitary process of the self as the ground. And so everywhere in the passage the cart is put before the horse: instead of beginning from a pre-differentiated contact of perception-motion-feeling which then develops as the obstacles and problems become more definite, it is necessary for the ego to “put its energies at the other’s disposal,” etc.; but in fact one could not show an “impulse” that was not also a perception and a muscular motion.

One is at a loss to conceive the relation of organism and environment that is implied by “the ego confines itself to perceiving,” to being aware, and “otherwise does not enter into the picture.” Awareness is not otiose; it is orientation, appreciating and approaching, choosing a technique; and it is everywhere in functional interplay with manipulation and the mounting excitement of closer contact. The perceptions are not mere perceptions; they brighten and sharpen, and attract. Throughout the process there is discovery and invention, not looking on; for although the need of the organism is conservative, the gratification of the need can only come from the novelty in the environment: the id-function more and more becomes ego-function up to the point of final contact and release, just the opposite of what Miss Freud asserts. It is precisely in favorable circumstances, when the id and the ego are in harmony, that the creative work of awareness is most manifest, not “out of the picture.” For suppose that this were not the case: why, functionally, should the awareness be necessary at all? Why could not the gratification occur and the tension be released while the animal is vegetating in a dreamless sleep? But it is because contacting the novel present requires a unified functioning of the powers.

Let us cite another passage to show how this theoretical error of the otiose awareness-system is baneful for therapy. The context of Anna Freud’s book—a book, by the way, that is a valuable contribution—is as follows: consciousness is what is most available for treatment; it is the fixed “ego-defenses” that constitute the neurosis.

With these theses we of course agree (though we should speak of ego-aggressions rather than ego-defenses). And the problem, as she sees it, is how to catch the ego at work. This cannot be in a healthy situation, she argues, for then the ego is otiose. Nor can it be when the ego is successfully “defensive,” for then its mechanism is hidden, the impulse is repressed. But, c.g.,

“Reaction-formation—a neurotic ego-mechanism—can best be studied when such formations are in process of disintegration. . . . For a time instinctual impulse and reaction-formation are visible within the ego side by side. Owing to another function of the ego—its tendency to synthesis—this condition of affairs which is particularly favorable for analytic observation, lasts only for a few moments at a time."³¹

Notice, here, that the “tendency to synthesis” is called “another” function of the available ego, mentioned in parentheses at the end of the chapter; but this tendency is what Kant, for instance, judged to be the essence of the empirical ego, the synthetic unity of apperception, and it is what we have been considering to be the chief work of the self, gestalt-formation. In this passage, however, this synthetic tendency is regarded as an unfortunate obstacle to the observation of—what? of the Ego! Clearly by ego, here, Miss Freud means not the awareness-system at all, but the neurotic unaware deliberateness; yet this is not the consciousness that is most available for treatment, enlisting the cooperation of the patient. The alternative is what we have been suggesting all along, to analyze precisely the structure of the syntheses: for the patient to concentrate on how his figures are incomplete, distorted, awkward, feeble, obscure, and to let them develop to more completeness not by circumventing the synthetic tendency but by mobilizing more of it; in this process anxiety is aroused and conflicts emerge, and at the same time the patient is progressively in a position to cope with the anxiety, so it again becomes breathing excitement. Thus the theory of the self develops directly with the therapy of the self. But in the orthodox conception, the opposite is the case: by not concentrating on the patient’s integrative power, but tricking it out of the way as much as possible, the analyst learns something about what the patient would be like if he were completely disoriented and paralyzed. What then? Will the analyst then put together the patient from the disparate parts? But this must be done by the patient's integrative power. But not only has the analyst not called this into exercise at all, and has weakened it as much as he can, but he still knows nothing about it.

A theory that makes the awareness-system practically otiose and even an obstacle gives a false picture of the healthy situation and does not help in the neurotic situation.

2: Critique of a Theory that Isolates the Self in Fixed Boundaries

Most of the orthodox theories of awareness are on the previous pattern. Less typical is Paul Federn’s theory of the ego and its boundaries. (The following quotations are from a paper on The Mental Hygiene of the Psychotic Ego.) In this theory the ego is not otiose, it acts and is felt as an existent synthetic unity.

“The ego consists in the feeling of unity, contiguity, and continuity of the individual’s body and mind in the proprioception of one’s individuality . . . The ego is a functional cathexis unit, changing with every actual thought and perception, but retaining the same feeling of its existence in distinct boundaries.”³²

And again, Dr. Federn warns of the error of the otiose:

“The temptation to believe that one presents ego psychology by using the word ‘ego’ instead of ‘personality’ or ‘individual’ . . . Any tautological terminology easily serves self-deception. We must bear in mind that the ego is a specific psychosomatic unit cathected with mental energy.”³³

And Dr. Federn shows how to use this energetic unit in therapy. For instance, specific operating awareness-functions, such as abstract-symbolic conceptual thinking, may be weakened (in schizophrenia); and the therapy consists in strengthening them by exercises of the ego.

So far so good. But the difficulty with this conception is this: if the contact-system is essentially (rather than sometimes and as a special structure) the proprioception of one’s individuality within distinct boundaries, then how possibly does one get into contact with a reality outside the boundaries? The difficulty confronts us squarely in the following formulation of Dr. Federn's:

“Whatsoever is mere thought is due to a mental process lying inside the mental and physical boundary; whatsoever has the connotation of being real lies outside the mental and physical ego-boundary.”

In the present state of philosophy, this kind of formulation seems perfectly reasonable, but it is absurd. For how does one become aware of the distinction between the inside and the outside, the “thought” and the “real”? Is it not by awareness? Therefore in some way the system of awareness must directly contact the “external” real; the self-sense must go beyond the proprioception of one’s individuality. (We have been arguing, of course, that the essence of contact is being in touch with the situation; the self-function is a function of the field.) The problem is an ancient one; how, awake, do you know that you were dreaming and are not now dreaming? And the answer must still be the classical one: it is not by a special “connotation” of “reality,” as if reality were a detachable quality, but by integrating more awareness into the actual situation, more consistency, more body-feeling, and especially in this case more deliberate muscularity. (You pinch yourself to see if you are awake; not that you may not be dreaming also of pinching yourself, but that this is more evidence, and if all the available evidence of this kind coheres, it makes no difference whether you are awake or dreaming anyway.) If the doctor were also to speak of motor- behavior as part of the ego-sense, as well as of perception and proprioception, the absurdity would become patent, for then the “body” of the individual could not be bounded from the other things of the environment.

Let us see how, dynamically, one comes to Dr. Federn’s plausible picture. Consider the following propositions:

“The mental and the bodily ego are felt separately, but in the wake state always in such a way that the mental ego is experienced to be inside the body ego.”

Certainly not always. A situation of strong interest looms in awareness much larger than the felt body, the body is felt as pan of it, or it is not the “body” that is felt at all, but the object-in-its situation qualified by the bodily appetite. A.t such a moment the body is felt as small and turned outward toward the interest. But what the author is likely thinking of is the moment of introspection; and it is true that in this act the “mind” is inside the “body”—especially if the body resists being background and looms bored, restive, itching.

We can now appreciate the formulation:

“The ego as subject is known by the pronoun ‘I’ and as object it is called ‘the self.’ ”

This is reasonable language if the observational technique is introspection, for then the “mental” ego is active and the “mental” and “bodily” self is passive; and since the body-awareness is not controllable—unless the introspection turns into a lively fantasy—the object body-feeling is larger than the introspective subject. But let us consider the logic of such language for general usage: The body-awareness is not active, in introspection; what then, is it “I”’ or not? If the body-awareness is “I,” then the self is not mere object, and the “I” is in part not subject. If the body-awareness is not “I,” then there is a system of awareness beyond the ego’s scrutiny (namely the awareness that is not introspection), and what then becomes of the unity? Both the conclusions happen to be true and both are incompatible with Federn’s theory. Fortunately, the true underlying unity can be demonstrated by a simple experiment: introspecting, try to include as objects of the acting “1” more and more pieces of the larger passive body-self; gradually, then all at once, the mind and body will coalesce, “I” and self will merge, the distinction of subject and object will disappear, and the aware self will touch the reality as perception or interest in some “external” problem, without the intervention of “mere” thoughts.

That is, the self, aware in middle mode, bursts the compartmenting of mind, body, and external world. Must we not conclude that for the theory of the self and its relation to the “I,” introspection is a poor primary method of observation, for it creates a peculiar condition? We must begin by exploring a wide range of concernful situations and behaviors. Then if we resume the introspection, the true situation is apparent: that the introspecting ego is a deliberate restrictive attitude of the psycho-somatic awareness, temporarily excluding the environmental awareness and making the body-awareness a passive object.

When this deliberate restricting is unaware (when the ego-function of alienation is neurotic), then there is the sense of a fixed boundary of the self, and of an isolated active center. But this existence is created by the attitude. And then, too, we have “mere” thoughts emptied of “reality.” But in the context of aware introspection, the thoughts are reality: they are the actual situation when excluding the environment; and then the bounded self and its active center are a good gestalt.

But in general, the aware self does not have fixed boundaries; it exists in each case by contacting some actual situation and is limited by the context of concern, by the dominant interest and the consequent identifications and alienations.

3: Comparison of the Above Theories

The discussion of the above theories brings to light the opposite dilemmas in the usual modem psychologies:

(a) Like Anna Freud, one saves the functional field, the interplay of organism and environment (instinct and gratification), but one makes otiose the synthetic power of the self.

Or (b) like Federn, one saves the synthetic power of the self by cutting off the self (thoughts) from the environment (reality).

But these dilemmas are soluble if we bear in mind that what is primarily given is a unified ground of perceptive, motoric, and feeling functions and that the self-function is a creative adjustment in the organism/environment field.

We can now tackle the question proposed in the beginning of this chapter: how is it that the self-function is so grossly misconceived and that, as is notorious, the theory of the ego is the least developed part of psychoanalysis? Let us mention four interrelated causes:

(1) The philosophic climate compartmenting mind, body, external world.

(2) The social fear of creative spontaneity.

(3) The history of the division between depth and general psychology.

(4) The active and passive techniques of psychotherapy. These causes have conspired to produce the customary dilemmas of the ego-theory.

4: Philosophic Compartments

The method of psychology has been, classically, to proceed from the objects of experience to the acts to the powers, the last being the proper subject-matter—e.g., from the nature of the visible to the actuality of sight to the power of seeing as part of the organic soul. This is a reasonable sequence, from the observable to the inferred. But if the experiencing happens to be neurotic, a curious difficulty rises: abnormal powers give distorted acts and these give defective objects, and then if we proceed from this defectively-experienced world we shall mistakenly infer the powers of experience, and the mistakes reinforce one another, in a vicious circle.

We saw in Chapter 3 how the reaction to epidemic chronic low-grade emergency is to perceive a world of compartmented Mind, Body, and External World. Now the objects of such an external world are such as require to be pushed about by an aggressive will (rather than interacted with in a process of growth), and cognitively they are alien, fragmented etc., such as to be known only by an elaborate abstract ratiocination. The self inferred as experiencing such objects would be the deliberate ego we have been describing. But this inference is reinforced by the fact that the chronic hypertonus of unaware muscularity, the over-alert perception, and the diminished proprioception produce a sense of willing and exaggerated consciousness: the essential self as the isolated deliberate ego. Likewise in the relation of Mind and Body: the self-conquering aggression keeps down the appetites and anxieties; medical observation and theory exfoliate in the direction of invasion by external poisons and microbes; and medical practice consists of sterile hygiene, chemical cures, vitamins, and analgesics. The factors of depression, tension, and susceptibility are overlooked. So in general, behavior that does not count on the unity of the field prevents the emergence of evidence against the current theory. There is little apparent creativity, contact is lacking, and energy seems to come from “within,” and the parts of the gestalt seem to be “in the mind.”

Then, given this theory (and feeling) of the isolated active ego, consider the problem that confronts a physician. If the synthetic power of the ego is taken seriously with regard to the physiological functioning, there is an end to organismic-self-regulation, for the ego will intervene rather than accept and develop; but interference with self-regulation produces psychosomatic disease; therefore, theoretically and practically, in comparative health the ego is treated as otiose, an onlooker. And this is proved by the fact that the isolated ego indeed lacks energy, does not count for much. Likewise, if the synthetic power of the ego is taken seriously with regard to the reality, we have the world of the psychotic, a world of projections, rationalizations, and dreams; therefore, in comparative health a final distinction is made between “mere” thoughts and the “real”; the ego is fixed in its bounds.

It is interesting to notice what occurs when one part of the philosophic compartmenting is dissolved, but not the other part. Both in theory and therapy. Wilhelm Reich has completely reestablished the psychosomatic unity; but despite certain concessions to the plain evidence, he fundamentally still regards the animal as functioning inside its skin—e.g., the orgasm is compared with the pulsation in a bladder; the “organism” is not taken as an abstraction from the existing field. What then occurs in his theory? At the boundary, contact-situations are seen as contradictory drives, and to find their unity one cannot look to the creative synthesis of the self but must leave the socio-biological surface and explore in the biological depths; all human energy comes “from inside.” The possibility of a creative solution of the surface contradictions, e.g., in culture or politics, is more and more despaired of (but of course this despair has been one of the causes of the theoretical retreat from the surface). In therapy, the method comes in the end merely to trying to awaken the oracles of the body. The creative power of the self is assigned completely to the non-conscious organismic-self-regulation, against all the evidence of the humane sciences, art, history, etc. But then, secondarily, overleaping the boundary of contact, the repressed unity of the field is abstractly projected into the heavens and everywhere, as a bio-physical power, directly energizing (and directly attacking) the organism from “without.” And this abstraction and projection—the “orgone theory”—is accompanied by the usual obsessional scientific positivism. (This is not to say that Reich’s biophysical force is necessarily an illusion, for much projection in fact hits the mark; but what is an illusion is the notion that such a force, if it exists, can be directly effective without going through the channels of ordinary human assimilation and growth.)

On the other hand, suppose the compartmenting of the social environment is dissolved but the psychosomatic unity is not grasped bur is paid only lip-service. We then come to the view of the interpersonal theorists (the Washington school, Fromm, Horney, etc.). These reduce the self to what we have above called the Personality, and then—astonishingly but inevitably—they tell us that much of the biological nature is neurotic and “infantile.” But their construction lacks vitality and originality; and just where one would hope they would be at their best, as inventive and revolutionary social initiators, we find their social philosophy to be a peculiarly tasteless hall of mirrors of the free but empty Personalities.

5: Social Fear of Creativity

So much for the splittings in the field, the ground of contact. Let us now turn to the gestalt-forming in the field, the spontaneity of the self.

As we tried to show in Chapter 6, there is an epidemic fear of spontaneity; it is the “infantile” par excellence, for it does not take into account the so-called “reality”; it is irresponsible. But let us consider the social behavior in a usual political issue, and see what these terms mean. There is an issue, a problem; and there are opposing parties: the terms in which the problem is stated are taken from the policies, vested interests, and history of these parties, and these are considered to be the only possible approaches to the problem. The parties are not constituted from the reality of the problem (except in great revolutionary moments), but the problem is thought to be “real” only if stated in the accepted framework. But in fact neither of the opposing policies spontaneously recommends itself as a real solution of the real problem; and one is therefore continually confronted with a choice of the “lesser of two evils.” Naturally such a choice does not excite enthusiasm or initiative. This is what is called being “realistic.”

The creative approach to a difficulty is just the opposite: it tries to advance the problem to a different level by discovering or inventing sonic new third approach that is essential to the issue and that spontaneously recommends itself. (This then would be the policy and the party.) Whenever the choice is merely and exclusively the “lesser evil,” without envisaging the truly satisfactory, it is likely that there is not a real conflict but the mask of a real conflict that no-one wants to envisage. Our social problems are usually posed to conceal the real conflicts and prevent the real solutions—for these might require grave risks and changes. If a man, however, spontaneously expresses his real irk, or simple common sense, and aims at a creative adjustment of the issue, he is called escapist, impractical, utopian, unrealistic. It is the accepted way of posing the problem, and not the problem, that is taken for the “reality.” We may observe this behavior in families, in politics, in the universities, in the professions. (So, afterwards, we notice how past eras, whose social forms we have outgrown, seem to have been so stupid in some respects. We now see that there was no reason why a spontaneous approach, or a little more common sense, could not easily have solved their problems, prevented a disastrous war, etc., etc. Except that, as history shows, whatever fresh approach was at that time suggested, was simply not “real.”)

Most of the reality of the Reality-principle consists of these social illusions, and it is maintained by self-conquest. This is obvious if we consider that in the natural sciences and in technology, where they are at their best, every kind of guess, wish, hope, and project is entertained without the least guilt or anxiety; the real subject- matter is not “conformed to” but is observed with fascination and experimented on with temerity. But in other affairs (where face must be saved) we have the following circle: the Reality-principle makes creative spontaneity otiose, dangerous, or psychotic; the repressed excitement is turned more aggressively against the creative self; and the “reality” of the norm then is experienced as real indeed.

The most dismal timidity is not the fear of instinct nor of doing injury, but the fear of doing something in a new way of one’s own; or to omit doing it if one is not really interested. But people consult manuals, authorities, newspaper-columnists, informed opinion. What picture of the self will one then draw? It is not even assimilative, no less creative; it is introjective, additive, and regurgitating.

6: The Fine Arts in Analytic Theory

A beautiful example of the blotting out of spontaneity from analytic theory may be observed in the treatment of the fine arts and poetry, just where one would expect to find creative spontaneity in the foreground.

Long ago Freud declared that psychoanalysis could deal with the themes that artists chose and with the blocks to their creativity (these are the topics of his Leonardo), but not with the creative inspiration, which was mysterious, nor with the technique, which was the domain of art-history and art-criticism. This dictum has since for the most part been adhered to (not always with the humanistic grace with which Freud made it); and when it has not been adhered to, the result has been to make of art a peculiarly virulent neurotic symptom.³⁴ Yet what an extraordinary conception it is! For theme and inhibition belong to every activity whatever; it is just the creative force and the technique that make the artist and poet; so that the so-called psychology of art is the psychology of everything but particularly not art.

But let us consider just these two forbidden subjects and especially the technique. To the artist, of course, technique, style, is everything: he feels creativity as his natural excitement and his interest in the rheme (which he gets from “outside,” that is, from the unfinished situations of the past and from the day’s events); but the technique is his way of forming the real to be more real; it occupies the foreground of his awareness, perception, manipulation. The style is himself, it is what he exhibits and communicates: style and not banal repressed wishes nor the news of the day. (That the formal technique is primarily what communicates is, of course, obvious from the Rorschach or other projective tests. Surely it is not Cezanne’s apples that are interesting—though they are by no means irrelevant—but his handling and what he makes of, precisely, apples.)

The working up of the real surface, the transformation of the apparent or inchoate theme in the material medium, is the creativity. In this process there is no mystery at all, except the merely verbal mystery that it is not something one knows beforehand, but something one does and then knows and can talk about. But this is true of every perception and manipulation that confronts any novelty and forms a gestalt. To the extent that, as in psychological experiments, we can isolate a task and repeat similar parts, we can predict the whole that will be spontaneously perceived or performed; but in all important concerns in art and the rest of life, the problem and the parrs are always somewhat new; the whole is explicable but not predictable. Even so, the whole comes into being by a very ordinary (everyday) experience.

The “mystery” of the creative for psychoanalysts comes from their not looking for it in the obvious place, in the ordinary health of contact. But where could one expect to find it in the classical concepts of psychoanalysis? Not in the super-ego, for that inhibits creative expression; it destroys. Not in the ego, for that originates nothing, but cither observes or executes, or suppresses and defends itself. It cannot be the ego that is creative, for the artist cannot explain himself; he says, “I don’t know where it comes from, but if you’re interested in how I do it, this is what I do—” and he then begins a boring technical explanation that is the subject-matter of art-criticism and art-history but not of psychology. Therefore psychoanalysts guess that the creative must be in the id—and there it is well hidden. Yet indeed, an artist is not unaware of what he does; he is quite aware; he does not verbalize it nor theorize it, except a posteriori; but he makes something by handling the material medium and solving a rough new problem that refines itself as he goes along.

Theorizing from the self-conquering ego, psychoanalysis can make no sense of a kind of contact that is exciting and changes the reality. And the disgrace of our generation is that this kind of ego is so epidemic that what the artist does seems extraordinary. Instead of theorizing the ego from the most lively cases of creativity, which are (in this respect) the normal ones, the theory has sprung from the average, and the lively cases are considered mysterious or else virulently neurotic.

Yet the right theory could also be gleaned from the spontaneity of children who, with perfect aplomb, hallucinate reality and still recognize reality, and who play with reality and alter reality, without being in the least psychotic. But they, of course, are infantile.

7: The Split between Depth and General Psychology

Historically, psychoanalysis developed in the heyday of association-psychology, and in the first flush of the reflex-are and conditioned-reflex grounding of the associations. The functional and dynamic theory of Freud was so at variance with these conceptions that it seemed to belong to a different world; and this was in fact the truce arrived at, a division of worlds. The world of the conscious Freud conceded to the associationist (and the biologists); the world of dreams he took for himself and correctly mapped with functional signals. At the boundary of the two worlds, where the dreams emerged into waking, occurred what Freud in a brilliant flash (of contempt?) called the “secondary elaboration”; it certainly was not primary and energetic, but was an attempt to make sense by conforming to the “laws of reality,” namely the associations. (We shall return to Freud’s primary process and secondary process in Chapter 13.) Meantime, the psychologists more and more proved that these were indeed the laws of reality by constructing experimental situations that were less and less vitally interesting, and in which the response tended to be in fact reflex: mazes and shocks, the reactions to which were not secondary but tertiary and quaternary, up to the point of nervous breakdown. (If psychology is the study of creative adjustments, reflex-psychology is the penological branch of physics.)

Occasionally, to be sure, Freud indicated that the dream-laws might be the laws of reality—but he did not see how to reconcile the discrepancies. Yet indeed, just on logical grounds, given the two worlds, the world of dreams with its laws of pleasure and fantastic distortions, and the world of conscious-reality with its no-pleasure and additive associations, it is hard to avoid the recurring epistemological question: with what unitary awareness does one distinguish these two worlds, and what are the laws of that unitary system?

In general psychology occurred the Gestalt revolution—that was mainly a return to ancient conceptions. (For the working of thought and behavior is not a bashful or recondite subject-matter and the ancients, though no keen experimenters, could not help experimenting it.) Perception, abstraction, problem-solving came to be conceived as formed and forming wholes, the completion of unfinished needful tasks. Now one would have expected an immediate rapprochement between gestalt-psychology and psychoanalysis, a synthesis of contact and depth-psychology, and therefore, again, a functional theory of the self, id, ego, and personality. This failed to occur. The lack of daring to do it must be attributed to the gestaltists, for the psychoanalysts have not lacked daring. First, tor years, in order to refute the associationist, the Gestalt-psychologists devoted themselves to proving that the perceived wholes were “objective” and essentially physical, not “subjective” nor the result of emotional tendencies. Yet what an astonishing victory to win! for throughout physical nature the gestaltists keenly sought out whole tendencies, insisted on the context and the interrelation of all the parts, in order to bolster their psychology; but it was only in this one case of human feelings that the gestalt-principle did not apply! An emotion was not a real part of the perception it accompanied; it did not enter the figure!

Secondly, ambitious for this victory, they carefully sterilized (controlled) the experimental situations, making them less and less possibly interesting to any subject; and nevertheless, by wonderful ingenuity, they were able to demonstrate the gestalt. Yet their very success should have alarmed them and served as disproving evidence, for it was against their basic principle of the context: that it is where all the functions are mobilized by a real need that the gestalt is most evident. What they ought to have experimented was just the reverse: to show the weakening of the formative tendency when the task becomes a mere laboratory task, abstract, isolated, un-concernful. (And this was from the beginning the tack with the animal experiments.) Thirdly, from the beginning they have clung to the scientific method of the formal laboratory. But consider the following difficulty: what if the very thing that offers the essential explanation, the creative power of lively excitement, will either withdraw from this situation or intervene in the experiment, upset the controls, unsterilize the situation, perhaps decline to be experimented on at all, and insist on the existing problem, not the abstract problem? In such a case, in the interests of science, one must turn away from the fetishism of the accepted “scientific method.” The experiment must be real and meant, in the sense of making a personal difference, of being a sophisticated effort for happiness, and therefore a partnership in which the “experimenter” and the “subject” are both men. Such studies are by no means out of the question. Politically they occur in cooperative communities; socially and medically they occur in such projects as the Peckham Health Centre; and they exist in every session of psychotherapy.

Be that as it may, we have now had for two generations the anomalous situation of the two most dynamic schools of psychology advancing parallel with little interaction. And inevitably it is just their meeting ground, the theory of the self, that has suffered and is the least developed.

8: Conclusion

Lastly, the methods used in psychotherapy itself have obscured true theories of the self and of growth, and have tended to confirm theories of the ego as cither otiose or merely resistant, of the id as unaware, of the personality as merely formal, etc. They have produced situations of observation—and employed criteria of cure—in which the evidence is prima facie confirmatory of such theories. Throughout this book we have been showing examples of how this comes about.

Nevertheless, it would be unjust to conclude this unfriendly chapter without saying the following:

With all its defects, no other discipline in modem times has conveyed the unity of the organism/environment field so much as psychoanalysis. If we look at the grand lines rather than the derails, we can see that in medicine, psychology, sociology, law, politics, biology, biophysics, anthropology, culture-history, community-planning, pedagogy, and other specialties, psychoanalysis has discovered and invented a unity. In each case the specialist scientists have rightly rejected the simplifications and the reductions; yet we see that in their very replying to the errors of psychoanalysis they begin to use the terms of psychoanalysis, and the evidence marshalled to refute psychoanalysis as irrelevant was quite overlooked before the advent of psychoanalysis.