Freud's Return

Freud’s Return

Richard L. Gilbert

Published by Richard L. Gilbert at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Richard L. Gilbert

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like others to read this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person or encourage them to purchase it for their use. Thank you for respecting the copyright of this work.

To Danielle and Coco

"if often he was wrong and, at times, absurd,

to us he is no more a person now

but a whole climate of opinion

under whom we conduct our different lives."

W H. Auden

Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor.

Let someone arise from my bones as an avenger.

Virgil

The Aeneid

Contents

Answering Your Call

Longing

The Interpreter of Dreams

The Freud-Fliess E-mails November 24, 1999

Co-Parenting With a Ghost

What Do Women Want?

The Brothers Rubikoff

The Freud-Fliess E-mails December 12,1999

Closer to God

Love

The Second Visitor

The Freud-Fliess E-mails December 17,1999

Kaddish for Harry G.

Rebuilding the Temple

The Freud-Fliess E-mails December 31,1999

The Third Condition

Santa Ana Wind

Father and Daughter

About the Author

Answering Your Call

I live inside your basement.

I sleep naked on the cold, cement floor

and drink from pools of October rain that seep through the baseboards.

Black stains of oil are my midnights

and careless drops of white paint my constellations.

I am the dreamer inside your basement.

I have waited for the music to play,

and the wine to pour,

and the steps of dancers to cross the carpeted floor.

I have waited for the night

when the naked and the damned claim the surface,

rising from the otherworld and the imagination,

drawn by distant voices and mysterious intentions,

drawn by a single shaft of light at the top of a wooden stair…

S. Freud

October 31, 1999

Longing

The last Halloween of the millennium was finally over. I was exhausted after a long night handing out candy to children in monster masks and superhero costumes and was shutting down my apartment before going to bed. As I closed the blinds of the living room window, I saw a star streak across the sky before dissolving into the night. While I couldn't be sure, I had the strange feeling that the point it disappeared was directly above me.

Coco, my 15 year-old daughter, had gone to bed early. For the first time in her life she had no interest in Halloween. Her only involvement in the holiday was to eat handfuls of the candy I had purchased and to express a great deal of anxiety that her face, which she carefully examined before going to bed, would be full of zits in the morning.

You should have thought about this before you ate your tenth candy bar, I said, administering a dose of tough love before kissing her goodnight. Incredibly, within minutes she was fast asleep, despite all the sugar still coursing through her veins.

As Coco slept I continued getting ready for bed. First I threw all the remaining candy away to make sure that neither of us would be tempted to eat anymore of it in the morning. Then I changed into the sweatpants and T-shirt I use as pajamas and headed to the bathroom to complete the Holy Trinity of Hygiene: washing, brushing, and flossing. I was almost finished, and looking forward to a long night's sleep, when I was startled to hear the doorbell ring.

I walked quickly into the living room, irritated that some parents would actually allow their children to stay out so late on a school night, even if it was Halloween, and prepared to send whatever child had come to my door straight back home without anything sweet from me. Having worked myself into a state of parental indignation, I grabbed the door handle and flung open the door. But instead of finding a misguided child, I stood face-to-face with a grown man impeccably costumed as Sigmund Freud.

Aaah! I recoiled.

I believe on such occasions it is customary to ask 'Trick or Treat? said Freud.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my mouth open slightly, staring with confusion at the strange visitor.

May I come in? said Freud, walking past me and into the living room, I don't want to create a scene.

As Freud walked by, I was relieved to feel that I had grasped the true identity of my late-night intruder. It became clear to me that the man in the costume was Dr. Roger Daniels, my colleague in the Department of Psychology at Loyola Marymount University, and the co-chair, along with myself, of the upcoming international conference, The Post-Freudian Millennium.

OK, Roger, I said, placing my hand on the visitor's elbow and gently nudging him toward the door, you've had your fun. I'll see you on campus tomorrow.

My name is not Roger; it is Sigmund Freud, and I hardly thought that you would need an introduction.

Look, Roger, I've tried to be a good sport, but I've spent the entire night catering to a hoard of sugar-lusting brats and my patience is exhausted. The party is over. Now go home!

To emphasize my determination to end our interaction, I tightened my grip on my visitor's elbow and urged him more forcefully toward the door.

On the contrary, Freud insisted, pulling his arm free of my grasp, I believe 'the party', as you call it, is just beginning.

My level of stress reached a critical point when Freud pulled his arm away and refused to leave. Every effort to get Roger to go away and leave me alone had proven unsuccessful and this frustration, in combination with my fatigue and a growing post-sugar crash, was too much for me. I began to unravel.

That's it, Roger! I've had enough! With my right hand I grabbed the side of his beard and pulled down forcefully, expecting that this action would rip the disguise from Roger's face and put an end to his charade.

Owww! cried Freud in obvious pain, grabbing my hand and trying to pry it loose from his beard. Let me go!

You've glued it on, you sonofabitch! I shrieked as I tugged harder and harder.

Stop it! yelled Freud. Then, when words failed to reach me, he slapped me across the face, causing me to draw back in pain and stunned silence. With the palm of my hand I rubbed the side of my face and watched my visitor suspiciously through watery and bewildered eyes.

I'm terribly sorry I struck you. It's just under the circumstances I didn't know what else to do. Are you all right?

Who are you? I asked weakly. I had finally accepted that this wasn’t simply a joke by Roger. On some level I knew all along that this explanation was flawed because the man standing in my apartment was obviously shorter and more slightly built than Roger. But when you're grasping for straws you don't bother to measure them.

I realize that all this is shocking to you, the ghost of a long-deceased psychiatrist barging in on you like this. But what else was I to do? I couldn't just stroll down the street in broad daylight, could I? I had to come late at night, camouflaged by the disguises of Halloween. But it's true what I tell you, I am Sigmund Freud returned from the dead.

Sigmund Freud returned from the dead, I echoed, as if saying these words aloud might help me better assess them. Sigmund Freud returned from the dead. Then, exhausted and overcome by the sheer absurdity of the situation, I began laughing. No, I continued, you're not Sigmund Freud, and you're not Roger either. There's a much simpler explanation: I've gone mad, one candy bar too many, and I've lost my fucking mind!

You're not insane, said Freud. Then he moved closer to me, so close that I could see every detail of his face. You've studied me for endless hours, read every word I have ever written, stared at my photographs, and rerun tapes of me a hundred times in preparation for the crucifixion you’ve planned. Now look at me, look at me closely, and tell me these are not the eyes that have peered back at you from a thousand pages and frames.

I looked openly and intently at Freud, the way a newborn looks at the first human face it sees, and for a fleeting moment I felt convinced of the unimaginable. But it can't be, I said, clinging to a fraying rope of disbelief. It can't be.

It can't be, but it is, insisted Freud. Ask me anything, any detail from my life, and I will tell you.

The strange visitor, whoever he might be, was right about one thing. In the past two years as the conference took shape I had studied Freud for endless hours; I had read his papers, his letters, the works of his biographers, examined every photograph and detail of his life. Now as my frustration continued, and the mystery I faced seemed further from resolution than ever, all of the information acquired over years of concentrated effort exploded in a burst of questions.

"Where did Martha come from?

Hamburg.

What year was your father born?

1815.

What were the names of your brothers and sisters?

Rosa, Alexander, Anna, Adolphine, Mitzi, and Paula.

"When did you write 'Analysis Terminable and Interminable'?"

1937.

"Who was your choice to lead the American psychoanalytic movement?

Horace Frink.

It's no use! I protested, as the pressure refused to subside. You could have learned all of this, as I have!

Then ask me more! Freud insisted. Ask me anything!

"Who wrote the document of preferment, nominating you for a professorship?

Krafft -Ebing.

Where was the place you favored for family holidays?

Riechenau, in the mountain region of Semmering.

Say it in German, exactly!

Riechenau, in den gebirgen von Semmering.

What was the name of your daughter who died and when did she die?

This time the answer did not come immediately. My visitor's eyes filled with tears and his lips pressed together as he fought to contain his emotions.

"Her name was Sophie and she died of influenza in January of 1920. She was only 26 years old, 'blown away, 'I remember writing, 'as if she had never been. '"

As he spoke these words, the visitor looked at me with an expression of pain whose depth he couldn't have faked, the same expression I knew I would wear if Coco were ever taken from me. I realized then, against every shred of reason that I possessed, that the strange visitor who stood before me was indeed Sigmund Freud. For no other man, living or dead, could have answered my question in this way. For a moment I grew silent again, but this time not from anger, fear, or surprise. It was the silence that comes when a man is forced to accept that everything he believed to be real, everything he thought he understood, no longer applied.

I sat down on the couch, feeling my body sink into the cushions and wishing that the reality I faced could sink into my mind just as effortlessly. Freud seemed to sense that I needed some time to gather myself so, instead of sitting next to me and continuing to press his case, he walked across the room to a wall unit that was filled with books and photographs. I watched as he glanced at some of the titles I had been reading in preparation for the conference: The biographies of Paul Ferris, Peter Gay, and Ernst Jones; the works of his critics, Crew's and Masson; an annotated collection of his letters to Wilhelm Fliess; and, of course, the twenty-four volume Standard Edition of his complete works translated by James Strachey.

Freud didn't reach for any of the books on the shelves; he didn't open any of the volumes to examine its table of contents or leaf through its pages. For once the great analyst seemed content to skim the surface, to bide his time and wait for me. Nor did he spend a great deal of time looking at the photographs framed in wood and chrome that reflected aspects of my history and current life -- Coco, sitting in a high chair, her face covered with chocolate cake, on her first birthday; Coco, kneeling in the first row of her third grade class picture and, later, poised atop a small white horse during an early riding lesson; Lauren, my girlfriend, coyly nibbling on an Edelweiss chocolate; My father and I at a Knick game in front of Madison Square Garden; Roger at the announcement of the upcoming conference ...

Freud scanned these images, letting his gaze settle briefly on each but never stopping to fix his attention on anyone of them. Then he came upon a picture of my mother working on a drawing in her early-thirties, when she was still beautiful and radiant, the way I wanted to remember her, before the cancer came. At the sight of this image, Freud stopped. He picked up the frame and looked at it intently before slowly putting it down.

As I sat watching Freud look at my books and photographs, my fledgling acceptance of his return to earth began to deepen. While part of me was still in a state of shock and disbelief, I had completely abandoned the idea that this was a joke by Roger and I had come to the point where I was at least willing to entertain the notion that I had entered a new reality. For some reason, however, I wasn't ready to acknowledge this to Freud. As soon as my mind was no longer completely dominated by fundamental issues of reality and sanity, a set of new considerations began to occupy my attention.

Assuming for a moment that you are Sigmund Freud, and that there isn't some simple, sane explanation for what’s happening that I’ve missed, then tell me this: Why are you here?

I should think the reason is obvious, said Freud, as he turned away from the photograph of my mother and faced me again. The matter of the trial.

What trial?

Oh, excuse me. I forgot, you prefer to call it a 'conference.'

What do you know about the conference?

"Quite a lot actually. I’ve been carefully following the progress of your plans from the afterlife since you conceived of the conference two years ago. And this summer, when you and Dr. Daniels secured the final funding, I realized that it was no longer just an idea but an imminent reality. When I accepted this fact, I went to God and said, 'I devoted my life so that we could better understand the human mind. I withstood the taunts of dirty Jew and pornographer and often walked alone to follow my calling. I believe there was worth in what was done, and there was value in what was found. But now the accusers are assembling to denounce it all, to humiliate me, to bury my ideas, my legacy, and my name, along with my body. I can tolerate being a ghost, but not a straw man. 'Please', I said, 'you must allow the voice of the accused to be heard. ' "

Your voice has been heard! I replied, pointing to the volumes of Freud's Complete Works on the wall unit. Nevertheless, if you feel compelled to personally rehash your views, I don't understand why you don't just fill out a registration form and attend the conference directly without putting me through this ordeal.

I'm not going to the conference. I had planned, with your agreement, to stay with you until the conference, to have an open exchange of ideas, so that when the conference began you could accurately represent my current views.

Stay here? Represent your views? Are you crazy? I'm the co-chair of this 'trial' as you call it.

Exactly! And I would think that you would be very interested in having an opportunity to engage with the subject of the conference you are organizing, to get it straight from the dead horse's mouth. That is, if you are interested in the truth.

Why me? Why do I get the great privilege of hearing your truth? Why not Roger? He is also a co-chair and he's a childless insomniac to boot. You could have talked to him day and night without interruption. Or what about Crews or Masson or any of the European revisionists? They are also coming. You could have paid them a surprise visit at midnight and made them doubt their sanity. Wouldn't that have been fun?

There is no simple answer as to why I appeared to you and not the others. But part of it is that you were the only one who wanted me to be here.

When Freud said these words a wave of shock and anxiety swept through me. For a moment I thought I was going to pass out or at least collapse back into the soft cushions of the sofa.

What are you saying? I finally asked, feigning ignorance, and clinging to the small hope that Freud didn't know as much as his statement implied.

The first time I remember it happening you were in Las Vegas celebrating Coco's 10th birthday. You wanted to do something special for her, to reassure her after the divorce, and to reassure yourself as well. You were in the Paris-Paris hotel, walking down one of the replicas of a narrow French street, with its bakeries, flower shops, and sidewalk cafes, the kind of street you may have once walked down with Coco and your ex-wife in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. And overhead there was the sky, painted brilliant blue on the translucent high ceilings of the hotel, with white clouds and backlighting. A billion dollars of investment, all designed to make you feel that you were outside, in Paris, in another time. Perhaps it was the divorce, or your father's death, or the pain you felt toward Coco, or the sheer absurdity of the indoor sky that overcame you, but that is the first time I remember that you called out to me in your imaginings, the first time you longed to talk with me and to know what I would say if I walked with you among the false earth and sky.

I was dumbfounded by the truth of Freud’s words. Five years ago, after my divorce and the death of my father, I began to fantasize having conversations with Freud. At first I dismissed these thoughts as isolated and meaningless flights of imagination, nothing more than a cerebral form of daydreaming or a doctoral-level version of an imaginary companion. In time, however, these fantasies began to occur with increasing regularity and I started to consider the possibility that they had a purpose and significance that I needed to understand, like a psychotic person who hears voices and constructs a delusional narrative to give the voices coherence and meaning. I began to believe that my repetitive imaginings were some kind of message to me, divinely inspired or not, that Freud held the key to my professional redemption.

I knew that the centennial anniversary of the publication of The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud's self-proclaimed masterpiece and the book that arguably began the modem history of psychology, would be occurring on January 1, 2000. I imagined a conference commencing on this date, attended by an international assembly of scholars and held on the campus of Loyola Marymount University, which would offer a devastating critique of Freud's ideas. And by organizing and leading this conference I would succeed in a single stroke to destroy the last vestiges of Freud’s intellectual legacy and resurrect my flagging career.

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My early years in psychology were filled with promise. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, Summa cum laude from Princeton and received the Howard Crosby Warren Prize as the top undergraduate psychology major at Princeton. Later I was accepted into