Jung, Jungians, and psychoanalysis

PROD #: 01019 Psychoanalytic Psychology 2002, Vol. 19, No. 3, 501–524 Copyright 2002 by the Educational Publishing Foundation 0736-9735/02/$5.00 DOI: 10.1037//0736-9735.19.3.501 Jung, Jungians, and Psychoanalysis Kenneth Eisold, PhD William Alanson White Institute The break between Freud and Jung—and the subsequent division between their followers—has had profound and continuing consequences for both parties. The Jungians have continued an ambivalent relationship to psychoanalysis, with the effects of internal conflicts and institutional schisms. Mainstream psychoanalysis, for its part, has used Jung, the primary and still most prominent “deviant,” to inhibit developments in areas associated with his work. This article explores how the pressure to maintain solidarity and conformity in psychoanalysis has curtailed, in particular, thinking in 3 areas: symbolism, lifelong development, and paranormal experience. It concludes with observations about the opportunities and dangers associated with the move toward pluralism being considered in both camps. Ownership Who owns psychoanalysis? The question may seem absurd to us now, and yet the issue of proprietorship and control of the copyright has been an intricate and pervasive part of our history. In his “On the History of the Psychoanalytic Movement,” Freud (1914/1957a) asserted bluntly, psycho-analysis is my creation. . . . I consider myself justified in maintaining that even today no one can know better than I do what psycho-analysis is, how it differs from other ways of investigating the life of the mind, and precisely Kenneth Eisold, PhD, William Alanson White Institute, New York, New York. Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Kenneth Eisold, PhD, 353 Central Park West, New York, New York 10025. E-mail: Keneisold@ aol.com 501 502 EISOLD what should be called psycho-analysis and what would be better described by some other name. (p. 7) He emphatically made the point that Adler and Jung should stop using the term. And, indeed, they did. The myth that grew up around Freud as the isolated and courageous hero (Sulloway, 1979) legitimized his ownership: He was the conquistador who first set foot on the territory of psychoanalysis, the Copernicus who first observed its distant movements, the Newton who first elucidated its laws. He encouraged that myth by repeatedly stressing the courage required to hold firm to the stark truths of psychoanalysis in the face of the resistances and opposition of society. In his “An Autobiographical Study” (Freud, 1925/1961), he restated his conviction that Adler and Jung’s defections were motivated by the “temptation . . . of being freed from . . . the repellent findings of psycho-analysis” (p. 52). The myth of the hero became the myth of the movement. Freud wrote Ferenzci, “Of course, everything that strives to get away from our truths has public approval in its favor. . . . We are in possession of the truth” (Freud & Ferenczi, 1993, pp. 482–483). To Abraham, he wrote, “recognition will come only for the next generation. But we have the incomparable satisfaction of having made the first discoveries” (Freud & Abraham, 1966, p. 111). The claim required an institutional basis. “There should be some headquarters whose business it would be to declare: ‘All this nonsense is nothing to do with analysis; this is not psycho-analysis’ ” (Freud, 1914/ 1957a, p. 43). So wrote Freud in 1914, explaining his motive in forming the International Psychoanalytic Association (IPA). Earlier, before the threat of Adler and Jung’s “defections,” he had similarly claimed that the IPA was founded “to repudiate responsibility for what is done by those who do not belong to us and yet call their medical procedure ‘psychoanalysis”’ (Freud, 1910/1957b, p. 227). By the public, Freud may have been seen as autocratic or authoritarian, but there was no doubt that he was and remained the dominant figure—victor, leader, and proprietor. Adler and Jung continued to be defined by their relationship to the central, heroic enterprise from which they “defected.” Paradoxically, they were cast out of the psychoanalytic band and yet perpetually linked to it as “deviants,” “former disciples,” derivative figures. Protesting this continuing linkage, Ellenberger (1970) stressed the point that both Adler and Jung had developed some of their key ideas before being swept up in the psychoanalytic movement and that they evolved quite differently from Freud and each other: “Contrary to JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 503 popular assumption, neither Adler nor Jung is a ‘psychoanalytic deviant,’ and their systems are not mere distortions of psychoanalysis” (p. 571). But this remains a lonely point of view. Indeed, Adler himself responded to his “expulsion” by naming the alternate society he founded The Society for Free Psychoanalytic Research. He was stunned and deeply hurt by Freud’s ad hominem attacks on his “petty outbursts of malice” and “uncontrolled craving for priority” (Freud, 1914/1957a, p. 51). But, in his injured pride, he stressed the point that this was an institutional issue, not a personal one. If Adler’s response to Freud’s declaration of ownership was defiant, he nevertheless agreed to give up the term psychoanalysis. Jung, by contrast, at first entirely withdrew from organizational life. He resigned all institutional positions after resigning as president of the IPA, including his university professorship. He also abandoned the Zurich Psychoanalytic Society and only gradually found a way back into organizational life as an “analytical psychologist.” Wrote Jung’s most recent biographer, “By common consent, Jung never got over the trauma of his break with Freud” (McLynn, 1996, p. 420). He himself suggested, in Memories, Dreams, Reflections (Jung, 1961), that he underwent a profound disorientation, “menaced by a psychosis” (p. 176). I think we can understand this disorientation as representing a cleavage in Jung’s identity. No doubt there was a confusing and troubled working out of his relationship to Freud as a father, but also there was conflict among the identities he had attempted to weld together as a psychoanalyst. As Ellenberger (1970) pointed out—and as Taylor (1996, 1998) and Shamdasani (1998) more recently elaborated—Jung brought to psychoanalysis not only considerable standing as a psychiatrist, a standing that so impressed Freud, but also significantly developed interests and orientations that linked him with others outside psychoanalysis. To put it perhaps overly simply, there was the identity of a psychiatrist and psychologist, linked to Freud, committed to working professionally with patients, and there was the identity of a spiritual seeker, drawn to the study of religious myth and linked to the long line of Protestant ministers from which he had descended. But the important point here is that his experience with Freud and the IPA inevitably had profound organizational consequences as well. After reorienting himself and his thoughts, following the break with Freud, Jung also had to develop the organizational structures and policies that would carry his work forward. Those structures had to be responsive to the particular needs and qualities of his ideas and his identity. As would be 504 EISOLD inevitable, they reflected his traumatic experiences with the organizations of psychoanalysis he left behind. And as they developed, they continued to bear the imprint of that traumatic break and to exhibit a complex, conflicted, and ambiguous relationship with psychoanalysis. In a parallel article, I focus on the impact of that split on the institutional development of analytical psychology (Eisold, 2001), the effects of which are still powerfully felt today. Here I want to focus on the effects of that split on psychoanalysis. Freud’s determination to exclude Jung and his followers did not abate, and many of his loyal followers enthusiastically kept up the struggle. The IPA, formed to defend against “deviants,” is still not open to Jung’s followers. Indeed, I think, many in the psychoanalytic mainstream do not even recognize it as an issue to be concerned with; they “own” the copyright to the term psychoanalysis that Jung gave up the right to use. In a sense, they would agree with Ellenberger that Jung is not a psychoanalytic “deviant,” though he may once have been. They see him as a somewhat mystical, somewhat eccentric—if popular—writer on myths and dreams. They may be well aware that there are Jungian institutes and Jungian practitioners, but, in general, that is viewed has having no relevance. In effect, the struggle against Jung initiated by Freud has become more subtle, more embedded in everyday assumptions. Like Foucault, we could view this as a struggle to dominate and control the discourse: Language now, itself, keeps analytical psychology outside. But I will argue that the open war has been succeeded by the entrenched, invisible warfare of social defenses aimed at maintaining vestigial boundaries around psychoanalysis, of containing threats to its integrity and core assumptions. Many “deviants” followed Jung. Indeed, a central portion of the history of psychoanalysis can be read as the story of such “defectors” as Horney, Sullivan, Thompson, Fromm, Lacan, and others, key figures suffering fates narrowly avoided by others such as Ferenzci, Klein, and Kohut. None of them were forced to abandon the term psychoanalysis, no doubt emboldened and warned by the examples of Adler and Jung, though many of them were subject to the same charge of watering down psychoanalysis to make it more acceptable to the public. It has been said of most of them, at one point or another, “This is not psychoanalysis.” But their use of the term was never successfully proscribed. Jung remains the warning figure who went too far, the one who defines the dangerous boundary of what is acceptable. JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 505 “A Silent Experiment” In 1916, when Jung emerged from his period of “disorientation” and “confusion,” the organization he founded to support and advance his work was a “Psychological Club.” Retrospectively, he called it “a silent experiment in group psychology” (Jung, 1959/1970, p. 469). In a paper he presented to the Club in 1916, he wrote, It is an attempt to work together as analyzed men. . . . We are acquainted in analysis up till now only with the function of the personal-collective (analyst and patient), just as we have learnt much about the individual function. But we know nothing about the collective function of individuals and its conditions. (quoted in Shamdasani, 1998, p. 24) As Fordham (1979) put it much later, “it was to have no professional status, and membership was not a qualification to practice psychotherapy” (p. 279). It was a group gathered together to support members in their own spiritual and psychological development. In doing so, they would also support Jung and provide a forum for him to present his thoughts. This Club has been called a “cult” (Noll, 1995, 1997), and, indeed, in its blending of mystical and German “volkisch” elements together with the reverence for Jung’s idealized position in it, the Club bears some resemblance to a cult. But it seems more likely that the Club actually suffered from a lack of clear focus, permitting it to resemble, as one member wrote at the time, sometimes a “madhouse” and sometimes something “occult-sectarian” (Shamdasani, 1998, p. 78). It was convivial and social. A library was organized. There were lectures and discussions; every two weeks or so, Jung met there with a group of senior analysts. Responding to his recent experience of the professional structures of psychoanalysis, structures dominated by a strong leader, Jung was determinedly informal and nonprofessional. As Fordham (1979) put it, Jung did not want to form a school of Jungian analysts, and, indeed, no formal training was ever instituted by him. He had witnessed that particular development in psychoanalysis; he did not like it and he did not want to repeat it. (p. 280) Indeed, not only had he witnessed psychoanalytic politics firsthand as the first president of the IPA, he had also been the object of an organizational plot to displace and discredit him. The summer before his personal break with Freud, Jones had proposed a secret committee that would operate outside of the formal structures of the IPA (Grosskurth, 506 EISOLD 1991). In his letter proposing the “unofficial inner circle,” Jones expressed his “pessimism” about the “men who must lead for the next thirty years,” noting “Jung abdicates his throne” (Freud & Jones, 1993, p. 146). The reference was to the fact that Jung had suddenly gone to America to deliver lectures and see patients, postponing the 1912 Congress as a result. Jones pointedly lamented, in that same letter to Freud, “so many put their own private personality first, in the foreground of importance, and relegate the cause to a subordinate position” (p. 145). As Grosskurth (1998) put it, the secret committee’s “implicit raison d’être was to expel Jung, the Outsider, from the psychoanalytic movement” (p. 91). Immersed in their own suspicions and plots, they became riddled with paranoid fears about Jung’s plans to take over the psychoanalytic movement. For his part, Jung seems to have had little idea of the campaign being mounted against him. He did not know that he had been supplanted by the secret committee, that his authority had been undermined. When Freud and his close followers abstained from voting for him in his second term as president, he appeared to be genuinely surprised and hurt (Jones, 1953– 1957). He was obviously deeply offended the following month when he heard that Freud doubted his good faith in his conduct as editor of the Jahrbuch, and he precipitously resigned (Paskauskas, 1988, p. 28). As it turned out, Jung not only had no interest in a fight but also, as ever, little interest in running an organization. In April 1914, he resigned as president. The issue was loyalty, the willingness of Freud’s followers to defer to his leadership, to confirm his ownership of psychoanalysis. But although it was undoubtedly the case that Freud wanted to maintain his ownership of psychoanalysis (see Roustang, 1982), it is important to bear in mind that it was Freud himself who put forth both Adler and Jung as his successors. Their ability to succeed depended on the willingness of others to follow them. In the case of Adler, I believe, his erstwhile followers brought him down, exploiting the issue of theoretical differences, in order to induce Freud to take charge (Eisold, 1997). In the case of Jung, the loved and chosen “Crown Prince,” it was a group of Freud’s closest followers who banded together and—with Jung’s own active cooperation—deposed him. This was the experience that lay behind Jung’s decision to set up his Club. In his new organization, by avoiding a professional focus and placing the emphasis entirely on mutual support and spiritual development, he hoped, consciously at least, to avoid recreating the organizational dangers he had come to know first hand. He also created for himself an institu- JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 507 tional refuge. No other formal organization existed, associated with Jung, until the founding of The Jung Institute in 1948. How anyone became an analytic therapist in those days is vague and must be regarded largely as a matter of vocation, though there was an unwritten law that any person who wanted to be called a Jungian analyst was expected to go out to Zurich, make a relation with Jung himself, and undergo analysis with either himself or one or more of his close colleagues. (Fordham, 1979, p. 280) At some point, Jung would indicate that he felt the person was ready to practice and wrote a letter to that effect. Samuels (1994) pointed out, this “cozy club setting” was “undoubtedly riddled by unresolved transferences and countertransferences. . . . One gets the impression from accounts of people who were there of a sort of therapeutic community” (p. 139). Thus, setting out deliberately to avoid the kind of professional competition and rivalries that had characterized psychoanalytic politics, Jung ended up in the “silent experiment” of the Club creating an almost hermetically secure environment for himself. By rejecting formal training, he avoided the possibility of creating rivals. And by not exploring transference, he ensured his preeminent, idealized status. In part, I believe, this reflected the need of a fragile ego in a period of recovery, when he was “menaced by a psychosis.” But it also represented a choice about the nature of the movement he wished to establish. The stress was on exploration of myths and religions, on education in occult traditions of symbolism, and on articulating the notion of spiritual development. Only secondarily was there a focus on the preparation of careers in psychotherapy. Jungian Training When formal professional training in analytical psychology began, following World War II, it emerged with Jung’s reluctant agreement. Aging and ill, he was persuaded to give his consent. Moreover, professional training had to establish itself in the institutional space that had been created in the intervening years, the space between Jung’s psychological clubs and the highly professionalized world of psychoanalysis. Inevitably, it was forced to be in competition with both. The development that Jung resisted, thus, took two opposing courses, represented by the two training institutions that were the first to be established: The Zurich Institute, founded in 1947, in the city where Jung continued to live, stayed close to his informal methods and to the 508 EISOLD ethos of the Clubs, stressing education in myth and symbols. The other, The Society for Analytical Psychology (SAP), sited in London, founded in 1946, looked to psychoanalysis for models of training and professional links. According to Fordham (1979), the chairman of the SAP, In many ways the London analysts were doing just what Jung had sought to avoid. . . . His agreement to what was being done was, however, gained and he became the first president, protesting, however, that he would not be able to take an active part in the proceedings of the Society. No doubt he was ambivalent, and when he was written to about the starting of a clinic, he registered a vigorous protest, but here again was persuaded to let his name be used. . . . The C. G. Jung Clinic was thus started with the master’s approval. (p. 283) As Samuels (1994) noted, “the Society of Analytical Psychology of London followed the British Psychoanalytical Society when it drew up its constitution in 1946 and the nomenclature is, in many respects identical” (p. 146). In addition, the SAP made several key controversial decisions that were based on the practices of the British Psychoanalytical Society and which, as a result, increased tensions between not only the SAP and the Club but also within the SAP between older Zurich-trained analysts and the new group under Fordham’s leadership: a focus on transference, regression, and infantile material; an increase in the number of analytic sessions per week; evaluation of candidates by the training analyst; and a minimizing of “education” by the analyst. All of these represented significant departures from Jungian traditions. The Jungians in England also actively explored parallels between their theories and methods and those of Klein (Astor, 1995; Fordham, 1993) as well as Winnicott and Bion (Samuels, 1985). The institutional connections between the Jungian analysts and the members of the British Psycho-Analytical Society through the British Medical Society, as well as the links through the Tavistock Institute, made additional connections and collaboration possible. Fordham (1979) noted, it began to appear that the old divisions between the two disciplines were in the process of dissolving because of the new thinking that was going on on both sides. Thus though the divisions are maintained formally their scientific basis is less meaningful. (p. 293) In his obituary of Jung, Fordham (1961) declared forcefully that he believed the notion of Jung’s personal and scientific incompatibility with Freud “was a disaster, and in part an illusion, from which we suffer and will continue to do so until we have repaired the damage” (p. 4). It could JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 509 be said that in the manner in which Fordham took up the job of establishing training for analytical psychologists he aimed precisely to repair the damage. The Zurich Institute, on the other hand, established in 1947, became the repository of Jungian tradition, the Mecca attracting international students. According to Kirsch (1996), “The Zurich Institute was the place to train; here one could have analysis with a direct pupil of Jung, perhaps also see Jung himself, and the Institute in Zurich was certainly oriented towards international students” (p. 573). There was little if any influence from psychoanalytic practice. Indeed, it “was set up on the model of a European university with lectures, seminars, and finally exams” (Kirsch, 1995, p. 237). Multiple overlapping analyses were conducted, and a primary stress of dreams and myth was maintained. The founding of these two centers of training inaugurated the complex and strife-torn institutional history of analytical psychology in the post-war era. In America, the battles of Jungian orthodoxy versus psychoanalytic influence have tended to be fought within institutes. As in England, many mental health professionals have sought training, many of them influenced by the theories and practices of mainstream psychoanalysis. Moreover, in recent years, a number of American Jungians have moved toward reclaiming the term psychoanalysis. Currently, the C. G. Jung Institutes of New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles are component societies of the National Association for the Advancement of Psychoanalysis—as is the Alfred Adler Institute in New York—which means that they sought and received accreditation as psychoanalytic institutes. I do not believe this implies that the identities of these institutes as organizational parts of analytical psychology no longer matter, but there is a larger—and older—identity they are reclaiming. Furthermore, the American Jungians, under the auspices of the Journal of Analytical Psychology, organized a series of conferences to explore areas of common or overlapping interest with mainstream Freudians. Conferences were held at Sebasco, Maine, in 1996 and 1997; a third was held in Mérida, Mexico. A similar event was held in England to explore differences between contemporary Jungians and psychoanalysts (Astor, 1998). As Kirsch noted in his address to a 1996 conference in Sebasco, As psychoanalysts in general have so little knowledge of Jung and the Jungian literature, there is the potential danger that our uniqueness could get lost. On the other hand, most of us have some working knowledge of psychoanalysis in its 510 EISOLD various forms and are only too happy to embrace large parts of it. Will it go the other way around? (Kirsch, 1997, p. 24) Silent Censorship Symington (1986) has declared emphatically, “We of the Freudian school who have rejected Jung have been impoverished thereby” (p. 226). But what, in fact, has psychoanalysis lost by this continuing proprietary exclusion of the Jungians? The question can be viewed in two ways. What are the potential links that are not being explored? Samuels (1996) has attempted a list of such topics, and the recent conferences in London, Sebasco, and Mérida sought to identify such common ground. Earlier Scott (1978) attempted a sketch of this terrain, but, significantly, in a talk to a Jungian group published in a Jungian journal. More recently, Psychoanalytic Dialogues has published an issue on the post-Jungians, and this journal has published a lengthy article by three prominent American Jungians titled “What Freudians Can Learn From Jung” (Beebe, Cambray, & Kirsch, 2001). But exploring potential links is an enormous and complex task, one requiring considerable depth of knowledge in two different traditions and two realms of clinical practice. It also requires a desire on both sides to bridge the gap, a desire that clearly many Jungians have evidenced over the years but one that has been notably lacking among mainstream psychoanalysts. I believe that this lack of desire reflects not simply ignorance of Jungian thought and what it might have to offer mainstream psychoanalysis but also considerable resistance. Despite the current ecumenical climate and interest in pluralism, analytical psychology by and large continues to be the object of a pervasive disparagement and neglect, amounting to a “social defense” (Menzies, 1967), a collectively elaborated set of assumptions and behaviors that subtly but firmly protects mainstream psychoanalysis from the anxiety of questioning some of its deepest and most pervasive affiliations. This “social defense,” I believe, is what lay behind Wallerstein’s (1988) remarkable statement excluding the Jungians from the contemporary effort to define a psychoanalytic “common ground” (pp. 11–12). As a number of Jungians have pointed out (Kirsch, 2000; Samuels, 1996), Wallerstein ostensibly based his statement on the flimsy evidence of a doctoral dissertation. Firsthand knowledge seemed irrelevant. This brings us to the second way the question about the loss to psychoanalysis of this continuing exclusion can be raised: What has psy- JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 511 choanalysis used the figure of Jung to avoid? The wall of neglect and denial that has surrounded the contributions of Jung and the Jungians to the psychoanalytic discourse has been used to warn potential other deviants, to confine and proscribe exploration within psychoanalysis itself. Significantly, of course, it has often been those treading on or near the ground Jung had trod who experience the danger that they, like him, might be seen as going “too far.” They too could be proscribed. There have been a number of significant personal relationships that have allowed communication and influence to occur across this barrier, but even those are poorly known and have led to very little public acknowledgement. This is the hallmark of a social defense. It is not actually about the encounter with the proscribed matter. It is about the maintenance of the solidarity of the group and the preservation of one’s relationship to it. It is a powerful collusion constituted of small acts of avoidance, distraction, and rationalization. Acknowledging this, Winnicott (1964) exclaimed forcefully in his review of Memories, Dreams, Reflection, “If we fail to come to terms with Jung we are self proclaimed partisans, partisans in a false cause” (p. 450). And, indeed, his own coming to terms with Jung in that review aroused a disturbing identification, expressed in a remarkable dream of his own, which he came to feel he had dreamt “for Jung and for some of my patients, as well as for myself” (Winnicott, 1963/1989a, p. 229). His account of the dream is abstract, lacking the details that could suggest specific associations, but he leaves no doubt about its impact: 1. There was absolute destruction, and I was part of the world and of all people, and therefore I was being destroyed. . . . 2. Then there was absolute destruction, and I was the destructive agent. . . . 3. . . . in the dream I awakened. As I awakened I knew that I had dreamed both (1) and (2). (p. 228) Winnicott linked this dream to the genesis of his late seminal paper, “The Use of an Object and Relating Through Identifications” (Winnicott, 1969/ 1971), in which he described the vital significance of the child’s acting on and living through its destructive impulses, learning that both the object survives as well as himself or herself. We cannot know for sure what Winnicott meant in claiming that he dreamt this dream “for Jung.” But it is worth noting that the act of writing the review aroused in him such powerful aggressive feelings and fear that it led to a burst of creative insight as well as a strongly worded challenge to his colleagues not to remain “partisans in a false cause.” It speaks, I believe, to the power that lies in social defenses and the terror aroused in confronting them. 512 EISOLD I identify three areas of exploration in psychoanalysis, where the threat of Jung’s example discouraged and intimidated new developments: Work on symbols, most usually manifest in dreams; work on identity and lifelong development; and, finally, “synchronicity,” uncanny correspondences in human experience. In what follows, what I say can only be suggestive and incomplete—and easily challenged. As we know from our own clinical experience, it is difficult to identify definitively areas that have been avoided, split off, or denied. Nor am I arguing that these are the only areas where the social defense mobilized around the figure of Jung has discouraged exploration. But these are areas where the evidence is strong. Symbols and Dreams This is the topic Jung pursued during the period of his growing alienation from Freud in the book that has since become known as Symbols of Transformation (Jung, 1911–1912/1967). For his part, during this period, Freud (1913/1955) was spurred on to write Totem and Taboo, his own version of the origins of religious practices. The competition was friendly, at this point, if fierce, but it brought them together in acknowledging the kind of phenomena which Jung, later, referred to as “archetypes.” That is, Freud (1913/1955) depended on the argument of a phylogenetic inheritance to account for “the assumption of a collective mind” (p. 158). Jung’s argument was different, but they both were interested in the phenomenon of symbols that had the quality of universals, that did not arise directly from individual experience. In his Interpretation of Dreams (Freud, 1900/1953)—but in a passage added in 1911, during the period of this competition—Freud first elaborated the point that dream symbolism pre-existed individual experience: “how irresistibly one is driven to accept it in many cases” (p. 359). Jung explorations were indeed far-reaching, examining myths and religious rituals in order to develop and elaborate a thorough-going grammar of symbols. Jones (1916/1948), at a strategic moment following the break between Freud and Jung, attacked him for abandoning “the methods and canons of science,” to wander “in a perfect maze of mysticism, occultism, and theosophy” (p. 136). He warned psychoanalysts, in effect, to stick to the narrow range—and, indeed, it became a realm of inquiry that mainstream psychoanalysis has tended to avoid. Thus, as Fromm (1951) pointed out, dream interpretation has tended to go in two opposing and mutually exclusive directions: Jung developed the notion of an autonomous realm of archetypes reflecting transcendent aspirations in the JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 513 psyche, and Freud adhered to the notion that the symbolism of dreams reflected infantile, sexual urges. As Laplanche and Pontalis (1973) pointed out, “Whereas the symbols discovered by psychoanalysis are very numerous, the range of things they symbolize is very narrow” (p. 444). For the English “developmental” Jungians, Klein’s interest in phantasy, symbolization, and inner objects provided renewed opportunities to explore links with Jung’s ideas about myths, symbols, and archetypes. Fordham (1993), for example, wrote, “I discovered analogies between what Jung found in myths and what Klein found in small children’s fantasies about their mother’s bodies” (p. 66). As we have seen, the postwar years in London, when training in analytical psychology first got underway, were years of ferment and interaction. Mainstream psychoanalysts participated in some beginning dialogues with their Jungian colleagues (Scott, 1978), and many Jungians opened themselves up to learning from psychoanalysis about child development and transference, topics neglected if not avoided by Jung. It was in this context that Glover (1950/1991) wrote and published his polemical Freud or Jung. Clearly, he felt the danger that in this climate Jung was at risk of being more accepted than at any previous time in England. In a prominent footnote, he observed, “In the writer’s view this Kleinian system constitutes a deviation from Freudian principles and practice, combining it is interesting to note, some of the errors of both Rank and Jung” (p. 21). The potential of such criticism, I believe, inhibited psychoanalytic developments in dream interpretation. Friedman and Goldstein (1964), in their critical review of Jung’s psychology, noted this area of “definite interest” in Jung’s work: “the study of comparative mythology and of the parallels between mythological and individual dreams and fantasies. . . . material which is rarely referred to in psychoanalytic writings” (p. 196). Meltzer (1984) noted, in his groundbreaking Dream-Life, that there has been a corresponding paucity of significant work on dreams in the psychoanalytic literature: “It is an enigma of psycho-analytical history that the theory of dreams . . . should have been preserved throughout the years in word while dishonoured in deed in every session where a dream plays a part” (p. 14). In attempting to develop a more adequate theory based on the centrality of emotional experience and symbol formation, influenced by Bion’s work on thinking, Meltzer once again aroused the interest of Jungians who saw an approach that linked up with their clinical and theoretical work (Fordham, 1995). But Meltzer himself did not credit Jung, nor did he seem in any way to come to his theory by way of Jungian 514 EISOLD connections. Indeed, his few references to Jung seem designed to establish the point of their differences. The point I am making is precisely about the absence of such references. Psychoanalysts, going out on a limb to develop new approaches in such controversial areas, have felt hardly able to afford associating themselves with the original apostate. Indeed, to assert a critical difference with Jung can been seen to affirm that they are still loyal to the mainstream. Casement suggested such a point at the London meeting organized by the SAP: he wondered “whether every Freud in history needs a Jung ‘to represent the thinking that goes beyond one person”’ (Astor, 1998, p. 709). It is perhaps worth adding that, among Jungians, work on archetypes and symbols has not remained static or without controversy. Contemporary Jungians are increasingly less likely to see symbols as direct reflections of transcendent reality. Polly Young-Eisendrath (1995), writing from a post-modern perspective, has commented, Constructivism does not reject universals such as archetypes or universal emotions, but it assumes that both the concepts and the experiences to which they refer come directly from human interpretation. That is, archetypes do not move and shape human consciousness; not are we caught in morphogenic structures. (p. 5) Acknowledging these developments in the Jungian community more recently, Modell (1997) noted in a paper originally presented at the first Sebasco Conference, “This interaction of private metaphor and cultural symbols may prove to be an area of fruitful collaboration between Freudian and Jungian psychoanalysts” (p. 116). But it still remains to be seen if such collaboration is possible. Identity and Lifelong Development Jung’s notion of lifelong “individuation,” together with his notions of typologies of the self, provided a framework for his beginning speculations on adult development (Jung, 1933/1972a). Winnicott (1970/1989b) pointed out that “Jung usefully drew our attention to the fact that human beings . . . do go on growing in all respects, right up to the moment of death” (p. 284). As Staude (1981) suggested, these speculations probably had their beginnings in Jung’s own need to understand the extraordinary transformations of his own midlife crisis, the developments that led to his break with Freud and the need to set out on his own adult pathway. Erikson (1968), probably the psychoanalytic mainstream’s best known student of the life cycle, noted the clinical discoveries of Jung in JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 515 this area but in a curiously indirect manner: “in the inventory of our patients’ ideal and evil prototypes we probably also meet face to face the clinical facts on which Jung based his theory of inherited prototypes (‘archetypes’)” (p. 58). He added, “As though in fear of endangering a common group identity based on an identification with Freud’s personal greatness, psychoanalytic observers chose to ignore not only Jung’s excesses but also the kind of universal fact he had, indeed, observed” (pp. 58–59). Erikson’s recent biographer has called attention to the fact that “it took years before Erikson could speak publicly about an . . . important (and perhaps more ‘heretical’) influence on his life, the Jungian analyst Joseph Wheelright” (Friedman, 1999, p. 163). It was only at the point where his own reputation was securely established that he ventured some tentative acknowledgment of the important role in the development of his own thinking played by Jungian ideas (Erikson, 1982/1987). Levinson, in his ground-breaking work on the male midlife crisis, was able to go further, calling Jung “the father of the modern study of adult development” (Levinson, Darrow, Klein, Levinson, and McKee, 1978, p. 4). But, no doubt, Levinson was helped by the fact that he had no “common group identity” as a psychoanalyst to preserve, though he places his own work squarely in “the intellectual tradition formed by Freud, Jung and Erikson” (p. 5). This is an area that has been explored in our literature by a number writers and researchers, reflecting its clinical importance. But it has also aroused significant wariness on the part of psychoanalytic commentators. Valliant’s (1977) book, Adaptation to Life, based on a longitudinal study at Harvard, places itself in the Ericksonian tradition and cites Jung’s contributions. Colarusso and Nemiroff (1981), similarly, place their work in the tradition of Freud, Jung, and Erikson, adding to their list of progenitors the anthropologist Van Gennep. Emde (1985), too, notes the core contribution of Jung’s work on individuation, Erikson’s work on stages, adding Kohut’s work on the self. But he also notes that in this area “findings . . . may be difficult for the psychoanalyst to assimilate” (p. 109). The difficulty is that the concept of developmental stages throughout life does not easily fit the more traditional notion of intrapsychic conflict working itself out in individual and, often, highly idiosyncratic ways throughout adulthood. Indeed, as Abrams (1990) has suggested in his thoughtful review of the subject, any elaborated notion of development poses a threat to mainstream assumptions: 516 EISOLD In such an approach, the therapist’s stance may have to be different from what is customary in analysis, the unfolding treatment process would have to be different, and in all likelihood the mode of therapeutic action would also be different. It would be unwise to call such an approach “psychoanalysis.” (p. 673) Others have expressed similar reservations. In a review of Colarusso and Nemiroff’s book, Solomon (1982) noted, “psychoanalysts . . . will find the book of limited value because of the insufficient elaboration of the intrapsychic ramifications of the developmental issues being considered,” adding that it was “more appropriate to psychotherapy than to psychoanalysis” (p. 662). No doubt, those engaged in substantial research projects in this realm worry less about their fidelity to privileged mainstream concepts, just as they worry less about acknowledging their indebtedness to Jung. Those who derive their primary identities from the world of psychoanalysis, however, walk a tighter line. Pollock and Greenspan’s (1988–1993) multivolume compilation of articles on the stages of life, The Course of Life, avoids a theoretical frame and, except for the final volume on old age, does not reference Jung. Settlage et al. (1988), in their comprehensive review article on the subject, entirely omit any reference to Jung. Synchronicity This is, perhaps, the most difficult topic to discuss because it so readily brings to mind the occult. And yet there is, in fact, so much “uncanny” material that many of us encounter in the course of our clinical work that we are at a loss to explain. “Synchronicity”—in Jung’s (1935/1972b) terms a “connecting principle” that is neither causal nor merely chance—is hardly an explanatory concept. Still it creates space in clinical dialogue to acknowledge the presence of correspondences and seeming linkages that appear to have meaning, that are charged with significance, though we have no current way of explaining how or why that could be so. The notion of “unconscious communication” occupies a somewhat analogous position in classical theory. Freud (1912/1958) used the analogy of the telephone: the analyst “must turn his own unconscious like a receptive organ towards the transmitting unconscious of the patient” (p. 115). Mechanisms such as projective identification, postural mimesis, and role responsiveness have been put forward to explain such processes, but the fact of the matter is that we seldom understand how we intuit what we know. Abend (1989) comments, “Surely, every practicing analyst has had many experiences that remind him of Freud’s telephone analogy, but we JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 517 are not very comfortable with mystical explanations of unconscious communication” (p. 388.). Freud himself, however, was not averse to the notion of thought transfer, and Deutsch (1926/1970), elaborating on his comments and her own experiences of telepathy, wrote, “analytic experiences confirm that ‘occult’ powers are to be sought in the depth of psychic life” (p. 146). Deutsch’s quotation marks around “occult,” however, speak to a certain reticence in embracing such phenomena, a reticence that continues to inform psychoanalytic writings. Nelson (1969) noted the “ostracism of colleagues who take parapsychology seriously” (p. 4). Farrell (1983) commented that telepathy is “treated like a skeleton in our closet” (p. 79). More recently, Mayer (1996a) has described a study group of the American Psychoanalytic Association formed to discuss personal experiences of uncanny knowledge not accounted for by our public theories. . . . Some of those [more personal] schemata have been frankly disturbing to the analysts describing them and are based on experiences they have found exceedingly unsettling to disclose among colleagues. When spelled out, they suggest possible implication for psychoanalytic knowledge which are . . . potentially radical. (p. 191) She has gone on to describe convincing research suggesting that not only is thought transfer common and demonstrable but also that thoughts have external effects on inanimate matter. “Psychoanalysts belong in the dialogues these investigators are undertaking, and we belong as well in the effort to render comprehensible and non-anomalous what currently appears anomalous in the effects they are examining” (Mayer, 1996b, p. 723). At the same time, again, she acknowledges how difficult it is to engage such material: “I think we may need to re-cast certain of our conventions regarding what we find believable” (p. 724). The history of applied psychoanalysis provides additional examples of uncanny phenomena. In “Group Relations Conferences,” for example, designed to study the behavior of large systems (Miller, 1989), one repeatedly sees striking parallels in the behavior of different parts of the system. Common themes emerge in seemingly unrelated groups; individuals are put forth to enact behaviors on behalf of others without any conscious knowledge of what they are doing; member groups will mirror the staff without either group being aware of what is happening. The point I am making is that those who have studied such processes must pay attention to what actually occurs without worrying about how it could be explained. To those unfamiliar with the methodology or experi- 518 EISOLD ence of such conferences, such correspondences will appear uncanny or simply accidental. We may resort to such explanatory concepts as “parallel process” or “mirroring” or “projective identification”—but the fact of the matter is that we do not know how such connections occur. With inadequate experience, they could be overlooked or dismissed. A second example comes from the work of Gordon Lawrence (1998) on social dreaming. Lawrence has devised a methodology in which a “matrix” of individuals reports out its dreams and, then, associates to the dreams presented. The point is not to interpret the dreams but to allow, so to speak, dreams to speak to dreams. What he has found is that uncanny parallels and correspondences in the dreams begin to emerge. One becomes aware of a level on which, it could be said, our individual dreams are linked collectively. Again, we may resort to some such idea as “unconscious communication” to explain such uncanny “synchronicities.” Bion’s (1970) introduction of the concept of O, “the unknown and the unknowable,” has been frequently invoked to justify such an expanded version of the unconscious. But the point is that we profit in learning about our collective behavior by keeping our minds open to the meaningfulness of events we cannot explain. Jung’s concept of synchronicity is by no means an exactly parallel notion. Nor, I think, would it be accurate to attribute the reticence of psychoanalysts to openly embrace uncanny or anomalous phenomena exclusively to their association to Jung. And yet, I believe, there is no doubt that those psychoanalysts who are interested in exploring these ideas and experiences know about the work of Jung and avoid referencing it. The effort to gain a respectful hearing from one’s colleagues for such unconventional thoughts could only be compromised by association to Jung and Jungians. And yet, as a result, the community of inquiry into such phenomena is unquestionably narrowed and constrained. Pluralism I believe there is less interest now in attempting to define psychoanalysis (Cooper, 1997). The ground has shifted to reconceptualizing psychoanalysis as a pluralistic endeavor. Following Wallerstein’s (1988) classic question “One psychoanalysis or many?”—a question that seemed inevitable to pose but increasingly impossible to answer—the question we might now ask is this: In what sense is it “one” and in what sense is it “many”? JUNG, JUNGIANS, AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 519 In some measure, this is a matter of political expediency. If there is no longer the possibility of integrating or synthesizing the divergent schools of psychoanalysis, to find “the common ground,” it becomes increasingly necessary to find a political solution, a form of co-existence. The model of competing interest groups within a democratic state, under these circumstances, becomes attractive. Berlin (1988/1990) has argued compellingly for such a form of politics: “an uneasy equilibrium, which is constantly threatened and in constant need of repair” (p. 19). And, yet, there are dangers in such a solution for psychoanalysis: it can become eclectic, abandoning the effort to reconcile competing theories, or it can become relativistic, abandoning theory altogether. Perhaps an even greater danger is that the professional identity of a psychoanalyst under such circumstances becomes virtually impossible to sustain. What forms of practice or set of skills can one hold on to as essential to one’s professional identity? But there are signs that pluralism might be more integrated into the fabric of psychoanalytic thought and clinical experience. Two proposals have recently been put forth—interestingly, one from the mainstream and one from the Jungians. In her researches into the actual beliefs and practices held by analysts of different analytic communities, Hamilton (1996) has demonstrated not only the variety of forms the actual practice of psychoanalysis takes, even within the mainstream, but also the role of the local community in shaping and sustaining that variety: “analysts think and practice much more loosely than they publicly claim. They are guided preconsciously by many dimensions” (pp. 3–4). For Hamilton (1996), the key concept is the preconscious, analogous to Winnicott’s “transitional space,” the third area of the mind in which creative ambiguity and play are sustained. Her argument is that this is the area of the mind in which analysts do much of their thinking, a realm of “muddled overlaps and uncomfortable, precarious coexistence of parts of belief systems” (p. 3). But, far from being a liability or simple embarrassment, such pluralistic complexity and potential confusion in the mind of the analyst is an asset because it matches the ambiguity of mental experience. The greater danger is that of a precise theoretical map that misleads with too much definition and clarity about a territory that does not lend itself to map-making in any traditional sense. Where Hamilton agues for taking up an analytic stance in the preconscious, where creative ambiguity and conflict can be sustained, Samuels (1989) argues that the pluralism of theories matches the pluralism 520 EISOLD of the psyche. That is, the mind requires different and conflicting theories because it is itself composed of different and competing selves. The clinician approaching this complex and seemingly contradictory set of clinical phenomena is helped by having a diversity of theories to guide him. For Samuels (1995), the danger is not only a hierarchical view of the mind, matched by efforts to establish a theoretical hierarchy, but any view of consensus that minimizes conflict and contradiction. “The more integrated and professional the training programme, the greater the denial of pluralism” (Samuels, 1995, p. 41). The proposals of Samuels and Hamilton overlap in key respects and, yet, emphasize different phenomena. Both suggest ways in which pluralism can become a more viable option for psychoanalysis—and, I believe, they open the way for additional speculation and theorizing so that pluralism does not remain simply a politically expedient solution. Shamdasani (1994), introducing a collection of papers originally commissioned for a conference at the Freud Museum, commented, “psychoanalysis is not One, cannot be owned, or adequately appropriated. . . . its heterogeneity renders impossible any pluralist, allencompassing programme, or attempt at unification” (p. xv). 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