« 上一頁繼續 »
(including the special Freudian system of psycho-analysis) on the other,” has already reached its third edition would seem to indicate that there was real need of such an introduction to the voluminous literature of psychopathology and psychotherapy and that the author's contention “that a sound system of psychotherapy should satisfy the more moderate claims of both modes of thought” has been well received.
The first edition consisted of nine chapters on the treatment of the psychoneuroses by mental analysis, suggestion and hypnosis, and three, on “the philosophical background" containing a critical exposition of Bergson's philosophical views. In the second edition a chapter entitled “The Practice of Psychotherapy” was added “to emphasize the fact of the incompleteness of present theories of suggestion and the need of further unbiassed investigation, and also to make clear the need of specialised training in neurology and psychiatry for the practice of psycho-therapy.” In the third we find the always welcome addition-an index.
R. J. BARTLETT.
Some Contributions to Child Psychology. By MARGARET DRUMMOND, M.A.
Edward Arnold & Co. Pp. viii + 151. Price 4s. 6d. net.
In this book Miss Drummond has set herself the important task of showing parents and teachers how to help young children to adapt themselves to the life of the community into which they are born. She states in the preface that she owes much to the work of Freud, Jung and others, and this is evident from her treatment of the subject. Impressed by the fact that a neurosis is ultimately an escape from reality and that the foundation for it is laid in early childhood, she considers that “psychologists and educationists should reconsider the whole question of the nature of imagination in childhood and the best means of training it.” In this book Miss Drummond is concerned with the training of the imagination rather than with its nature. She points out the importance of providing suitable occupations for a child and suggests that ‘self-enclosed' activities should be discouraged as far as possible. “To be of value, imagination must be in vital contact with reality” (p. 82). Fairy tales are undesirable partly because they put wrong ideals before the child, partly because they hinder him in his instinctive search for the laws which govern his world. “In the early years the pull of magic is backwards not forwards” (p. 117). “The child from the first stands for the principle of reality.... By our false education we lead him to worship false gods; we give him fairy stories when he asks for truth; we encourage him to find in phantasy a satisfaction which we basely tell him reality can not give” (p. 120). And when we ask why we feel the child needs fairy tales, we are told: “It is we who want the fairy tales, not the children. In their credulity we find vicarious satisfaction” (p. 112).
The book is, moreover, not confined to the training of the imagination. It also contains sound advice on a number of other problems, such as the self-assertiveness and the baseless fears of little children. In all these the results of modern psychological investigations are freely used and sufficient quotations are given to show the reader where he can go for more information. Here and there one feels that definitions are badly needed. This is particularly the case with terms like imagination and phantasy which easily lend themselves to inconsistent interpretation. A bibliography would also have been helpful. These are, however, minor points. Like its predecessors the book makes very pleasant reading. It contains few technical terms and each point is illustrated by anecdotes from the personal observation of the author. It has not much to offer to the specialist, but should be a real help both to the parent and to the young teacher.
I. B. SAXBY.
The Mind in Action. A Study of Human Interests. By George H. GREEN.
University of London Press. 1923. Pp. 168. Price 3s. 6d. net.
In the preface of this interesting attempt to deal popularly and briefly with “the dynamic conception of mind” the author lays it down that “what you cannot explain in everyday language you do not know.” Anyone who has listened to Professor Eddington endeavouring to explain “in everyday language” the concepts of physics in the light of the theory of relativity will probably have had occasion to doubt this plausible assertion. And from the other point of view, anyone who has listened to the popular explanations of political, social and economic issues that are so fluently given in “everyday language” may, without undue cynicism, have come to the conclusion that it is precisely what you do not know that you can most easily explain “in everyday language.” Interesting as this little volume is—in spite of its breathless style-it suffers all through from the over-simplifications that are necessary in the attempt of the author to live up to his self-imposed test of knowledge. For example, the notion that instinct is a form of active interest may be usefully maintained, and valuable deductions may be drawn from it. But the notion becomes misleading when it is utilised for such plausible but inaccurate statements as the following: “When the dinner gong sounds while you are making a speech, you know that you may as well end your speech at once. All the interest that was directed towards you is now flowing in another direction altogether” (p. 26). Nevertheless the book is a genuine and not altogether unsuccessful attempt to give an outline of the mind at work in the simplest possible terms, and as an introduction to psychology for those who are wholly unaccustomed to the psychological point of view it may well be found helpful and suggestive. The inevitable danger is that the confident simplifications of mental processes which are required by the author's aim will tend to give the impression that a pictorial and notional representation of the mind in action is a much more accurate and reliable account of the extremely complex thing itself than is actually the case.
J. CYRIL FLOWER.
Mother and Son. By C. GASQUOINE HARTLEY. London: Eveleigh Nash and
Grayson, 1923. Pp. 318. Price 78. 6d. net.
This volume does not claim to be a scientific contribution to the complex subject of the 'Parent-Child' relationship; but neither is it merely another of the many compilations flung on the market by writers whose flair for expository opportunities is entirely journalistic. For Mrs Hartley has written
thoughtfully and independently on this and allied topics before the so-called New Psychology disturbed the minds of advanced discussion circles; and her books have, in addition, been characterised by a wide range of familiarity with the work of contemporary authorities.
Indeed the main flaw in the present volume may be ascribed to her effort to maintain this same standard of far-flung eclecticism in matters psychological. Her obvious solicitude to omit no reference bearing on the theme discussed, has blinded her to the fact that fundamental divergencies in psychological opinion cannot be composed by the simple expedient of textual dovetailing and that the result is likely to be rather bewildering to readers who are hardy enough to follow up the numerous references to authorities holding strongly conflicting and often mutually incompatible views on the problems in question.
Mrs Hartley şhows every sign of being able to think for herself and she would have been better advised to settle the question of her own psychological affinities and restrict her references to accessible passages from original authorities rather than to load her Bibliography with second-hand and often inferior presentations of their views.
Careful sub-editing of her book from this point of view would greatly enhance its value as a spirited piece of popular exposition written in an idiom which will appeal to the class of readers for whom it is designedly written.
The Birth of the Psyche. By L. CHARLES BAUDOUIN. Translated by Fred Rothwell. London: George Routledge and Sons, Ltd., 1923. Pp. xxii + 211.
In his Preface to the English edition of The Birth of the Psyche M. Badouin warns the reader that the book is “anything but a learned treatise on psychology or psycho-analysis.” It is “just a tiny corner of the heart, a little music of a very intimate nature.” The author desires to appear in the rôle not of the scientist but of the poet, and he devotes several pages to the discussion of “the marriage of art and science.”
In the twenty-four sketches which make up the book and which, he tells us, were jotted down just as and when they came, he has tried to revive impressions of his early childhood. He gives us glimpses into the mind of a sensitive, egotistic child, happier in the life of phantasy and the warm intimacy of the home (he was a much-loved only child), than in the company of other boys, from whose rough games he shrank, though his vaulting imagination enabled him to take the lead when muscular prowess was not required of him.
Several of the chapters contain impressions of his earliest school-days; in others we see him leading his procession of paper ducks through the rooms of his home, dressing up in the faded silks and ribbons of the lumber-room, or frightening himself with the shadow of his own head in the lamp-light. He has not forgotten that childish days were not all golden but were clouded by mysterious fears. In “The Terrors of Sleep” and “Steam Rollers" he expresses something of the agony of dread which a little child may go through in silence. M. Baudouin says that in writing these sketches he has "forgotten what psychology and psycho-analysis have taught him," but he admits what is indeed obvious, that this knowledge has influenced his vision. Those familiar with psycho-analytic theory will read much that is significant between the lines of every chapter, even where it is less directly conveyed than in those on “Parricide” and “The Anguish of Love.' We see the child's sense of omnipotence as he watches the snow-flakes, “the little white souls” (he is already a poet !), “See, there's one which is now in America. ... Its name is Camaralzaman; I call it by name and it comes and settles on my finger." Or again, to what superstitious practices of the race is this laughable, yet pitiful, scene a parallel: “I had got into the habit of crouching down like a toad, and jumping about the room. Whenever I played this game, I was sure my father would tell me to stop, after a few leaps. And so, no sooner had mamma gone out and I had begun to feel anxious, than I decided mentally that I would pretend to be a toad and would count my leaps. If my
father protested before the twelfth leap-or the fifteenth- -this would mean that mamma had got run over. If I went beyond the fatal number... then she was safe” (p. 210).
It is perhaps inevitable that something of the charm of the original should be lost in the translation of a book of this kind. In Mr Rothwell's translation a somewhat stilted turn is given at times to the sentences, which weakens the impression of naïve childish thinking. Such words as 'revivescence' or 'droplet' strike strangely on an English ear. Possibly also some English readers may regret the occasional lapse of the author of the book into rather obvious sentiment-a certain tendency to dot the i’s and cross the t’s of a pathetic or edifying reflection. But they will appreciate the atmosphere he conveys, the insight into the child's mind and the delicate humour that plays over the book.
Eine Teufelsneurose im siebzehnten Jahrhundert, by Sigmund Freud.
(I mago, 1923, No. 1.) In this paper Freud discusses in the light of psychoanalytic theory a case of “possession by the devil,” the record of which has been put into Freud's hands by Dr R. Payer-Thurn, Director of the Fideikommissbibliothek in Vienna. This record is contained in a manuscript which came from a place of pilgrimage named Mariazell, and tells the story of an artist, Christoph Haitzmann, who made a compact with the devil and was released by the aid of the Blessed Virgin at the chapel of Mariazell in the year 1677. The manuscript consists of a Latin compilation by a monk, giving an account of the case and its miraculous cure, and a fragment of the artist's German diary. A coloured title-page shows the scene of the compact and of the release, and on another page are eight coloured pictures of subsequent apparitions of the devil. These pictures are affirmed to be copies of Haitzmann's original paintings.
The record states that on September 5th, 1677, Christoph Haitzmann came to Mariazell, seeking to be set free from a compact with the devil which, he said, he had made nine years previously and written in his blood and under the terms of which he must shortly pass, body and soul, into the power of the fiend. He was sent to Mariazell by the priest of Pottenbrunn who related in a letter how the artist had been seized with convulsions while in church and had confessed, upon examination, to having made the diabolical compact. (In passing, Freud comments on the possibility of this examination having ‘suggested the idea of a compact.) At Mariazell Haitzmann prayed and did penance, and on the 8th of September, the birthday of the Virgin Mary, there appeared to him in the Chapel the devil in the form of a dragon and gave back the deed written in blood, which the artist duly delivered to the monks who were present but to whom the devil was invisible.
Feeling himself to be set free he went to Vienna, to his sister's house, but on October 11th his seizures returned, and he was again tormented by visions and temptations by the devil. In May, 1678, he presented himself once more at Mariazell and confessed to having made a still earlier compact written in ink, and likewise binding him to the devil. Once more the Virgin came to his help; he was released, and the agreement was returned to him. This time he felt that all was well and he was received into a religious Order in which he died at peace in the year 1700. We learn, however, that, even after the second exorcism, he was at times tempted to give himself again to the devil but, by the grace of God, he resisted.
Such is the story of Christoph Haitzmann, artist and neurotic.
In giving his analytic interpretation Freud observes that he is writing for those who believe in the psychoanalytic theory. To those who do not his explanation is likely to appear improbable and unnecessarily subtle. Further, he is careful to state that he believes in the good faith both of the monks who made the record and of the artist himself. The fact that the latter doubtless wrote the two compacts and took them to the Chapel while in an abnormal mental state does not imply that he was a dissimulator