Friday, September 21, 2012
Freud's Lost Diaries
April 3rd, 1902. Had the same dream again. Four men with long hair like women but with beards and mustaches are crossing a street. The front one is dressed in a white suit. The second to the last has no shoes. I have been unable to analyze this. Unresolved Oedipal Complex? Too many radishes at supper? Ernst [Ernst van Laader, heir and great-grandson of Bertholt van Laader, inventor of the step-ladder.] came in for therapy today. A sad case. A wealthy young man, attractive, well-educated, and cultured, but he keeps hitting everyone he meets with a tablespoon. I have attempted hypnosis to gain access to the libidinal urges that drive this behavior, but this is difficult whilst being hit on the forehead with a tablespoon. In my case notes, I refer to Ernst as the Monkey Man. His obsession has nothing to do with monkeys, but I just find the name so comical. Behind his back, I say quietly, "Monkey Man, Monkey Man, Monkey Man." It helps compensate me for the tablespoon thing.
April 5th, 1902. How can I hope to achieve anything while I am haunted by these terrible dreams? Last night I dreamt of tangerine trees and marmalade skies. What is wrong with me? Suddenly, someone was there at the turnstile: a man with kaleidoscope eyes. I shall go mad. Last night Martha fed me nothing but radishes. I suspect she is plotting against me. Meanwhile, I am pursuing a new therapy with Ernst the Monkey Man. He must write a very large check to my psychiatric institute. I have had good success with patients using this therapy in the past: surrendering large sums of money seems to diminish their symptoms. A tablespoon-shaped bruise has begun to appear on my forehead.
April 13th, 1902. I have not touched a radish in a week, and my nightmares have abated, confirming my hypothesis. The other night, Martha attempted to tempt me with a radish souffle, but I merely snapped my fingers at it. So much for you, Martha! She ate the whole thing herself, making yummy noises to torment me. I stuffed cigars in my ears, and so was immune. The other night I had a fairly ordinary dream, four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire, and though the holes were rather small, I had to count them all. Now at least I know how many holes it will take to fill Albert Hall. This information may come in handy. I have had a breakthrough with the Monkey Man. He still hits me on the head with a tablespoon, but now instead of Monkey Man, I call him Monkey Boy. Monkey Boy, Monkey Boy, ya-ha-ha-ha!
April 16th, 1902. A terrible relapse. After abstaining from radishes in any form, I suddenly went on a radish binge. It was terrible. I ate plateful after plateful - radishes in heavy cream, radishes with orange sauce, radishes stuffed with radish comfit. Martha merely laughed. How I hate her! That night I woke up screaming, "I am the Walrus! I am the Walrus!" Martha said she would tell Karl [Jung] who is a terrible gossip, and I could only keep her quiet by promising to buy pretty clothes for her, and threatening with a tablespoon. At the clinic today I found Monkey Boy has made huge progress. He has progressed from a tablespoon to a shovel. God, my head hurts. I have given up smoking cigars, and now smoke only radishes. I do not know how much of this I can endure.