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Friday, September 21, 2012

Freud's Lost Diaries

Vienna
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.

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