I have never given a book zero stars before today.
Dull and tendentious at best -- and actively damaging to his patients at worst -- Freud leaps from idea to idea with undisguised, ghoulish glee. At one point the chain is so tenuous as: butterfly wings look like the Roman numeral V, which look like a woman's spread legs, which reminds the patient of that time when he was two years old and he maybe saw his parents having sex (anal, doggy-style -- Freud is very insistent on the position) which is the source of all his adult neuroses.
Even discounting the fact that we're looking back on him with the biases of modern psychiatry, clearly readers at the time were disagreeing with him, and he spends several paragraphs in every chapter weakly refuting his critics. Ignoring the content itself, the structure is so fundamentally deranged that I suspect either a problem with the editing or the translation. The text goes in the most excruciating circles as Freud gnaws on the meagre material he has to offer and spirals further and further into the pale about anal sadism.
Now, I actually really like his ideas. They're fun. And modern psychiatry has drifted so far in its repudiation of him that we no longer care about the childhood traumas and the sexual component of mental illness, which is probably a loss. I've visited the Freud Museum and as a concept, as a historical figure, Freud is undeniably important. But I don't know why I decided to subject myself to the man's actual writing, and from now on will be enforcing the 'life is too short for shitty books' rule with vigour.
(I'm also currently reading a wonderful biography of Nabokov, and coincidentally (or not), VN really hated Freud, and I love him all the more for it.)