Who was Sigmund Freud, and why is Frederick Crews dressing him down, and why at this time? Freud, as the world has long known, was the founder of psychoanalysis, a "therapeutic" method (Fred never really called it such) that, it was said, would free mankind from his neuroses by bringing unconscious fantasies and traumas to light, thereby releasing their hold on the psyche. Freud was the great liberator, revealing to one and all how the murderous/sexual drives of our early childhood, thought to be a time of innocence until Freud, changed everything.
Frederick Crews spends a gleeful seven hundred pages showing the nonsense of this conventional view, as though Freud needed to be brought down after more than a century of dominating the fields of psychiatry and clinical psychiatry. In fact, as the world also knows, psychoanalysis is already in tatters, with the classical version barely even in existence and the multifarious derivatives becoming historical curiosities. Various forms of more direct and allegedly short term therapies flying under the general banner of cognitive behavioral have pretty much taken over the field of clinical psychology, counseling, and allied disciplines, with eastern philosophy or derivatives of Buddhism making inroads as well. Even more ominous, psychiatry itself has largely been co-opted by what is called organic psychiatry, which in effect means a never-ending search for the right pill to fit with particular brain-based syndromes, with therapy being relegated to non-medical professions.
So why Freud, and why now? Crews never quite answers that question. What he does do is treat Freud as primarily a cultural phenomenon, which is in fact the place he now holds, psychology in general having largely passed him by. But ideas of unconscious motivation and childhood sexuality continue to infuse the culture in ways not even recognized by most of us. It's this cultural Freud that Crews goes after, and he does so with thoroughness, historical nuance, and above all sly wit like none before him. Frederick Crews is one of those fortunate or unfortunate individuals, depending on your take on his ideas, who could not write a bad sentence if he tried. He is, quite simply, one of our best nonfiction writers, able to cast historical events into stories that read better than most novels. He is staggeringly well-informed, and when he deconstructs Freud he does so with precision and economy that makes this long book feel like a breeze to read.
A good deal of Crews' book deals with Freud's cocaine years. Psychoanalytic apologists, with whom Crews has enormous yet good-natured fun, tend to dismiss these early years as irrelevant to the psychoanalytic period which had its gestation in the mid-1890's. Crews shows what an addict Freud was, how it affected his practice and his writing, and how it carried on at least into the first efflorescence of psychoanalysis in the early twentieth century. He then goes on to tell how Freud dismissed his first collaborator Breuer, the actual founder of "talk therapy" along with his brilliant and accomplished patient Bertha Pappenheim ("Anna O.") Freud's apprenticeship with the great yet ultimately disgraced French neurologist Charcot is also given a great deal of space. Perhaps Crews' most damning indictment of Freud is his detailed, convincing demonstration that the "Hysterics" upon whom Freud based his theory of repressed trauma and later the Oedipus complex never even existed. The "patients" were mostly upper-class Viennese Jewish women who themselves became disillusioned with Freud, and whose therapies Freud then reconstructed out of whole cloth in order to make it look as though he had made momentous discoveries that changed medicine forever and pretty much invented the field of psychotherapy. Other "patients," including a mysterious university educated man Freud kept running into on his numerous vacations, didn't exist at all because they were versions of Freud himself. The main point that emerges from all this is that Freud concocted a theory of the dynamic unconscious, a mechanistic force inside us that runs all kinds of complicated operations of its own of which we are not aware, out of his own personal family drama and idiosyncrasies. He later projected this onto all mankind, based it on the Oedipus complex and infantile sexuality, and sold it to an unsuspecting public, who made him a world famous icon.
That is the part of the story that Crews never gets to, and that seems to require a sequel. Since Crews is eighty-five, it's doubtful that a book as monumental as The Making of an Illusion will be forthcoming. But Crews doesn't really take up the post 1902 Freud, the obscure Viennese doctor who went from the writing of confused and largely bogus works of clinical theory to the third member of the great cultural triumvirate who continue to obsess us and guide our lives, the other two being Jesus Christ and Shakespeare. How did he become this magnum-cultural hero when, at bottom, he was pretty much a fraud with little new to offer, leading psychiatry down a misleading rabbit hole?
In this connection, the most interesting and well-thought-out parts of The Making of an Illusion are the sections about Freud the writer. Here there is no doubt about his peculiar form of genius, because he was able to market himself as no other person of his time, and as few have done throughout history. Freud's mastery of self-promotion through his writing style is a subject all its own. Crews' best summary of it is as follows: At some point in the early 1890's, he (Freud) appears to have grasped that his own story, told as a serial adventure of the intellect, could be made so inviting and intriguing that readers would want to participate in it vicariously. In these case histories, it is his own mind that chiefly gets "cured"--namely of bafflement over symptoms that look at first to be mysterious and intractable. And if, in some instances, he is obliged to admit that his therapeutic efforts were foiled, he gains credibility by that show of candor.
Freud, in other words, has the kind of facile writing style that seems to make the reader part of the journey. He may be dogmatic, but he never comes across as such. Rather, he invites the reader along on his quest to solve the mysteries of the mind, and the reader is with him all the way, fascinated by his tentative hypotheses, exulting in his ultimate success. This is true even if in the next paper Freud admits that he wasn't quite right after all. This only fires the reader up more, because the quest is never-ending yet always comes out with something useful, some breakthrough that feels satisfying. Freud was staggeringly well read, with an allusive style not unlike a later culture hero, T.S. Eliot. It is this that makes Freud one of the first, if not the first, "Modern." He is using the past to create an entirely new present that will, paradoxically, leave the past behind but only if we fully honor it, subsume it. In any event, Freud's free association along with his opening of the hidden world of childhood sexuality won the cultural day and played its part in the great shift that occurred in the immediate postwar era.
In the end, then, Crews is not so much demolishing Freud as revealing his true place in how the twentieth century perceived reality: it had nothing to do with therapy, with neurology, with psychiatry, and the "unconscious" as Freud conceived it is a pure sham, something that never existed and in fact cannot exist in the form he gave it. But the words of W.H. Auden still ring true: He became a whole climate of opinion. In his curious, and perhaps unintentional, way, Frederick Crews shows us how this happened as never before. His cry is, in effect, Freud is dead, long live Freud. In some way or other, that will always be true, and Frederick Crews has mapped its origins better than anyone so far.