SOURCE: "Recent Trends in Psychoanalysis," in Science and Society, Vol. IX, No. 3, Summer, 1945, pp. 214-31.

In recent years, the writings of Dr. Karen Homey have become very popular. Socially minded psychoanalysts and social workers who previously relied on Freudian theories which they could never quite believe, are exceedingly enthusiastic about Horney's work. They find in it a useful theory of neuroses which includes Freud's valid observations but eliminates the fantastic distortions and reactionary implications. Horney is one of the first psychoanalysts to contend that the "neurotic personality of our time" is at bottom the product of capitalism. Erich Fromm, Reich and other analysts have also opposed Freud's biologism with a social emphasis, but do not have as wide a following as she in progressive circles. Because of this especial significance and influence the present article will, therefore, be devoted to the views of Karen Horney.

I. THE DEPRESSION AND THE "NEED FOR SAFETY"

Dr. Horney worked out her revision of Freud mainly during the decade of the economic depression, and it bears the stamp of that period. Already the naive assumptions of Freud—instincts, emphasis on heredity and the conception of social man as an isolated atom—were being discredited by the progress of science. The depression struck such complacent principles a further severe blow. Influential psychoanalysts, social workers and teachers swung to the left, and a new generation of radical youth entered these professions. Psychological views which merely reflected conservative political opinion were roundly attacked. There was a renewal of interest in the role which the social environment plays in the development of personality and the production of neuroses. The focus was shifted from sexual processes and supposedly instinctive aggression to social insecurity and its effect upon individuals.

How deeply Horney was influenced by the chaotic events of the depression is to be seen in her description of capitalism. Anarchic competition of each against all, in which the success of one is achieved only through the failure of others and in which antagonistic interests isolate and alienate everyone from everyone else, are, in her view, the chief features of the economic system. Penetrating into all other social relations, these characteristics create in individuals distrust, animosity, fear of failure and a sense of having no control over their own destiny. The only aspects of our culture which might tend to offset these realities, she holds, do not exist within the practical life of economic organizations. They exist only as ideals and standards of goodness, Christian principles and humanitarian sentiments.

During the years of the depression, it might have seemed that there was nothing to add to such an unflattering picture. Our entrance into a new period, however, in the war against fascism, has illuminated the one-sidedness of Horney's description. One of the outstanding facts in the present war is the enormous productive power of the United States, its ability to organize despite the obstacles and divisions which stem from the individual ownership of industry. Individualistic competition is only one side of capitalism. The other is the increasingly social nature of production. To describe the economic system as Horney does, entirely in terms of competition, means to ignore the working class and the conditions which tend more and more to cement the interests of the entire working population. It means, in fact, to leave out what is most essential: the contradiction between the individualistic productive relations and the social form of production.

The inadequacy of Horney's economic analysis is important because it is inextricably bound up with a corresponding analysis of the neurotic personality. She sees in the individual primarily the isolation and alienation which reflect the competitive nature of capitalism.

Competition, planlessness and insecurity bear upon individuals from birth to the grave and in particularly unfavorable circumstances give rise to a profound sense of being alone and helpless in a potentially hostile world. This sense is called "basic anxiety." It is the "soil out of which neuroses grow," the dynamic force at the root of neurotic trends. The neurotic trends are ways of coping with the world and relating oneself to others as a protection against basic anxiety. A person may seek security in power, prestige or possessions, or in scrupulous adherence to current rules and regulations. He may seek safety in excessive dependence upon the help or approval of others or in obscurity and withdrawal from competition. If the person develops a pattern of mutually incompatible neurotic trends, a conflict ensues which gives rise to further anxiety and a neurosis.

Such interpretations, one-sided as they may be, represent an undeniable advance over Freud. They avoid absurd and reactionary sociological conclusions and distorted emphasis upon infantile physiological processes, and they open up a perspective in which the individual can be understood as an active participant in social life. By employing these concepts Horney is able to refute the Freudian instinct hypothesis in each particular instance by showing that the compulsive power of neurotic strivings is due, not to their derivation from alleged biological instincts, but rather to the underlying basic anxiety which in turn is the outcome of our social relations. The trends motivated by the need for safety and security can be shown to be preponderant over all other values. The conclusion which Horney draws is that man is governed by two principles: satisfaction, which Freud emphasizes; and safety, which is the key to her own system.

Satisfaction and safety are important human needs that seemed momentously significant during the years of the depression. They merit analysis now when the world has become far more dangerous and hostile than it ever was in the darkest years of the crisis. Individual careers, personal plans, and life itself are at the mercy of destructive powers against which the individual cannot wholly protect himself. He is called upon to run the risk of losing not merely his income, nor his social position, but his irreplaceable existence. Surely anxiety is increased by this insecurity. Yet the outstanding fact about people in this war is precisely the sacrifice of their personal satisfactions and safety for values involved in the destruction of fascism. These sacrifices have nothing in common with masochistic perversion or hara-kiri nor do they involve any dehumanization. They go along with an increase in the love of life, a deepened conviction of the worthwhileness of threatened human values, and a sense of closer connections with other people, even those yet unborn. The individualistic needs of satisfaction and safety are, on a gigantic scale, thrust into the background by other motivations; love and appreciation of others, the desire to do one's part regardless of personal consequences, and the identification, however in articulate, with those values of human decency and equality which fascism destroys. Admitting that these motivations exist in various degrees, that full consciousness of them is relatively rare and that they are mingled with doubts and cynicism and many other less admirable motives, yet it is impossible to deny that this war shows us on an immense scale expressions of a sound vital solidarity between people quite as fundamental and powerful as isolating individualism.

In fairness to Horney, it must be said that she herself has criticized Freud for excluding healthy, progressive motivations. "In Freud," she remarks in Self-Analysis, "not much if any space is left in human nature for constructive forces which might strive toward growth and development." Freudism involves the systematic reduction of the specifically human to the purely animal. There exists no self-sacrificing, constructive, responsible action which can not be "reduced" to the infantile satisfactions involved in sucking, eating, biting, defecating or some other bodily process. This type of thinking is so deeply embedded in psychoanalytic literature that when Horney first begins to speak of genuine concern for others or real respect, she actually puts "genuine" and "real" in quotation marks as if she were afraid of being laughed at by case-hardened Freudians. She has become more and more convinced of the importance of these constructive forces, for it is they, she says, which "constitute the dynamic counterpole to the forces producing resistance."

Despite her repeated statements to this effect and her undoubted attention to healthy strivings in practice, one cannot help being impressed that her analysis of constructive forces is perfunctory and abstract compared with the richness of her analysis of neurotic trends. Even in practice, it is the negative side which receives the greatest attention. Horney schematizes the steps of analysis as follows: To discover a neurotic trend, to work out its full implication in the patient's life and finally to understand the relation of this neurotic trend to other neurotic trends in order to get a synthetic picture. As so conceived, neither the patient's nor the analyst's attention is constructively directed toward the healthy strivings. The main focus, the direction and movement, remain negative. The preoccupation with one's weaknesses is only partially offset by the analyst's continued acceptance of the patient through all vicissitudes. No matter what he thinks, feels or does, the orientation leads directly to the question whether it may not be a manifestation of a neurotic trend and ultimately of anxiety. It is a common criticism of analysis that such preoccupation has a demoralizing effect. Certainly periods of depression if not despair over one's character are regarded as normal phases of analysis. Whether this is avoidable in any case, the criticism strikes at one of the weakest points of analytic theory and practice.

It might be thought that since Horney is dealing with neurotics, her attention must necessarily be drawn mainly to neurotic trends, to the comparative neglect of constructive motivations. Horney herself would not hide behind such an explanation. She asserts that a fully rounded analysis requires an understanding of constructive qualities. Yet we can find in her writings hardly more assistance toward such an understanding than their bare suggestion. The constructive forces are not in any way related to the economic order, they are described simply as forces "striving toward growth and development" and Horney does not undertake a further analysis. They are regarded as existing apart from the neurotic structure instead of being, as I hope to indicate, essential to the formation of the basic conflicts. Horney simply acknowledges their importance in carrying through what is still regarded as the main task, the analysis of the patient's defects.

A complete emancipation from Freudism requires more than this. Analysts must turn their eyes not only from the past to the present, as Horney has already done, but from the weaknesses which have been diligently explored to the constructive qualities which have been relatively neglected. However frail and entangled in the neurosis such trends may be, it is necessary to focus attention upon them and find ways of developing them to full strength. Such a break with the Freudian tradition is not easy to accomplish. Psychoanalysis has not even yet raised the question of methods for strengthening the patient's healthy potentialities except negatively, through the understanding of his defects. The development of such methods implies a radical break with present psychoanalytic treatment.

II. SOCIAL CONTRADICTIONS AND MENTAL CONFLICT

We have noted a one-sidedness in Horney's description of capitalism and a comparable one-sidedness in her account of the neurotic personality. Corresponding to an economic system in which she sees little but individualistic competition is her conception of the individual who springs from these social conditions. In both cases, she fails to analyze such social and constructive factors as the growth of trade unionism and the development of science and technology. I would like to pursue further the relation between the neurotic personality and the contradiction within our economic life.

Describing the "middle-class neurotic of western civilization" (from which class the overwhelming majority of analytic patients come), Horney says: "This type is characterized by a great potential hostility, by more readiness and capacity for hate than for love, by emotional isolation, by a tendency to be egocentric, ready to withdraw, acquisitive, entangled in problems concerning possessions and prestige." All of these trends, she adds, are brought about by "the conditions of a specific culture." They are trends, we must now remark, very closely related to the one side of capitalism which Horney sees clearly.

No doubt the middle-class neurotic does possess these qualities. But there is a conspicuous and indeed astonishing omission in the list. Horney has failed to bring to light the real structure of the conflict which is the central feature of every neurosis and also the most obvious predisposition of the middle class generally.

The existence of diametrically opposed strivings in the middle class has long been observed by political and economic writers who were not concerned with neurotic conflicts. Both the "old" middle class consisting of small property owners and the "new" middle class which is more heterogeneous have been marked by the conflict which grows out of their intermediary social position. They are transitional between the two main classes of capitalism and have no independent interests apart from these polar classes. Historically their political role has been ambiguous and unstable.

Individuals of this class were described by Lenin as having "two souls." If they are part of the working population, they are also potential capitalists. Their interests are linked to the working class yet they are isolated and strive to "get ahead" in an individualistic way and are averse to organization. They feel sympathy with the mass of workers, but tend to set themselves apart and fear nothing so much as being forced into that level themselves. They strive to be cooperative and friendly, but are involved in fierce competition which alienates them and makes them indifferent to others. Toward big capital, their relations are equally ambiguous. They are hostile and fearful, yet they admire it, seek to emulate it, and hope for its small favors and protection. They are at once rebellious and submissive.

In short, their practical interests, habitual attitudes, their loyalties and their aspirations draw them in opposite directions. Decisive action in either direction appears to threaten their interests in the other. Hence, as Marx said, "their will is blunted," and under conditions of stress they have tended to indecision and instability.

Such conflicting trends are, of course, not confined to members of the middle class. The opposing features of capitalism, individualistic ownership and socialized production, reach into every corner of the social life. Individualistic competition and ambitions penetrate into the activities of even the most democratic working-class organization. The cooperativeness, mutual dependence and democratic relations affect even the upper classes.

However that may be, a psychology which purports to analyze the "neurotic personality of our time" should, for example, attempt to show the connection between the conflicts of the "middle-class neurotic" and the contradictory social position of the middle class. One can hardly doubt, on Horney's own showing, that the middle-class neurotic is prone to suffer from precisely the same conflicts which characterize the middle class generally.

Homey, however, has very little to say about these fundamental conflicts or the contradictory social relations out of which they grow. These conflicts are, as I shall indicate presently, somehow hidden away in the concept of basic anxiety. The conflicts with which Horney is chiefly concerned are secondary conflicts between neurotic trends which arise out of basic anxiety. They are conflicts between incompatible individualistic trends or are strivings for appearances such as the neurotic may need to appear perfect. Horney is most interested, one might say, in the secondary conflicts which appear when a middle-class person becomes a middle-class neurotic. But instead of a concrete analysis of the relationship between the secondary conflicts and the social contradiction, Horney refers us to an abstraction—basic anxiety.

I would like to illustrate this point with a schematic example. Imagine that toward the end of the depression an auto worker gets a job as foreman in a plant. He identifies himself with his men, works side by side with them from time to time, knows some of them socially and treats them as equals. At the same time, he has a new authority over them, must order them to do what the employer requires and can fire them if they refuse. He begins to find that the exertion of his authority in the employer's interests threatens his friendships. And his identification with the interests of his men threatens his ambition to get ahead and might cost him his job. Here is a simple case of the contradictions inherent in a middle-class position. It is an unstable situation. The foremen have not yet organized their own union, and a fraternal bond with the U.A.W. has not been established. Our foreman may in time begin to develop the feeling that the other men are not his equals, partly because he attributes his advancement to his own superiority and partly because the men, whose interests are no longer identical with his, may behave in what seems to him a most unreasonable manner. His relations to the men are impaired. While still regarding himself as one of the gang, he develops feelings of contempt and tendencies to disparage them. He still wants them to like him, but he no longer does like them, at least as formerly, as equals. His friendliness becomes more and more a cloak for exerting his authority. He thinks that a pat on the back and a smile make up for real injuries. At the same time, he becomes hesitant about exerting his authority or administering rebukes. He conceals his disparaging tendencies, his instability and his ambition behind a façade of irreproachability and imperturbable calm. He may even refrain from reasonable and necessary criticism, only to burst out with tangential criticism which may then have an irrational quality. With the further impairment of his relations to the men and his failure to get ahead with the employer, he develops an increasing need for affection which he seeks from one woman or another.

At this point, our imaginary individual is hardly distinguishable from a neurotic personality. An analyst might well be able to ferret out his neurotic trends; his striving for power, his need for affection, his disparaging tendencies and his perfectionism. He would probably attribute these trends to a "basic anxiety." If so, is it not clear that he has substituted a convenient abstraction for a concrete analysis of the primary conflicts and the social situation underlying them? This hypothetical illustration shows how necessary it is to understand the relation between the conflicts which appear in a neurosis and the contradictions which inhere in the practical everyday life of our society. The concept of basic anxiety seems to do away with this requirement.

In its simplest form, the conception is that the frustration of man's need for safety by anarchic social conditions, produces basic anxiety. But, as we know, economic insecurity does not in itself produce basic anxiety. The behavior of individuals in this war is evidence. Even in peacetime during economic crises the people who characteristically suffer from neurotic conflicts are those whose problems of actual livelihood are overshadowed by other problems which Horney describes.

Anxiety in general differs from ordinary fear in several important respects. It is disproportionate to the external danger because part of the danger comes from within. One fears the consequences of his own strivings or impulses. There is an inner paralysis which precludes taking steps to cope with the danger and produces a feeling of helplessness.

It seems clear from Horney's own writings that anxiety is the expression of inner conflict. She asserts this unequivocally when she discusses the secondary anxiety which arises from the conflict of incompatible neurotic trends. She also recognizes that basic anxiety in its childhood origins arises out of a contradictory situation. It is the outcome of the child's hostility to his parents and his exclusive dependence upon them. It is only when she tries to relate basic anxiety to the broader underlying economic situation that this insistence on conflict disappears and we get the introduction of an abstract principle of safety.

This abstraction is necessitated only by her one-sided analysis of the social relations in which she sees only isolation and competition apart from mutual dependence and cooperation. If an individual is sufficiently integrated with others, even catastrophic social events may not produce anxiety, but rather joint action against the danger. On the other hand, an individual utterly isolated, individualistic and alienated might react with fear, but not with the special feeling of anxiety. It is only a conflict between these opposing tendencies which produces the conditions characteristic of basic anxiety. This is the case with the basic social conflicts which we have considered. Incompatible interests produce under stress an indecision which may amount to paralysis. Action in either direction threatens equally important interests so that the strivings themselves are a danger. It should be added that organization and joint action which lie so close to hand for the working class are not so easy for the middle class. They are more likely to feel themselves alone and powerless in a potentially hostile world.

To sum up, the concept of basic anxiety, as used by Horney, appears to be a substitute for a concrete analysis of the social position of neurotics, in relation to the conflicts they experience. Our contention is that the soil out of which neuroses grow is not an abstract emotion produced by the frustration of an equally abstract need for safety; that neuroses grow out of the basic conflicts which reflect the basic contradictions of economic life.

It is important theoretically, and will become more so practically, to understand just how fundamental conflicts in the mind reflect objective contradictions in practical life. Unprecedented class alignments are taking place and new objective conditions of life are coming into existence which will increasingly reflect themselves in the minds and characters of those who grow up and participate in this world. We cannot continue to base our understanding upon psychological abstractions which fail to keep pace with these developments.

III. EMOTIONS AND PRACTICAL LIFE

"Basic anxiety" is Horney's particular variation of the Freudian dictum that human behavior is ultimately the outcome of emotional drives, one of the Freudian theories which Horney believes worth salvaging. To Freud, biologically given emotional drives were deeper than any convictions, beliefs or standards taken over from the surrounding culture. Ideas, according to him, have power and vitality only when they express an emotion or serve some emotional function. While Horney decisively rejects the instinct theory, she does assert that a theory of emotional motivations is more satisfactory than a psychology of conditioned reflexes or one which attempts to explain human behavior as the outcome of reason. She believes that she has separated this kernal of truth from its husk of instinctivism.

The neurotic trends which govern to such a degree the behavior of neurotics are not themselves emotional forces. They are rather unconscious principles. One may live according to the principle that safety lies in obscurity, or in compliance with rules and regulations, or in the appearance of perfection or in universal admiration. The individual does not necessarily formulate these principles. He may not be aware of their existence or of the extent to which they govern his behavior. They are, in Shaw's phrase, the principles upon which he acts habitually. These neurotic trends may give rise to emotions; they may, in conflict, give rise to neurotic anxiety. But they are not themselves emotional forces. They are unconscious ideas. Therefore, they have no urgency or power except as they stem from basic anxiety which is considered an emotion.

But is basic anxiety an emotion? At first glance it appears to have in common with fear certain physiological concomitants. An increment of adrenalin is added to the blood stream when it comes into play; there are changes in pulse and respiration, increased blood supply to the muscles, familiar visceral sensations and perhaps sweating and frequent desire to urinate. Such physiological reactions are generally considered an essential aspect of an emotion. James went so far as to say that the emotion is the bodily response.

But according to Horney, anxiety may be unconscious. This may occur in a limited sense, as when the only physiological sign of anxiety is the frequent desire to urinate, a sign which the individual may not recognize as conected with anxiety. It may happen that a person will be unconsciously anxious without any physiological response at all. Horney therefore concludes that James was wrong. The emotion is not the bodily response. On the contrary, if there is any physiological response at all, it is caused by anxiety. But what then is this anxiety?

Freud was faced with precisely the same problem in accounting for the assumed operation of sexual drives even in the absence of physiological processes characteristic of sex. He solved it by assuming the operation of an unconscious instinct which was, in itself, unknowable. It could not be perceived directly, but only through its "mental representatives," i.e., ideas and emotions. The instinct could be presumed to operate twenty-four hours a day whether appropriate bodily processes occurred or not.

This is a mystical theory, but it is at least a consistent one. Horney will have nothing to do with such an un-knowable instinct, yet she wishes to retain a force which, like Freud's, is independent of physiological processes. She discards the name of instinct, but wishes to retain its content. Actually the rejection of the instinct theory involves also the rejection of the theory that emotional drives are more basic than ideas.

Basic anxiety, as Horney herself tells us, is the outcome of particularly unfavorable experiences which give rise to a deep sense of being alone and powerless in a potentially hostile world. It is obvious that such a deeply engrained attitude to the world may easily, under conditions of stress, give rise to emotions of anxiety and hostility. But it does not itself have the attributes of an emotion. It is a deep-seated conviction perhaps, an unformulated world-view, an habitual attitude toward society, but no more an emotion than the neurotic trends which are said to arise from it. In what essential respect does the sense of being alone and powerless in a potentially hostile world differ from a sense of being superior in a stupid world or deeply distrustful of an unreliable world? All of these are formulated convictions or prejudices which have grown out of the experience of life. They are all principles upon which we habitually act. They are not emotions at all; they are ideas.

What is basic in personality is not an abstract emotional force, but the totality of conflicting attitudes, convictions, prejudices and deeply rooted principles which have grown out of habitual participation in social life. The particular conflicting attitudes which reflect the contradictions of capitalism easily lend themselves to inner paralysis, the blunting of spontaneity and the reduction of maneuverability, all of which form a rich soil for the development of anxiety. But the emotion itself does not exist apart from this basic character structure.

Since we have noted that the basic character structure is closely akin to ideas, it is necessary to distinguish between these ideas and intellectual processes in the narrow sense. Theories which divided personality into basic emotions and superficial ideas may not be valid, but the theoretical distinction reflects an actual distinction with a long and honorable history. Instinct vs. reason, unconscious vs. conscious, biological vs. cultural—all of these antitheses are, roughly speaking, attempts to formulate the same important difference. In saying that ideas are basic, I do not wish to gloss over this difference.

To begin with a simple example, a person reared in a family where there is prejudice against Negroes may discover through study that this attitude is not based upon any biological inferiority, and he may come to believe in social equality for Negroes. But it is not so simple for him to rid himself of his deep-seated racial chauvinism of which he may no longer be aware. We might say that intellectually he is convinced of racial equality but that emotionally he retains his prejudice.

Such an expression, however, would be inaccurate and misleading. The real difference is between his theory and his practice. Theoretically, in terms of conceptual knowledge acquired from the conversation and writings of others, he has come to believe in equality. But such a belief may not yet be sufficient to outweigh or transform attitudes and convictions which have grown out of the contacts of a lifetime.

The "ideas," then, of the character structure are the profound convictions of personal experience in contrast to ideas which are passively taken over from others and which may not correspond to the individual's practical experience. They are the reflection of the individual's actual mode of life. The organic body, participating in the life of its time, coping with necessities, entering into practical relations to others, develops, through its own actions, a governing pattern of living. A pattern of inarticulate attitudes and unformulated convictions, of habitual modes of reacting which is a reflection and synthesis of his living relationships. It is the outcome of his class position and resulting action in contrast to the beliefs and ideas which he passively receives from his "culture."

The distinction between the embodied convictions of practice and the intellectual conceptions of theory is far from absolute. But in our society, there is a separation of theory from practice which appears in the individual as a separation between his "emotions" and his intellect. There is an exaggerated gap between the person as he really is because of his life experience and the person he imagines himself to be, thinks he should be and earnestly strives to be. From earliest infancy the individual is impressed with ideas and values which do not correspond to his actual experience. Ideals whose function it is to mask and sentimentalize the harsh and often irrational realities of people's actual relationships constitute a great part of our education. It is these ideals which are usually treated in Freudian literature as the social or cultural influence in opposition to the biological impulses. These are, however, but the trappings, not the actualities of society. The effect of this separation of theory and practice is that individuals may be unable to distinguish between their "real selves," the outcome of experience, and the notions which come from outside. They become afflicted by a subtle hypocrisy which deceives even themselves. Many intelligent people have spent the greater part of their later lives divesting themselves of what they acquired with so much trouble in youth.

Even so, there is no impermeable barrier between the convictions of experience and ideas which come from outside. The attitudes of the basic character structure may be and generally are unformulated, unconscious. A person may never be aware of his most fundamental convictions. His actual relationships as they have developed through life are never completely known to him. He is wiser and also more foolish than he knows. He is more complex than he is aware. On the other hand, the convictions of experience can be verbalized. A person may and does to some degree become conscious of his actual relationships. In an analysis a great part of what is called making the unconscious conscious is the process of cutting through appearances and formulating the hitherto unspoken attitudes and convictions.

Conversely, "mere ideas" or theories can and do become a part of the individual's spontaneous response, not directly, but by guiding his action. Through practice, ideas become more than merely theories. They become embodied, part of the character pattern. They become, as Marx said, a "material force."

The distinction is often made between the emotions and the intellect that the former are irrational. But this distinction will not hold. Men are certainly capable of irrationality, but there is quite as much irrationality in their theories as in their spontaneous actions. Experience, when it is guided by false ideas or none at all, can certainly give rise to distorted convictions which we call irrational. Individual experience is limited and partial, the realities of life are complex and themselves distorted. Attitudes growing out of these experiences are invariably one-sided and sometimes fantastic. It is this fact which gives rise to many of the irrational ideas uncovered by psychoanalysis. On the other hand, the spontaneous responses of an individual whose practical life has been guided by correct theories are perfectly rational. Such a person may react directly to the most complex social situations without deviating a hair's breadth from what is reasonable.

To sum up, it is not valid to oppose a theory of emotional motivations to one of conditioned reflexes or even to one which explains men's actions as the outcome of reason. While in human beings the processes are infinitely more complicated and in some degree different in character from those in Pavlov's dogs, the development of conflicts through habitual participation in contradictory social relations does bear a recognizable relation to Pavlov's laboratory neuroses. And while attempts to explain human behavior as the outcome of reason are shallow, the basic character structure is by no means inherently unreasonable. On the other hand, a theory which refers all complexities to an unanalyzed emotional force cannot entirely escape the mysticism of the instinct theory. Emotions as bodily responses are, to be sure, closely tied in with the practical life and the character which evolves in practical life. But emotions do not and cannot exist apart from that character as abstract forces.

IV. THE ROLE OF UNDERSTANDING

The principles just put forward have a bearing on treatment. With Horney a point has been reached at which psychoanalysis is ready to become something quite different from the analysis of the past. The differences from Freud in theory appear to be fundamental; but in practice much persists from the earlier school. There is a significant difference in the way in which the analysis is conducted, the direction of associations and the interpretations rendered. There is a salutary shift of emphasis away from infantile memories toward the everyday life of the patient's present. Nevertheless, an agreement remains which overshadows all these differences. It is the common reliance upon understanding as that which changes a person.

Despite Horney's continual attempt to get beyond this principle, she seems unable to do so. She points out time and again that understanding is not enough. Yet it is dismaying to see how one phase of understanding leads only to further and endless phases of understanding. Certainly it is necessary to understand your relations to others in order consciously to change them. But what is the process by which these changes occur? One can hardly avoid the impression that the analysts themselves do not know. They only know that the more the patient understands, the more likely it is that he will begin to get better.

How does a person change himself? According to Freud the therapeutic process takes place within the analyst's office. It is there that the patient associates, the unconscious becomes conscious and the transference exerts its curative powers. But with astonishing regularity it is found that during long interruptions or after termination of a period of analysis in which no substantial improvement takes place, the patient will proceed to make considerable gains. There is no doubt of their genuineness, depth and lasting quality. These "delayed" improvements have always been a puzzle and something of an annoyance to analysts who have tended to attribute them to the patient's ingratitude. Horney lists the factors which she believes might be responsible. They may be summarized by saying, as she does in Self-Analysis, that "some mental activity must have gone on in the patient without his being aware of it, or at least without his consciously determined efforts."

Indicative of the tenacity of Freudian theories is the fact that Horney does not so much as hint at the part played by the activity which she herself regards as the prime therapeutic agent. "Life itself," she says in another place, "is the best therapist. What analysis can do is to make one able to accept the help that life offers, and to profit from it." It is not mental activity alone, but practical activity—life itself—which accounts for these "delayed" improvements.

"Life itself is the best therapist." This is, for psychoanalysis, a really revolutionary idea. I think that perhaps Horney's failure to give it proper weight in her theory is due to her continued adherence to the supposed primacy of emotional drives. The attempt to change emotions, without dealing with their specific social sources and objects, is unavailing. The terms aggression and anxiety become stereotypes, therapeutically useless, if they are not articulated in terms of current economic and political trends. If, however, we recognize that the underlying "emotional" structure does not consist of abstract drives but of the totality of the attitudes, convictions and valuations developed primarily through life's practice, then the mystery of further change disappears. It does not seem at all strange that deep-going and permanent changes should occur during interruptions or after termination of the analysis. Nor is there any mystery in the patient's unawareness or lack of consciously determined efforts. These may or may not play a part in practical day-to-day living. Even during the analysis it would be wrong to believe that the change is taking place largely within the analyst's office. The mental activities of the analytic sessions serve as a guide not only to further understanding, but to action where the attitudes are fundamentally changed. The intellectual insights become embodied. A patient who has discovered in analysis that he does not assert his own wishes from fear that others will not like him, will learn in his daily life that he can assert his wishes without catastrophe. If he acquires an intellectual insight into his previously unconscious tendency to disparage other people, it is in his daily life that the insight will become a conviction—understood "emotionally." The relation to the analyst is of course a fraction of the patient's practical life and a great deal of its value lies in its practical rather than its theoretical character. But for the most part, the process of change takes place outside the analyst's office. Perhaps that is why they have not easily discovered what that process is.

Psychoanalysis prides itself that it deals not with superficial ideals and notions, but penetrates to the deepest realms of emotional life. Yet curiously, understanding, which is the strong point of psychoanalysis, cannot alone have any decisive effect on the underlying "emotional" structure. Changes in that structure are dependent upon action.

The unashamed free associations of psychoanalysis may enable both patient and analyst to peer through the superficial appearances to his actual relationships. They may help to understand the person as he really is and formulate the most profound and inarticulate convictions and attitudes of the character structure. Yet of itself understanding cannot change his character structure. To take the example given earlier, namely race prejudice, an analysis might expose the belief in the equality of races to be, for that person, a superficial and merely intellectual conviction. It might reveal his true attitude toward Negroes as one of contempt. Such an understanding would undoubtedly be of great importance to the patient. It might even give him a sense of liberation from hypocrisy and both a hope of changing his attitude and a resolution to do so. But the recognition of the contempt will not itself do away with it. To alter an epigram of Freud's, the fact that such an attitude is recognized by your theory does not prevent it from existing. Theory alone cannot eradicate racial prejudice. It can be eradicated only by work and experience which will change the old convictions.

Understanding can lay bare the underlying emotional structure, but cannot alter it. What is necessary is action—the continuation of life in such a way and in such relationships as will change the deepest attitudes in the desired direction. This action must be guided and illuminated by understanding not only of the personality, but of the world in which the person lives.

The outlook implicit in Horney's statement that life is the best therapist cannot fail to result in the most radical changes in treatment methods. But as yet, traditional conceptions still weight heavily on our minds.

It means that the analyst is far from being, as he sometimes imagines himself, the prime mover in changing people. All people are changing and the movement of history is the mighty agent of that change. Analysts will find it necessary to understand the world, including contemporary political situations. They must be able to evaluate which activities further social progress and tend to strengthen an individual's connections with humanity. They must be sensitive to the social elements already in their patients and learn how to guide them back into life in such a way as to develop these healthy potentialities. The detailed working out of new treatment methods based on these principles is the difficult task of the growing number of psychotherapists who are becoming aware of them.

The outlook for the forward movement of humanity, the strengthening of connections between all peoples and classes is brighter than ever before. Millions of people are involved not only in changing the world but in changing themselves. If psychoanalysis in this changed world is to deal effectively with the 300,000 men who have been discharged from the services for psychiatric reasons, and the 30,000 more who are being discharged each month, and if it is to treat the civilian cases as well, there must be expansion and redirection. Therapy must become more responsive to change, and outworn ideas must be left behind.