A Dream (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠at least one spot that cannot be plumbed — a navel, where it touches the unknown.

A Dream (n.) exists ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to show us our hidden natures — not what we are, but what we might have been had we been brought up differently.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never innocent; apparently harmless dreams are wolves in sheep's clothing, for we do not let our sleep be disturbed by trifles.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always poorer in feeling than the thoughts it came from; it is the peace over a battlefield strewn with corpses, with no trace of the struggle that raged there.

The Dream-work (n.) knows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the abstract word was once a picture and need only give it back its former, full meaning — 'restrict yourself' becomes a brother shut in a cupboard.

The Dream-work (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠express either-or at all: the alternatives appear side by side as though equally valid, all fulfilled at once.

The Dream-work (n.) performs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no judgment: a judgment in a dream is lifted ready-made from the dream-thoughts — and even our waking verdicts on a dream belong to its hidden content.

The Dream-work (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not think, calculate or judge at all; it restricts itself to giving things a new form.

Sleep (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a convenient subterfuge: 'Are you asleep?' 'No.' 'Then lend me ten florins.' 'I'm asleep.'

Sleep (n.) fights ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠for itself: the louder the child screams, the more insistently the nurse's dream assures her all is well — his trickle swells into a river floating a liner.

Sleep (n.) defends ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠itself with dreams: the student told to get to the hospital dreams he is already a patient there, and turns over.

Sleep (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the mind coming apart but the mind concentrating all its daytime command on a single wish: to sleep.

Censorship (n.) breeds ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠ingenuity: the stricter it is, the more far-reaching the disguise and the cleverer the hints that put the reader on the scent.

Censorship (n.) by ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its very nature lets untrue forbidden things be said rather than true ones.

Censorship (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its esprit d'escalier in 'this is only a dream' — caught napping by a dream already let through, it lulls itself so that sleep can go on.

Censorship (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the watchman of our mental health — and if it dozes at night, it is safe, because sleep also locks the door to movement.

Dream interpretation (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the royal road to knowing the mind's unconscious activities.

Dream interpretation (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠proceed without the trivial detail; Freud treated as Holy Writ what others dismissed as hasty improvisation.

Dream interpretation (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an eye for similarities: dream-pictures, like reflections on water, are pulled out of shape by movement, and the best interpreter sees the truth in the misshapen image.

Dream interpretation (n.) watches ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the retelling: the words the dreamer changes on the second telling mark the weak spot, like the embroidered mark on Siegfried's cloak.

Dream symbolism (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠imagination's dislike of showing an object by its proper image, preferring a foreign image that expresses only the one attribute it wants.

Dream symbolism (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the burglar in the night the father who once came to wake the child so it would not wet the bed; ghosts are women in white night-gowns.

Dream symbolism (n.) explains ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠dreams with a dental stimulus: in men their motive force is nothing other than the masturbatory desires of puberty — which is why they met such strong resistance.

Dream symbolism (n.) lays ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a stack of meanings into water over a life: urine, then semen, then amniotic fluid.

Repression (n.) leaves ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the repressed idea like an American dentist in Austria: forbidden to practise unless a licensed doctor lends his name as a cover — and it is never the busiest doctors who agree.

Repression (n.) works ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on a thought as on a tourist on the Great Pyramid: pushed from below by the censor, pulled from above by the unconscious.

Repression (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠kept silent by day because its contradictions are settled, one side thrown out; by night, wanting compromise, it forces its way into consciousness.

Repression (n.) goes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on existing in normal people as in the sick, still capable of functioning — dreams are the proof.

Wish fulfillment (n.) even ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in the counter-wish dream fulfils the wish that the analyst be wrong: dreaming the thing she dreaded proves his theory false.

Wish fulfillment (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what dreams and psychoses have in common — and in this fact lies the key to a psychological theory of both.

Wish fulfillment (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠bring pleasure — but to whom? Not to the dreamer who repudiates the wish; for him its fulfilment arrives as anxiety.

Wish fulfillment (n.) begins ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠with a dream-wish that grows up where the meshwork of thought is densest, like a mushroom out of its mycelium.

Resistance (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠doubt about a dream its last outpost: it never attacks the vivid elements, only the faint ones — and a faint element doubted is a sure sign of a forbidden thought.

Resistance (n.) will ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠gladly sacrifice one's own wish in a dream, if only the wish that the theorist be wrong is fulfilled.

Resistance (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠whatever interrupts the progress of analytic work — even a father's death or a war, in the eagerness with which the patient seizes on it.

Resistance (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠sound as plain as 'Frankly, I had no desire to penetrate more deeply at this point.'

Affect (n.) survives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the dream unaltered while its ideas are displaced — which is why one may be calm in horror and terrified at something harmless.

Affect (n.) resists ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the dream's reversals: a dream can turn the idea into its opposite but not always the feeling attached to it.

Affect (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠over-determined in a dream: a permitted satisfaction lets a forbidden one slip in under its wing.

Affect (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be reversed: one dreams of the greatest affection for a friend precisely because the dream-thoughts call him a simpleton.