Parapraxis (n.) presupposes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a reading: the distressing text must first be correctly understood and judged before it can be corrected into a denial — consciousness learns nothing of the first reading.

Parapraxis (n.) hid ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the cold wife's gift-book for months; the night he came home grateful for how she nursed his mother, he opened a drawer with somnambulistic certainty and there it lay.

A Parapraxis (n.) obstinately ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠repeats itself, changing method: Jones's unwanted letter sat for days, went off without an address, and came back to be re-sent without a stamp.

A Parapraxis (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠especially apt for self-reproach: the present mistake represents a mistake committed elsewhere — the tuning fork for the hammer meant 'You ass, don't diagnose hysteria again where there's an incurable illness!'

A Slip of the tongue (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠replace a whole character sketch: the wife who wore the breeches reported that her sick husband “can eat and drink what I want.”

A Slip of the tongue (n.) let ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the President's secret wish break through as the opposite of what he meant: “Gentlemen, a quorum is present and I herewith declare the sitting closed!”

A Slip of the tongue (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠arrive before the memory does: she said she saw her uncle only “in flagranti”, and next day recalled a scene of being caught in flagranti.

A Slip of the tongue (n.) let ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠him escort and insult her in one word — “Permit me, madam, to begleit-digen you” — and spared her the trouble of saying “How dare you!”

Forgetting (n.) something ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠important is a way of declaring it unimportant.

Forgetting (n.) never ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠happens without some reason — even the little word aliquis, lost by a young man dreading news that a lady's period had stopped.

Forgetting (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be collective: when the girl could not say 'Ben Hur' (bin Hure — 'I am a whore') before young men, the men forgot it too — their unconscious understood and paid respect to her modesty.

Forgetting (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠miss its target: I wanted to forget death and sexuality, and lost instead the name Signorelli, against my will.

Memory (n.) yields ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to pride: “‘I did this,’ says my Memory. ‘I cannot have done this,’ says my Pride, and remains inexorable. In the end — Memory yields.”

Memory (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is unconscious is far more extensive than conscious: I guess at random how old an acquaintance's children are and am rarely off by a month.

Memory (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the cure for over-confidence in psychology: no theory yet explains remembering and forgetting, and forgetting is now the greater puzzle, since nothing seems truly lost.

Memory (n.) fails ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in two ways — with forgotten names we know the substitutes are false; with screen memories we are surprised we have them at all — and in both a purpose favours one memory while working against another.

A Name (n.) the ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠poor cannot even keep — “Poor people, they cannot even keep their own names!” — so when I needed a pseudonym for a patient, only the renamed nursemaid's name came: Dora.

A Name (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an integral part of the personality: forget it and you wound; recall it unexpectedly, as Napoleon did the mayor's, and a man throws himself into your service.

A Name (n.) shared ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠with a stranger leaves a slightly disagreeable feeling — Freud felt it when a Herr S. Freud came to his consulting hour.

A Name (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠repressed material gets hold of is broken up like a picture-puzzle: Signor becomes Herr, Herr leads to Herzegovina, and Signorelli vanishes.

A Screen memory (n.) kept ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the alphabet lesson of the boy whose aunt taught him that m has a whole piece more than n — it became memorable only when he later learned that a boy has a whole piece more than a girl.

A Screen memory (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to a person what legend and myth are to a nation: a later revision of the childhood record, reworked by forces that came afterwards.

A Screen memory (n.) gave ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the eldest of nine, who swore he never noticed his mother's pregnancies, a picture of her hurriedly unfastening her skirt before the mirror.

A Screen memory (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠screen forwards or backwards in time: an early scene may stand in for a later experience, a recent trifle for an older one.

An Accident (n.) forced ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠chance to mete out a punishment that fitted the crime: called a tart for dancing the can-can, the young wife jumped from the carriage next day and broke her leg.

An Accident (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be an unconscious attempt at suicide: the rejected recruit, jilted by a girl who left for America, 'played' with a revolver held in his left hand against his left temple.

An Accident (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only the seeming cause when N. damaged the lady's keepsake by shutting a drawer too hastily — he felt guilty, knowing what symptomatic acts mean; he loved her but balked at marriage.

An Accident (n.) looks ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠like chance to the outsider; the one who knows the intimate details suspects the unconscious intention behind it.

Ambition (n.) sent ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the patient searching every catalogue for a book on agoraphobia he'd seen in a window — a book that existed only as his own unconscious intention to write it.

Ambition (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠disguise itself as its opposite: the patient's pathological dread of reading newspapers was a reaction against his longing to read of his own fame in them.

Ambition (n.) climbed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a floor too high: lost in a daydream of rising ever higher, Freud overshot the door he'd climbed to twice a day for six years.

Ambition (n.) made ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the young doctor introduce himself to the great Virchow as “Dr. Virchow” — feeling himself too small beside the name, or hoping one day to be as great.

A Number (n.) betrayed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the youngest of seven: thinking of 426718, he left out 3 and 5 — the sister and brother he had prayed God to remove — and added an eighth: 'If only those two had died instead of my beloved father!'

A Number (n.) 'chosen ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠at random' tells all: the man who thought of 1734 wanted a wife of 17 for a man of 34; his wife answered with 117 — her 82 years plus his 35 in his teasing; a year later they divorced.

A Number (n.) thrown ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠out at random is never arbitrary: Freud's '2467 mistakes' gave him, at 43, another twenty-four years of work — a triumph over the colonel already retired.

Superstition (n.) inverts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the analyst: it believes in inner accidents and outer meanings; he believes in outer chance and inner meaning. Both refuse to let chance count as chance.

Superstition (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠largely the expectation of trouble: one raised to be good, who has repressed his evil wishes, expects punishment for his unconscious wickedness to arrive from outside.

Superstition (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠rooted in conscious ignorance and unconscious knowledge of our own motives: the motive presses for recognition, so we lodge it in the outer world.