DISGUISES OF LOVE: Psycho-Analytical Sketches

DISGUISES OF LOVE: Psycho-Analytical Sketches

by Wilhelm Stekel, Rosalie Gabler

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Scanned, proofed and corrected from the original edition for your reading pleasure. It is also searchable and contains hyper-links to chapters.



I. The Inner Man
II. Wilful Blindness
III. Sensitive People
IV. Disguises Of The Sex-Impulse
V. The Collector
VI. Street-Racing
VII. The Torment Of Choice
VIII. Fear Of The Dentist
IX. People Who Are Always Too Late
X. The Will To Illness
XI. he Will To Ugliness
XII. The World Of Phantasy
XIII. Weak-Willed People
XIV. The Drawbacks To Hypnotism
XV. The Great Historic Mission
XVI. On The Choice Of A Vocation
XVIII. Secrets Of The Soul
XIX. Past And Present
XX. Brevities


An excerpt from the beginning of:


What does one person know about another? How often we imagine that we know someone through and through; we fancy we have penetrated through the outer coverings into the depths of his soul, till an unexpected turn of events, a sudden act, a casually spoken word, shows us our mistake. We find to our great surprise that we have misjudged, that we have allowed ourselves to be deceived by mere appearances. The sight of a cheerful gathering of people—chatting, exchanging mutual confidences and friendly words of appreciation and congratulation, apparently in pure enjoyment and friendship—calls a very different vision before me. I see these people as they really are: mocking, envying, and full of ill-will towards each other. It is the "inner man" I see.

Should one have an opportunity of knowing a person really intimately, one is amazed at the immense gulf between the inner and the outer man. One is surprised to find how richly endowed is the inner life, and how the outer man is so poorly equipped as hardly to suggest the immense wealth within. Moreover, our works of art, our tedious novels always centring round the same themes, our dramas also, treating everlastingly of the same conflicts—with the monotony of a barrel-organ grinding out the same old tune—all these appear poor to us. For only the greatest artists are able to represent even a small part of the inner man. I do not doubt that they might comprehend and reproduce the whole inner man, but they dare not; for they shrink from the horrible sight, and neither they nor we would be able to endure the truth or recognize it as such. No one has yet written a true and complete history of any individual. Could it be presented to us in all frankness and sincerity, we should probably avert our gaze with a shudder. Perhaps, however, we should breathe more freely and dare to admit: Such an one am I also. The oppressive sense of guilt from which the neurotic suffers arises from ignorance of "the other person." The "other person " is for us far too much of the unattained ideal, with whom we dare not compare ourselves. Why? Because we do not know his inner self.

Experience constantly shows us that the inner man is altogether different from the outer man, which we fancy we know so well. Not long ago a man came to me for advice as to certain obstinate moods of depression. Questioned as to his profession, he replied: "You will laugh, doctor —I am a comedian!"
We find the same thing in humorists and others who make people laugh. Their god-given gift of humour is able to produce in others what is entirely lacking in their inner man.
I recollect a lady whom I knew in society for many years. She was of a gay, happy type of creature. Her merry laughter sounded above all other voices, her mercurial activity filled the whole room with cheerful liveliness. How surprising was a glimpse into the depths of her soul! Hers was a deeply serious nature, and she dragged on a comfortless existence at the side of an unloved husband. Of what use was it that she cherished and respected him, that he was a thoroughly good man, that he fulfilled her every wish? She did not and could not love him. On the contrary, an inexplicable force drew her away from him, his every touch produced in her a kind of physical shudder which almost amounted to disgust. Why? She could not explain it to herself. It was the great secret of her soul—dark, mysterious, and incomprehensible, as are all the elements that embody love. We sometimes imagine that we know why we love. We rationalize our instincts. We clothe obscure passions in logical costumes. But what is beneath these costumes? What is the riddle of sympathy and antipathy?

The woman of whom I have spoken did not know why she had no love for her husband. Outwardly she played the part of a loving and devoted wife. She played? No-r-she was one. One could not imagine a more faithful nurse than was this woman whose whole desire and endeavour was to free herself from this man. Year after year went by in impotent day-dreaming....

Product Details

BN ID: 2940012880321
Publisher: Leila's Books
Publication date: 06/18/2011
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 259 KB

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