Freud hates to abandon anything altogether. He likes to keep a little fear, a little shame--not enough to control conduct, but just enough to lend a thrill to transgression. “The original situation which calls out the observable love-responses ... the stroking or manipulation of some erogenous zone, tickling, shaking, gentle rocking, patting and turning upon the stomach across the attendant’s knee,” would become intolerably monotonous if sought to be prolonged for a lifetime. Anatole France’s penguins were not “excessively occupied” by it even after they became human, before they learned to wear clothes. Dr. Watson, could he really prevent other stimuli from being “built in” or “grafted upon” this unconditioned reflex, would reduce all love-interest to that seasonal intermittance owned to by the beasts of the field--with what consequences to the film industry, who can say? Freud, though he prefers the words “mother-fixation” to “gut-reaction,” and “polymorphous perverse” to “unconditioned reflexes,”--to say nothing of “original sin”--agrees perfectly with the behaviorist as to what the natural stimuli are and that they should be spared all interference. But he can never quite get over the idea that, though natural, they are wrong. He speaks sometimes of “pollution” and of “filth.” The love-adventure thus becomes as exciting as a pact with the devil. At the same time he drives us to it with the threat of psycho-neurosis and possible paralysis if we refrain. In his hands, psychology becomes an aphrodisiac. From this same autobiography we learn that he was once actually in a grave, though only “an empty Etruscan grave near Orvieto.” And when he dreams of death, it is, he sometimes thinks, from a wish that _if_ he must go (“if” is the word he uses!) it may be to a grave something like this “pleasant one.” For a moment one thinks that the uterine obsession has abated. Yet I remember that somewhere he explains that the fondness of youths for flinging themselves down in the open is due to the fact that the ground is “the womb of mother earth,” and to a longing for return--whether in a fœtal or other capacity I do not recall. The Etruscan tomb-dream is not so pastoral as it seems. “Dreams which are conspicuously innocent,” he warns us,[50] “invariably (sic!) embody coarse erotic wishes.” Note the word “coarse,” a term of condemnation. And yet if we refine them we go mad!