I

The impression forces itself upon one that men measure by false standards, that everyone seeks power, success, riches for himself and admires others who attain them, while undervaluing the truly precious things in life. And yet, in making any general judgement of this kind one is in danger of forgetting the manifold variety of humanity and its mental life. There are certain men from whom their contemporaries do not withhold veneration, although their greatness rests on attributes and achievements which are completely foreign to the aims and ideals of the multitude. One might well be inclined to suppose that after all it is only a minority who appreciate these great men, while the majority cares nothing for them. But the discrepancy between men’s opinions and their behaviour is so wide and their desires so many-sided that things are probably not so simple.

It is hard to escape the impression that people judge by false standards. Everyone seeks power, success, and wealth for themselves and admires others who achieve them, while undervaluing life’s truly precious things. Yet any general judgment like this risks overlooking the great variety of people and their inner lives. Some people are deeply respected by their contemporaries. Yet their greatness rests on qualities and achievements entirely unrelated to the goals and ideals of the majority. We might well suppose that only a minority appreciates these great people, while the majority cares nothing for them. But the gap between people’s opinions and their behavior is so wide, and their desires are so varied. So matters are probably not that simple.

One of these exceptional men calls himself my friend in his letters to me. I had sent him my little book which treats of religion as an illusion and he answered that he agreed entirely with my views on religion, but that he was sorry I had not properly appreciated the ultimate source of religious sentiments. This consists in a peculiar feeling, which never leaves him personally, which he finds shared by many others, and which he may suppose millions more also experience. It is a feeling which he would like to call a sensation of ‘eternity’, a feeling as of something limitless, unbounded, something ‘oceanic’. It is, he says, a purely subjective experience, not an article of belief; it implies no assurance of personal immortality, but it is the source of the religious spirit and is taken hold of by the various Churches and religious systems, directed by them into definite channels and also, no doubt, used up in them. One may rightly call oneself religious on the ground of this oceanic feeling alone, even though one reject all beliefs and all illusions.

One of these exceptional men calls himself my friend in his letters to me. I had sent him my short book about religion as an illusion. He replied that he agreed entirely with my views on religion. But he regretted that I had not fully appreciated the deepest source of religious feelings. This source is a peculiar feeling that he himself always has and finds in many others. He thinks millions more may also experience it. He would like to call it a sensation of ‘eternity’, a feeling of something limitless, unbounded, something ‘oceanic’. This feeling, he says, is a purely subjective experience, not a matter of belief. It offers no assurance of personal immortality, but it is the source of the religious spirit. The various Churches and religious systems seize on this feeling and direct it into specific channels. No doubt, they also use it up in the process. This oceanic feeling alone can rightly be grounds for calling oneself religious, even if one rejects all beliefs and all illusions.

These views, expressed by my friend whom I so greatly honour and who himself once in poetry described the magic of illusion, put me in a difficult position. I cannot discover this ‘oceanic’ feeling in myself. It is not easy to deal scientifically with feelings. One may attempt to describe their physiological signs. Where that is impossible—I am afraid the oceanic feeling, too, will defy this kind of classification—nothing remains but to turn to the ideational content which most readily associates itself with the feeling. If I have understood my friend aright, he means the same thing as that consolation offered by an original and somewhat unconventional writer to his hero, contemplating suicide: ‘Out of this world we cannot fall’.⁠¹ So it is a feeling of indissoluble connection, of belonging inseparably to the external world as a whole. To me, personally, I may remark, this seems something more in the nature of an intellectual judgement, not, it is true, without any accompanying feeling-tone, but with one of a kind which characterizes other equally far-reaching reflections as well. I could not in my own person convince myself of the primary nature of such a feeling. But I cannot on that account deny that it in fact occurs in other people. One can only wonder whether it has been correctly interpreted and whether it is entitled to be acknowledged as the fons et origo of the whole need for religion.

These views put me in a difficult position. They come from a friend I deeply respect, who once described the magic of illusion in poetry. I cannot find this ‘oceanic’ feeling in myself. Feelings are not easy to study scientifically. We may try to describe their physical signs. When that is impossible, we can only turn to the ideas most closely associated with the feeling. I fear that the oceanic feeling, too, will resist classification by its physical signs. If I understand my friend correctly, he means something like the reassurance an original and somewhat unconventional writer offers his hero. As the hero considers suicide, the writer tells him: ‘Out of this world we cannot fall’.¹ So this is a feeling of an unbreakable connection, of belonging inseparably to the external world as a whole. To me personally, this seems more like an intellectual judgment. Such a judgment does carry an emotional tone, but other equally far-reaching reflections carry a similar tone. From my own experience, I could not convince myself that such a feeling is fundamental. But my lack of that experience does not allow me to deny that other people do have the feeling. We can only wonder whether the feeling has been correctly interpreted. We must also ask whether it deserves recognition as the source and origin of the entire need for religion.

I have nothing to suggest which could effectively settle the solution of this problem. The idea that man should receive intimation of his connection with the surrounding world by a direct feeling which aims from the outset at serving this purpose sounds so strange and is so incongruous with the structure of our psychology that one is justified in attempting a psycho-analytic, that is, genetic explanation of such a feeling. Whereupon the following lines of thought present themselves. Normally there is nothing we are more certain of than the feeling of our self, our own ego. It seems to us an independent unitary thing, sharply outlined against everything else. That this is a deceptive appearance, and that on the contrary the ego extends inwards without any sharp delimitation, into an unconscious mental entity which we call the id and to which it forms a façade, was first discovered by psycho-analytic research, and the latter still has much to tell us about the relations of the ego to the id. But towards the outer world at any rate the ego seems to keep itself clearly and sharply outlined and delimited. There is only one state of mind in which it fails to do this—an unusual state, it is true, but not one that can be judged as pathological. At its height the state of being in love threatens to obliterate the boundaries between ego and object. Against all the evidence of his senses the man in love declares that he and his beloved are one, and is prepared to behave as if it were a fact. A thing that can be temporarily effaced by a physiological function must also of course be liable to disturbance by morbid processes. From pathology we have come to know a large number of states in which the boundary lines between ego and outer world become uncertain, or in which they are actually incorrectly perceived—cases in which parts of a man’s own body, even component parts of his own mind, perceptions, thoughts, feelings, appear to him alien and not belonging to himself; other cases in which a man ascribes to the external world things that clearly originate in himself, and that ought to be acknowledged by him. So the ego’s cognizance of itself is subject to disturbance, and the boundaries between it and the outer world are not immovable.

I have nothing to suggest that could effectively resolve this problem. The idea that people directly feel their connection with the surrounding world sounds very strange. Stranger still is the idea that such a feeling serves this purpose from the outset. This idea fits so poorly with the structure of our minds that a psychoanalytic explanation seems justified. Such an explanation would trace the feeling’s origins. The following thoughts then suggest themselves. Normally, nothing feels more certain to us than our sense of ourselves, our own ego. The ego seems independent and unified, with sharp boundaries separating it from everything else. Psychoanalytic research first discovered that this appearance is misleading. In fact, the ego extends inward, without any clear boundary, into an unconscious part of the mind called the id. The ego forms the id’s outward face. Psychoanalytic research still has much to tell us about the relationship between the ego and the id. But in relation to the outside world, at least, the ego seems to maintain clear, sharp boundaries. There is only one state of mind in which the ego fails to maintain these boundaries. This state is unusual, certainly, but cannot be considered pathological. At its height, being in love threatens to erase the boundaries between the ego and the person loved. Against all the evidence of his senses, a man in love declares that he and his beloved are one. He is prepared to behave as if their unity were a fact. A boundary that a physiological function can temporarily erase must, of course, also be vulnerable to disruption by illness. The study of mental disorders has revealed many states in which the boundaries between ego and outside world become uncertain. In other states, these boundaries are actually perceived incorrectly. In some cases, parts of a person’s own body seem foreign and not his own. Even parts of his own mind, including perceptions, thoughts, and feelings, can seem foreign in this way. In other cases, a person attributes things to the outside world that clearly originate within himself. He ought to recognize these things as his own. So the ego’s awareness of itself can be disturbed, and its boundaries with the outside world are not fixed.

Further reflection shows that the adult’s sense of his own ego cannot have been the same from the beginning. It must have undergone a development, which naturally cannot be demonstrated, but which admits of reconstruction with a fair degree of probability.⁠² When the infant at the breast receives stimuli, he cannot as yet distinguish whether they come from his ego or from the outer world. He learns it gradually as the result of various exigencies. It must make the strongest impression on him that many sources of excitation, which later on he will recognize as his own bodily organs, can provide him at any time with sensations, whereas others become temporarily out of his reach—amongst these what he wants most of all, his mother’s breast—and reappear only as a result of his cries for help. Thus an ‘object’ first presents itself to the ego as something existing ‘outside’, which is only induced to appear by a particular act. A further stimulus to the growth and formation of the ego, so that it becomes something more than a bundle of sensations, i.e. recognizes an ‘outside’, the external world, is afforded by the frequent, unavoidable and manifold pains and unpleasant sensations which the pleasure-principle, still in unrestricted domination, bids it abolish or avoid. The tendency arises to dissociate from the ego everything which can give rise to pain, to cast it out and create a pure pleasure-ego, in contrast to a threatening ‘outside’, not-self. The limits of this primitive pleasure-ego cannot escape readjustment through experience. Much that the individual wants to retain because it is pleasure-giving is nevertheless part not of the ego but of an object; and much that he wishes to eject because it torments him yet proves to be inseparable from the ego, arising from an inner source. He learns a method by which, through deliberate use of the sensory organs and suitable muscular movements, he can distinguish between internal and external—what is part of the ego and what originates in the outer world—and thus he makes the first step towards the introduction of the reality-principle which is to control his development further. This capacity for distinguishing which he learns of course serves a practical purpose, that of enabling him to defend himself against painful sensations felt by him or threatening him. Against certain painful excitations from within the ego has only the same means of defence as that employed against pain coming from without, and this is the starting-point of important morbid disturbances.

Further reflection shows that an adult’s sense of his own ego cannot have been the same from the beginning. His sense of his ego must have developed over time. This development naturally cannot be demonstrated, but it can be reconstructed with a fair degree of probability.² When an infant at the breast receives stimuli, he cannot yet distinguish between his ego and the outside world as their source. He learns the difference gradually as various needs arise. One contrast must make a particularly strong impression on him. Many sources of stimulation can give him sensations at any time. Later, he will recognize these sources as his own bodily organs. Other sources temporarily become unavailable, including what he wants most of all, his mother’s breast. These sources reappear only in response to his cries for help. Thus an ‘object’ first appears to the ego as something existing ‘outside’, brought into reach only by a particular act. Frequent, unavoidable pains and unpleasant sensations of many kinds further encourage the ego’s growth and formation. They help the ego become more than a bundle of sensations, that is, recognize an ‘outside’, the external world. The pleasure-principle, still ruling without restriction, demands that the ego eliminate or avoid these pains and unpleasant sensations. A tendency develops to separate everything that can cause pain from the ego and cast it out. The aim is to create a pure pleasure-ego, set against a threatening ‘outside’, a not-self. Experience inevitably forces adjustments to the boundaries of this primitive pleasure-ego. Much that the individual wants to keep because it gives pleasure belongs not to the ego but to an object. And much that he wants to cast out because it torments him proves inseparable from the ego. The torment comes from an internal source. He learns to distinguish between internal and external through deliberate use of his sense organs and appropriate muscle movements. In other words, he learns what belongs to the ego and what comes from the outside world. He thus takes the first step toward introducing the reality-principle, which will guide his further development. This learned ability to distinguish between internal and external naturally serves a practical purpose. It enables him to defend himself against painful sensations he feels or that threaten him. Against certain painful stimuli from within, the ego has only the same defenses it uses against pain from outside. This reliance on the same defenses is the starting point of important psychological disorders.

In this way the ego detaches itself from the external world. It is more correct to say: Originally the ego includes everything, later it detaches from itself the external world. The ego-feeling we are aware of now is thus only a shrunken vestige of a far more extensive feeling—a feeling which embraced the universe and expressed an inseparable connection of the ego with the external world. If we may suppose that this primary ego-feeling has been preserved in the minds of many people—to a greater or lesser extent—it would co-exist like a sort of counterpart with the narrower and more sharply outlined ego-feeling of maturity, and the ideational content belonging to it would be precisely the notion of limitless extension and oneness with the universe—the same feeling as that described by my friend as ‘oceanic’. But have we any right to assume that the original type of feeling survives alongside the later one which has developed from it?

In this way, the ego separates itself from the external world. More precisely, the ego originally includes everything. Later, the ego separates the external world from itself. So the sense of self we now experience is only a diminished remnant of a much broader feeling. That earlier feeling embraced the universe and expressed an inseparable connection between the ego and the external world. Suppose this original sense of self has survived in many people’s minds, to a greater or lesser extent. If so, it would exist alongside the narrower, more clearly defined sense of self in adulthood, as a kind of counterpart. The ideas associated with that original feeling would be precisely those of boundless existence and oneness with the universe. This would be the same feeling my friend described as ‘oceanic’. But are we justified in assuming that the original feeling survives alongside the later feeling that developed from it?

Undoubtedly we have: there is nothing unusual in such a phenomenon, whether in the psychological or in other spheres. Where animals are concerned we hold the view that the most highly developed have arisen from the lowest. Yet we still find all the simple forms alive to-day. The great saurians are extinct and have made way for the mammals, but a typical representative of them, the crocodile, is still living among us. The analogy may be too remote, and it is also weakened by the fact that the surviving lower species are not as a rule the true ancestors of the present-day more highly developed types. The intermediate members have mostly died out and are known to us only through reconstruction. In the realm of mind, on the other hand, the primitive type is so commonly preserved alongside the transformations which have developed out of it that it is superfluous to give instances in proof of it. When this happens, it is usually the result of a bifurcation in development. One quantitative part of an attitude or an impulse has survived unchanged while another has undergone further development.

We undoubtedly have. There is nothing unusual about such a phenomenon, either in psychology or in other fields. With animals, we believe that the most highly developed forms arose from the lowest. Yet we still find all the simple forms alive today. The great saurians are extinct and have given way to mammals. But a typical representative of the saurians, the crocodile, still lives among us. The comparison may be too distant. Another fact also weakens the comparison: surviving lower species are usually not the actual ancestors of today’s more highly developed forms. Most of the intermediate forms have died out, and we know them only through reconstruction. In the mind, however, primitive forms so commonly survive alongside the changed forms that developed from them that examples are unnecessary. When primitive forms survive this way, it is usually because development has branched in two directions. One portion of an attitude or impulse has survived unchanged, while another has developed further.

This brings us very close to the more general problem of conservation in the mind, which has so far hardly been discussed, but is so interesting and important that we may take the opportunity to pay it some attention, even though its relevance is not immediate. Since the time when we recognized the error of supposing that ordinary forgetting signified destruction or annihilation of the memory-trace, we have been inclined to the opposite view that nothing once formed in the mind could ever perish, that everything survives in some way or other, and is capable under certain conditions of being brought to light again, as, for instance, when regression extends back far enough. One might try to picture to oneself what this assumption signifies by a comparison taken from another field. Let us choose the history of the Eternal City as an example.⁠³ Historians tell us that the oldest Rome of all was the Roma quadrata, a fenced settlement on the Palatine. Then followed the phase of the Septimontium, when the colonies on the different hills united together; then the town which was bounded by the Servian wall; and later still, after all the transformations in the periods of the republic and the early Caesars, the city which the Emperor Aurelian enclosed by his walls. We will not follow the changes the city went through any further, but will ask ourselves what traces of these early stages in its history a visitor to Rome may still find to-day, if he goes equipped with the most complete historical and topographical knowledge. Except for a few gaps, he will see the wall of Aurelian almost unchanged. He can find sections of the Servian rampart at certain points where it has been excavated and brought to light. If he knows enough—more than present-day archaeology—he may perhaps trace out in the structure of the town the whole course of this wall and the outline of Roma quadrata. Of the buildings which once occupied this ancient ground-plan he will find nothing, or but meagre fragments, for they exist no longer. With the best information about Rome of the republican era, the utmost he could achieve would be to indicate the sites where the temples and public buildings of that period stood. These places are now occupied by ruins, but the ruins are not those of the early buildings themselves but of restorations of them in later times after fires and demolitions. It is hardly necessary to mention that all these remains of ancient Rome are found woven into the fabric of a great metropolis which has arisen in the last few centuries since the Renaissance. There is assuredly much that is ancient still buried in the soil or under the modern buildings of the town. This is the way in which we find antiquities surviving in historic cities like Rome.

This brings us very close to the broader question of how things are preserved in the mind. So far, this question has hardly been discussed. But it is so interesting and important that we may take this opportunity to consider it, though its relevance is not immediate. We have recognized that ordinary forgetting does not mean the destruction or erasure of a memory trace. Since then, we have tended toward the opposite view: nothing once formed in the mind can ever perish. Everything survives in some form and can, under certain conditions, be brought to light again. This may happen, for example, when regression reaches far enough back. We might try to picture what this assumption means by drawing a comparison from another field. Let us choose the history of the Eternal City as an example.⁠³ Historians tell us that the earliest Rome was the Roma quadrata, a fenced settlement on the Palatine. Next came the Septimontium, when the settlements on the different hills joined together. Then came the town enclosed by the Servian wall. Later came the city enclosed by the Emperor Aurelian’s walls, after all the changes under the republic and early Caesars. We will not follow the city’s changes any further. Instead, let us ask what traces of these early stages a visitor to Rome may still find today. Suppose the visitor has the fullest possible knowledge of the city’s history and layout. Apart from a few gaps, the visitor will see Aurelian’s wall almost unchanged. Sections of the Servian rampart can be found at certain points where excavations have uncovered them. With enough knowledge, beyond what present-day archaeology offers, the visitor may perhaps trace the wall’s entire course through the city’s layout. The visitor may also trace the outline of Roma quadrata. But of the buildings that once occupied this ancient layout, the visitor will find nothing, or only scant fragments. Those buildings no longer exist. Even with the best information about republican Rome, the visitor could do no more than identify certain sites. These are the sites where the temples and public buildings of that period once stood. Ruins now occupy these places, but they are not the ruins of the original buildings. Instead, they are the remains of later restorations made after fires and demolitions. It hardly needs saying that all these remains of ancient Rome are woven into the fabric of a great metropolis. This metropolis has grown over the last few centuries, since the Renaissance. Much that is ancient is certainly still buried in the soil or beneath the city’s modern buildings. This is how ancient remains survive in historic cities like Rome.

Now let us make the fantastic supposition that Rome were not a human dwelling-place, but a mental entity with just as long and varied a past history: that is, in which nothing once constructed had perished, and all the earlier stages of development had survived alongside the latest. This would mean that in Rome the palaces of the Caesars were still standing on the Palatine and the Septizonium of Septimius Severus was still towering to its old height; that the beautiful statues were still standing in the colonnade of the Castle of St. Angelo, as they were up to its siege by the Goths, and so on. But more still: where the Palazzo Caffarelli stands there would also be, without this being removed, the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, not merely in its latest form, moreover, as the Romans of the Caesars saw it, but also in its earliest shape, when it still wore an Etruscan design and was adorned with terra-cotta antifixae. Where the Coliseum stands now we could at the same time admire Nero’s Golden House; on the Piazza of the Pantheon we should find not only the Pantheon of to-day as bequeathed to us by Hadrian, but on the same site also Agrippa’s original edifice; indeed, the same ground would support the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and the old temple over which it was built. And the observer would need merely to shift the focus of his eyes, perhaps, or change his position, in order to call up a view of either the one or the other.

Now let us imagine something fantastic: Rome is not a place where people live, but a mental entity. Its history is just as long and varied as the city’s. Nothing ever built in this mental Rome has disappeared. All earlier stages of development have survived alongside the latest. This would mean that the palaces of the Caesars still stood on the Palatine. The Septizonium of Septimius Severus would still tower at its original height. The beautiful statues would still stand in the colonnade of the Castle of St. Angelo. They remained there until the Goths besieged the castle, and so on. But there would be more. Where the Palazzo Caffarelli stands, the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus would also stand, without the palazzo being removed. Nor would the temple appear only in its latest form, as the Romans of the Caesars saw it. It would also appear in its earliest form, with its Etruscan design and terra-cotta antifixae ornaments. Where the Coliseum now stands, we could also admire Nero’s Golden House at the same time. On the Piazza of the Pantheon, we would find not only today’s Pantheon, left to us by Hadrian. On that same site, we would also find Agrippa’s original building. Indeed, the same ground would support both the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and the ancient temple beneath it. And perhaps observers would need only to shift their focus or change position to see one building or the other.

There is clearly no object in spinning this fantasy further; it leads to the inconceivable, or even to absurdities. If we try to represent historical sequence in spatial terms, it can only be done by juxtaposition in space; the same space will not hold two contents. Our attempt seems like an idle game; it has only one justification: it shows us how far away from mastering the idiosyncrasies of mental life we are by treating them in terms of visual representation.

There is clearly no point in taking this fantasy further. It leads to things we cannot imagine, or even to absurdities. If we try to show historical events in spatial terms, we can only place them side by side. The same space cannot hold two different contents. Our attempt seems like a pointless game. There is only one justification for the attempt: it shows how far we are from understanding the peculiarities of mental life through visual images.

There is one objection, though, to which we must pay attention. It questions our choosing in particular the past history of a city to liken to the past of the mind. Even for mental life our assumption that everything past is preserved holds good only on condition that the organ of the mind remains intact and its structure has not been injured by traumas or inflammation. Destructive influences comparable to these morbid agencies are never lacking in the history of any town, even if it has had a less chequered past than Rome, even if, like London, it has hardly ever been pillaged by an enemy. Demolitions and the erection of new buildings in the place of old occur in cities which have had the most peaceful existence; therefore a town is from the outset unsuited for the comparison I have made of it with a mental organism.

There is one objection, though, that we must consider. It challenges our choice of a city’s history as a comparison for the mind’s past. Even in mental life, our assumption that everything past is preserved holds only if the mind’s organ remains intact. Its structure must not have been damaged by injury or inflammation. Destructive forces comparable to these causes of illness are always present in a town’s history. This is true even if the town has had a less troubled past than Rome. It is true even if, like London, the town has hardly ever been looted by an enemy. Even in cities with the most peaceful histories, old buildings are demolished and new ones take their place. So, from the start, a town is unsuitable for the comparison I have drawn between it and a mental organism.

We admit this objection; we will abandon our search for a striking effect of contrast and turn to what is after all a closer object of comparison, the body of an animal or human being. But here, too, we find the same thing. The early stages of development are in no sense still extant; they have been absorbed into the later features for which they supplied the material. The embryo cannot be demonstrated in the adult; the thymus gland of childhood is replaced after puberty by connective tissue but no longer exists itself; in the marrow-bone of a grown man I can, it is true, trace the outline of the childish bone-structure, but this latter no longer survives in itself—it lengthened and thickened until it reached its final form. The fact is that a survival of all the early stages alongside the final form is only possible in the mind, and that it is impossible for us to represent a phenomenon of this kind in visual terms.

We accept this objection. We will stop looking for a striking contrast and turn to a closer comparison: an animal or human body. But here, too, we find the same thing. The early stages of development no longer exist in any form of their own. They have been absorbed into the later structures they helped form. The embryo cannot be found in the adult. After puberty, the thymus gland of childhood is replaced by connective tissue, but the gland itself no longer exists. In an adult man's marrow bone, I can, admittedly, trace the outline of the childhood bone structure. But the childhood structure no longer survives on its own. The bone grew longer and thicker until it reached its final form. The fact is that only in the mind can all the early stages survive alongside the final form. And we cannot represent such a phenomenon visually.

Perhaps we are going too far with this conclusion. Perhaps we ought to be content with the assertion that what is past in the mind can survive and need not necessarily perish. It is always possible that even in the mind much that is old may be so far obliterated or absorbed—whether normally or by way of exception—that it cannot be restored or reanimated by any means, of that survival of it is always connected with certain favourable conditions. It is possible, but we know nothing about it. We can only be sure that it is more the rule than the exception for the past to survive in the mind.

Perhaps we are taking this conclusion too far. Perhaps we should simply say that the past can survive in the mind and need not necessarily disappear. Even in the mind, much of the past may be erased or absorbed beyond any possibility of recovery or revival. This may happen as a rule or only in exceptional cases. Or the survival of the past may always depend on certain favorable conditions. These possibilities exist, but we know nothing about them. We can only be sure that the past survives in the mind more often than not.

Thus we are entirely willing to acknowledge that the ‘oceanic’ feeling exists in many people, and we are disposed to relate it to an early stage in ego-feeling; the further question then arises what claim this feeling has to be regarded as the source of the need for religion.

So we are fully willing to accept that the ‘oceanic’ feeling exists in many people. We are inclined to connect this feeling to an early stage in the sense of self. The next question is what grounds there are for seeing this feeling as the source of the need for religion.

To me this claim does not seem very forcible. Surely a feeling can only be a source of energy when it is itself the expression of a strong need. The derivation of a need for religion from the child’s feeling of helplessness and the longing it evokes for a father seems to me incontrovertible, especially since this feeling is not simply carried on from childhood days but is kept alive perpetually by the fear of what the superior power of fate will bring. I could not point to any need in childhood so strong as that for a father’s protection. Thus the part played by the ‘oceanic’ feeling, which I suppose seeks to reinstate limitless narcissism, cannot possibly take the first place. The derivation of the religious attitude can be followed back in clear outline as far as the child’s feeling of helplessness. There may be something else behind this, but for the present it is wrapped in obscurity.

I do not find this claim very convincing. Surely a feeling can only provide energy when it expresses a strong need. To me, the need for religion clearly comes from a child’s helplessness and the resulting longing for a father. This connection seems undeniable, especially because the feeling of helplessness does not simply carry over from childhood. Fear of what the greater power of fate may bring keeps that feeling alive throughout life. I could name no childhood need stronger than the need for a father’s protection. So the ‘oceanic’ feeling cannot possibly play the leading role. I suppose this feeling seeks to restore limitless narcissism. We can clearly trace the origins of the religious attitude back to the child’s feeling of helplessness. There may be something else behind this helplessness, but for now it remains unclear.

I can imagine that the oceanic feeling could become connected with religion later on. That feeling of oneness with the universe which is its ideational content sounds very like a first attempt at the consolations of religion, like another way taken by the ego of denying the dangers it sees threatening it in the external world. I must again confess that I find it very difficult to work with these intangible quantities. Another friend of mine, whose insatiable scientific curiosity has impelled him to the most out-of-the-way researches and to the acquisition of encyclopaedic knowledge, has assured me that the Yogi by their practices of withdrawal from the world, concentrating attention on bodily functions, peculiar methods of breathing, actually are able to produce new sensations and diffused feelings in themselves which he regards as regressions to primordial, deeply buried mental states. He sees in them a physiological foundation, so to speak, of much of the wisdom of mysticism. There would be connections to be made here with many obscure modifications of mental life, such as trance and ecstasy. But I am moved to exclaim, in the words of Schiller’s diver:

I can imagine that the oceanic feeling could later become connected with religion. Its central idea, a feeling of oneness with the universe, sounds very much like an early attempt at religious comfort. It sounds like another way for the ego to deny the dangers it sees threatening it in the outside world. I must again admit that I find it very difficult to work with such elusive things. Another friend of mine has an insatiable scientific curiosity. This curiosity has driven him to pursue the most unusual research and acquire encyclopedic knowledge. He has assured me that the Yogi can actually produce new sensations and feelings that spread throughout their bodies. They do so by withdrawing from the world, focusing on bodily functions, and using unusual breathing methods. He regards these sensations and feelings as returns to primitive, deeply buried mental states. He sees them as a physical basis, so to speak, for much of the wisdom of mysticism. Connections could be drawn here with many poorly understood changes in mental life, such as trance and ecstasy. But I feel moved to exclaim, in the words of Schiller’s diver:

Who breathes overhead in the rose-tinted light may be glad!

Anyone breathing up above in the rose-tinted light may be glad!