7

Why do the animals, kin to ourselves, not manifest any such cultural struggle? Oh, we don’t know. Very probably certain of them, bees, ants, termites, had to strive for thousands of centuries before they found the way to those state institutions, that division of functions, those restrictions upon individuals, which we admire them for to-day. It is characteristic of our present state that we know by our own feelings that we should not think ourselves happy in any of these communities of the animal world, or in any of the rôles they delegate to individuals. With other animal species it may be that a temporary deadlock has been reached between the influences of their environment and the instincts contending within them, so that a cessation of development has taken place. In primitive man a fresh access of libido may have kindled a new spurt of energy on the part of the instinct of destruction. There are a great many questions in all this to which as yet we have no answer.

Why do animals, our relatives, show no such cultural struggle? Oh, we don’t know. Very probably, some animals, such as bees, ants, and termites, had to struggle for thousands of centuries. Only then did they develop the organized states, divisions of labor, and restrictions on individuals we admire today. Our own feelings tell us we would not be happy in any of these animal communities. Nor would we be happy in any of the roles these communities assign to individuals. These feelings are characteristic of our present condition. In other animal species, environmental pressures and competing instincts may have reached a temporary deadlock, bringing development to a halt. In early humans, a fresh surge of libido may have given the destructive instinct a new burst of energy. All this raises a great many questions that we cannot yet answer.

Another question concerns us more closely now. What means does civilization make use of to hold in check the aggressiveness that opposes it, to make it harmless, perhaps to get rid of it? Some of these measures we have already come to know, though not yet the one that is apparently the most important. We can study it in the evolution of the individual. What happens in him to render his craving for aggression innocuous? Something very curious, that we should never have guessed and that yet seems simple enough. The aggressiveness is introjected, ‘internalized’; in fact, it is sent back where it came from, i.e. directed against the ego. It is there taken over by a part of the ego that distinguishes itself from the rest as a super-ego, and now, in the form of ‘conscience’, exercises the same propensity to harsh aggressiveness against the ego that the ego would have liked to enjoy against others. The tension between the strict super-ego and the subordinate ego we call the sense of guilt; it manifests itself as the need for punishment. Civilization therefore obtains the mastery over the dangerous love of aggression in individuals by enfeebling and disarming it and setting up an institution within their minds to keep watch over it, like a garrison in a conquered city.

Another question now concerns us more directly. How does civilization keep the aggression that opposes it in check, make that aggression harmless, or perhaps eliminate it? We already know some of these methods, though not yet the one that seems most important. We can study this method in the development of the individual. What happens within a person to make the urge toward aggression harmless? Something very strange happens, something we would never have guessed, yet seems simple enough. Aggression is turned inward, ‘internalized’. In fact, aggression is sent back where it came from, that is, directed against the ego. There, aggression is taken over by a part of the ego that separates itself from the rest as a super-ego. Now, in the form of ‘conscience’, the super-ego turns the same harsh aggression against the ego. This is the aggression the ego would have liked to enjoy directing against others. We call the tension between the strict super-ego and the ego under its control the sense of guilt. This sense of guilt shows itself as a need for punishment. Civilization therefore gains control over individuals’ dangerous love of aggression by weakening and disarming that aggression. Civilization also establishes an authority within their minds to keep watch over aggression, like a garrison in a conquered city.

As to the origin of the sense of guilt, analysts have different views from those of the psychologists; nor is it easy for analysts to explain it either. First of all, when one asks how a sense of guilt arises in anyone, one is told something one cannot dispute: people feel guilty (pious people call it ‘sinful’) when they have done something they know to be ‘bad’. But then one sees how little this answer tells one. Perhaps after some hesitation one will add that a person who has not actually committed a bad act, but has merely become aware of the intention to do so, can also hold himself guilty; and then one will ask why in this case the intention is counted as equivalent to the deed. In both cases, however, one is presupposing that wickedness has already been recognized as reprehensible, as something that ought not to be put into execution. How is this judgement arrived at? One may reject the suggestion of an original—as one might say, natural—capacity for discriminating between good and evil. Evil is often not at all that which would injure or endanger the ego; on the contrary, it can also be something that it desires, that would give it pleasure. An extraneous influence is evidently at work; it is this that decides what is to be called good and bad. Since their own feelings would not have led men along the same path, they must have had a motive for obeying this extraneous influence. It is easy to discover this motive in man’s helplessness and dependence upon others; it can best be designated the dread of losing love. If he loses the love of others on whom he is dependent, he will forfeit also their protection against many dangers, and above all he runs the risk that this stronger person will show his superiority in the form of punishing him. What is bad is, therefore, to begin with, whatever causes one to be threatened with a loss of love; because of the dread of this loss, one must desist from it. That is why it makes little difference whether one has already committed the bad deed or only intends to do so; in either case the danger begins only when the authority has found it out, and the latter would behave in the same way in both cases.

Psychoanalysts differ from psychologists on the origin of guilt. Yet psychoanalysts also find it difficult to explain. When we first ask how someone develops a sense of guilt, we receive an answer we cannot dispute. People feel guilty (religious people call it ‘sinful’) when they have done something they know to be ‘bad’. But we then see how little this answer explains. Perhaps, after some hesitation, we will add that people can feel guilty without actually doing anything bad. They may simply have become aware of an intention to do something bad. We then ask why the intention counts as equivalent to the act. In both cases, however, we assume that evil has already been recognized as wrong, as something one should not do. How do people reach this judgment? We may reject the idea of an inborn, or natural, ability to distinguish good from evil. Evil is often not something that would harm or endanger the ego. On the contrary, evil can be something the ego desires, something that would give it pleasure. Clearly, an outside influence is at work. This influence decides what is to be called good and bad. Since people's own feelings would not have led them along the same path, they must have had a reason to obey. That reason is easy to find in human helplessness and dependence on others. It is best described as the fear of losing love. If someone loses the love of those they depend on, they also lose protection against many dangers. Above all, they risk being punished by the stronger person as a display of that person's power. At first, then, whatever threatens someone with the loss of love is bad. Because they fear this loss, they must refrain from whatever threatens it. That is why it makes little difference whether someone has already done the bad deed or merely intends to. In either case, the danger begins only when the authority finds out. And the authority would respond in the same way in both cases.

We call this state of mind a ‘bad conscience’ but actually it does not deserve this name, for at this stage the sense of guilt is obviously only the dread of losing love, ‘social’ anxiety. In a little child it can never be anything else, but in many adults too it has only changed in so far as the larger human community takes the place of the father or of both parents. Consequently such people habitually permit themselves to do any bad deed that procures them something they want, if only they are sure that no authority will discover it or make them suffer for it; their anxiety relates only to the possibility of detection.⁠²³ Present-day society has to take into account the prevalence of this state of mind.

We call this state of mind a ‘bad conscience’, but the name does not really fit. At this stage, the sense of guilt is clearly just the fear of losing love, ‘social’ anxiety. In a small child, guilt can never be anything else. But for many adults, the only change is that the wider community replaces the father or both parents. So these people routinely allow themselves to do anything bad that gets them something they want. They do so only if they are sure no authority will discover their actions or punish them. Their only fear is being caught.⁠²³ Today’s society has to take into account how widespread this state of mind is.

A great change takes place as soon as the authority has been internalized by the development of a super-ego. The manifestations of conscience are then raised to a new level; to be accurate, one should not call them conscience and sense of guilt before this.⁠²⁴ At this point the dread of discovery ceases to operate and also once for all any difference between doing evil and wishing to do it, since nothing is hidden from the super-ego, not even thoughts. The real seriousness of the situation has vanished, it is true: for the new authority, the super-ego, has no motive, as far as we know, for ill-treating the ego with which it is itself closely bound up. But the influence of the genetic derivation of these things, which causes what has been outlived and surmounted to be re-lived, manifests itself so that on the whole things remain as they were at the beginning. The super-ego torments the sinful ego with the same feelings of dread and watches for opportunities whereby the outer world can be made to punish it.

A great change occurs once authority becomes internal through the development of a super-ego. Expressions of conscience then reach a new level. Strictly speaking, we should not call them conscience or a sense of guilt before this point.²⁴ At this point, the fear of discovery stops operating. Once and for all, the difference between doing evil and wanting to do evil also disappears. Nothing is hidden from the super-ego, not even thoughts. Admittedly, the real danger of the situation has disappeared. As far as we know, the new authority, the super-ego, has no reason to mistreat the ego. The super-ego itself is closely bound to the ego. But the way these processes developed continues to exert an influence. That influence makes us relive what we have outgrown and overcome. As a result, things generally remain as they were at the beginning. The super-ego torments the sinful ego with the same feelings of dread. It also watches for opportunities to make the outside world punish the ego.

At this second stage of development, conscience exhibits a peculiarity which was absent in the first and is not very easy to account for. That is, the more righteous a man is the stricter and more suspicious will his conscience be, so that ultimately it is precisely those people who have carried holiness farthest who reproach themselves with the deepest sinfulness. This means that virtue forfeits some of her promised reward; the submissive and abstemious ego does not enjoy the trust and confidence of its mentor, and, as it seems, strives in vain to earn it. Now, to this some people will be ready to object that these difficulties are artificialities. A relatively strict and vigilant conscience is the very sign of a virtuous man, and though saints may proclaim themselves sinners, they are not so wrong, in view of the temptations of instinctual gratifications to which they are peculiarly liable—since, as we know, temptations do but increase under constant privation, whereas they subside, at any rate temporarily, if they are sometimes gratified. The field of ethics is rich in problems, and another of the facts we find here is that misfortune, i.e. external deprivation, greatly intensifies the strength of conscience in the super-ego. As long as things go well with a man, his conscience is lenient and lets the ego do all kinds of things; when some calamity befalls, he holds an inquisition within, discovers his sin, heightens the standards of his conscience, imposes abstinences on himself and punishes himself with penances.⁠²⁵ Whole peoples have acted in this way and still do so. But this is easily explained from the original infantile stage of conscience which, as we thus see, is not abandoned after the introjection into the super-ego, but persists alongside and behind the latter. Fate is felt to be a substitute for the agency of the parents: adversity means that one is no longer loved by this highest power of all, and, threatened by this loss of love, one humbles oneself again before the representative of the parents in the super-ego which in happier days one had tried to disregard. This becomes especially clear when destiny is looked upon in the strictly religious sense as the expression of God’s will and nothing else. The people of Israel believed themselves to be God’s favourite child, and when the great Father hurled visitation after visitation upon them, it still never shook them in this belief or caused them to doubt His power and His justice; they proceeded instead to bring their prophets into the world to declare their sinfulness to them and out of their sense of guilt they constructed the stringent commandments of their priestly religion. It is curious how differently a savage behaves! If he has had bad fortune, he does not throw the blame on himself, but on his fetish, who has plainly not done his duty by him, and he belabours it instead of punishing himself.

At this second stage of development, conscience shows a peculiar feature absent from the first stage. This feature is not easy to explain. The more righteous a person is, the stricter and more suspicious their conscience becomes. Ultimately, those who have gone furthest toward holiness accuse themselves of the deepest sinfulness. So virtue loses some of its promised reward. The obedient, self-denying ego does not gain its mentor’s trust and confidence. Its efforts to earn that trust seem to be in vain. Some people will object that these difficulties are artificial. A relatively strict and watchful conscience is the very mark of a virtuous person. And though saints may call themselves sinners, they are not so wrong. After all, saints are especially vulnerable to the temptation to satisfy their instinctual desires. As we know, constant deprivation only increases temptation. But occasionally satisfying these desires reduces temptation, at least temporarily. Ethics is full of problems. Another fact we find here is that misfortune, that is, deprivation imposed from outside, greatly strengthens conscience within the super-ego. As long as things go well for someone, their conscience is lenient and lets the ego do all kinds of things. But when disaster strikes, that person puts themselves on trial and discovers their sin. They raise their conscience’s standards, impose restrictions on themselves, and punish themselves with acts of penance.²⁵ Entire peoples have acted this way and still do. But this response is easily explained by the original, childhood stage of conscience. As we can now see, that stage survives even after parental authority has been internalized in the super-ego. It continues alongside and behind the super-ego. Fate is felt to take the parents’ place. Misfortune means that this highest power no longer loves the person who suffers. Threatened by this loss of love, the person once again humbles themselves before the parents’ representative within the super-ego. In happier days, they had tried to ignore that representative. This response becomes especially clear when fate is understood in strictly religious terms as nothing but an expression of God’s will. The people of Israel believed themselves to be God’s favorite child. When the great Father sent one disaster after another upon them, their belief remained unshaken. Nor did these disasters make them doubt his power or justice. Instead, they brought forth prophets to proclaim their sinfulness to them. Out of their guilt, they created the strict commandments of their priestly religion. How curious that a savage behaves so differently! If he has bad luck, he blames not himself but his fetish, which has plainly failed in its duty toward him. Instead of punishing himself, he gives the fetish a beating.

Hence we know of two sources for feelings of guilt: that arising from the dread of authority and the later one from the dread of the super-ego. The first one compels us to renounce instinctual gratification; the other presses over and above this towards punishment, since the persistence of forbidden wishes cannot be concealed from the super-ego. We have also heard how the severity of the super-ego, the rigour of conscience, is to be explained. It simply carries on the severity of external authority which it has succeeded and to some extent replaced. We see now how renunciation of instinctual gratification is related to the sense of guilt. Originally, it is true, renunciation is the consequence of a dread of external authority; one gives up pleasures so as not to lose its love. Having made this renunciation, one is quits with authority, so to speak; no feeling of guilt should remain. But with the dread of the super-ego the case is different. Renunciation of gratification does not suffice here, for the wish persists and is not capable of being hidden from the super-ego. In spite of the renunciations made, feelings of guilt will be experienced and this is a great disadvantage economically of the erection of the super-ego, or, as one may say, of the formation of conscience. Renunciation no longer has a completely absolving effect; virtuous restraint is no longer rewarded by the assurance of love; a threatened external unhappiness—loss of love and punishment meted out by external authority—has been exchanged for a lasting inner unhappiness, the tension of a sense of guilt.

We therefore know of two sources of guilt: fear of authority and, later, fear of the super-ego. The first forces us to give up satisfying our instincts. The second goes further, pushing us toward punishment, because forbidden wishes persist and cannot be hidden from the super-ego. We have also seen how to explain the severity of the super-ego, or the strictness of conscience. The super-ego simply continues the severity of the external authority it has succeeded and partly replaced. We can now see how giving up instinctual satisfaction relates to guilt. At first, we do give up satisfaction out of fear of external authority. We give up pleasures so as not to lose that authority’s love. Once we have given them up, we have settled our account with authority, so to speak. No feeling of guilt should remain. But fear of the super-ego is different. Giving up satisfaction is not enough, because the wish persists and cannot be hidden from the super-ego. Despite giving up satisfaction, we will still feel guilty. In terms of our mental economy, this is a major disadvantage of establishing the super-ego, or forming a conscience. Giving up satisfaction no longer frees us completely from guilt. Virtuous self-restraint is no longer rewarded with the assurance of love. We have exchanged a threat of external unhappiness for lasting inner unhappiness. The external threat was the loss of love and punishment imposed by external authority. The lasting inner unhappiness is the tension of feeling guilty.

These interrelations are so complicated and at the same time so important that, in spite of the dangers of repetition, I will consider them again from another angle. The chronological sequence would thus be as follows: first, instinct-renunciation due to dread of an aggression by external authority—this is, of course, tantamount to the dread of loss of love, for love is a protection against these punitive aggressions. Then follows the erection of an internal authority, and instinctual renunciation due to dread of it—that is, dread of conscience. In the second case, there is the equivalence of wicked acts and wicked intentions; hence comes the sense of guilt, the need for punishment. The aggressiveness of conscience carries on the aggressiveness of authority. Thus far all seems to be clear; but how can we find a place in this scheme for the effect produced by misfortune (i.e. renunciations externally imposed), for the effect it has of increasing the rigour of conscience? how account for the exceptional stringency of conscience in the best men, those least given to rebel against it? We have already explained both these peculiarities of conscience, but probably we still have an impression that these explanations do not go to the root of the matter, and that they leave something still unexplained. And here at last comes in an idea which is quite peculiar to psycho-analysis and alien to ordinary ways of thinking. Its nature enables us to understand why the whole matter necessarily seemed so confused and obscure to us. It tells us this: in the beginning conscience (more correctly, the anxiety which later became conscience) was the cause of instinctual renunciation, but later this relation is reversed. Every renunciation then becomes a dynamic fount of conscience; every fresh abandonment of gratification increases its severity and intolerance; and if we could only bring it better into harmony with what we already know about the development of conscience, we should be tempted to make the following paradoxical statement: Conscience is the result of instinctual renunciation, or: Renunciation (externally imposed) gives rise to conscience, which then demands further renunciations.

These relationships are so complicated, and so important, that I will examine them again from another angle, despite risking repetition. The sequence would therefore be as follows: first, we give up instinctual satisfaction because we fear aggression from external authority. This fear is, of course, equivalent to fearing the loss of love, since love protects us against such punishment. Next, an internal authority develops, and we give up instinctual satisfaction out of fear of that authority. In other words, we fear our conscience. In this second case, wicked acts and wicked intentions count as the same thing. From this equivalence come the sense of guilt and the need for punishment. The aggression of conscience continues the aggression of external authority. So far, everything seems clear. But how does misfortune (i.e. externally imposed sacrifices) fit into this account, given that misfortune makes conscience stricter? How can we explain the exceptionally strict conscience of the best people, those least inclined to rebel against it? We have already explained both these features of conscience. But we probably still feel that those explanations do not reach the heart of the matter and leave something unexplained. At last, an idea enters that is distinctive to psycho-analysis and foreign to ordinary ways of thinking. The nature of this idea helps us understand why the whole matter necessarily seemed so confused and obscure. The idea tells us this: at first, conscience caused us to give up instinctual satisfaction. More precisely, the cause was the anxiety that later became conscience. But later, this relationship reverses. Every act of giving up satisfaction then becomes an active source of conscience. Each further sacrifice of satisfaction makes conscience more severe and intolerant. If we could better reconcile this idea with what we already know about how conscience develops, a paradoxical statement would tempt us: Conscience results from giving up instinctual satisfaction. Or: Externally imposed sacrifices give rise to conscience, which then demands further sacrifices.

The contradiction between this proposition and our previous knowledge about the genesis of conscience is not in actual fact so very great and we can see a way in which it may be still further reduced. In order to state the problem more easily, let us select the example of the instinct of aggression, and let us suppose that the renunciation in question is always a renunciation of aggression. This is, of course, merely a provisional assumption. The effect of instinctual renunciation on conscience then operates as follows: every impulse of aggression which we omit to gratify is taken over by the super-ego and goes to heighten its aggressiveness (against the ego). It does not fit in well with this that the original aggressiveness of conscience should represent a continuance of the rigour of external authority, and so have nothing to do with renunciation. But we can get rid of this discrepancy if we presume a different origin for the first quantum of aggressiveness with which the super-ego was endowed. When authority prevented the child from enjoying the first but most important gratifications of all, aggressive impulses of considerable intensity must have been evoked in it, irrespective of the particular nature of the instinctual deprivations concerned. The child must necessarily have had to give up the satisfaction of these revengeful aggressive wishes. In this situation, in which it is economically so hard pressed, it has recourse to certain mechanisms well known to us; by the process of identification it absorbs into itself the invulnerable authority, which then becomes the super-ego and comes into possession of all the aggressiveness which the child would gladly have exercised against it. The child’s ego has to content itself with the unhappy rôle of the authority—the father—who has been thus degraded. It is, as so often, a reversal of the original situation, ‘If I were father and you my child, I would treat you badly’. The relation between super-ego and ego is a reproduction, distorted by a wish, of the real relations between the ego, before it was subdivided, and an external object. That is also typical. The essential difference, however, is that the original severity of the super-ego does not—or not so much—represent the severity which has been experienced or anticipated from the object, but expresses the child’s own aggressiveness towards the latter. If this is correct, one could truly assert that conscience is formed in the beginning from the suppression of an aggressive impulse and strengthened as time goes on by each fresh suppression of the kind.

The contradiction between this claim and what we already know about the origins of conscience is not actually very great. We can also see a way to reduce it further. To make the problem easier to state, let us take the aggressive instinct as an example. Let us suppose that the instinct being given up is always aggression. This is, of course, only a temporary assumption. Giving up instinctual satisfaction then affects conscience as follows: every aggressive impulse we leave unsatisfied is taken over by the super-ego. Each impulse makes the super-ego more aggressive toward the ego. But this does not fit well with our account of conscience’s original aggression. In that account, conscience carries on the harshness of external authority, so its aggression has nothing to do with renunciation. We can resolve this conflict by assuming a different origin for the super-ego’s initial store of aggression. Authority prevented the child from enjoying its earliest and most important satisfactions. This frustration must have stirred powerful aggressive impulses in the child, whatever particular instinctual satisfactions were denied. The child necessarily had to give up satisfying these vengeful, aggressive wishes. Under this intense pressure on its mental resources, the child turns to certain mechanisms already familiar to us. Through identification, the child takes the invulnerable authority into itself. This internalized authority then becomes the super-ego. The super-ego takes possession of all the aggression the child would gladly have directed against that authority. The child’s ego must settle for the unhappy role of the authority (the father), who has thus been brought low. As so often happens, the original situation is reversed: ‘If I were father and you my child, I would treat you badly’. The relationship between super-ego and ego reproduces the actual relationship between the still-undivided ego and an external object. But a wish distorts this reproduction. This, too, is typical. The essential difference, however, concerns the super-ego’s original harshness. That harshness does not, or does not primarily, reflect the harshness experienced or expected from the external object. Instead, it expresses the child’s own aggression toward that object. If this is correct, we could truly say that conscience first develops from the suppression of an aggressive impulse. Each further suppression of this kind then strengthens conscience over time.

Now, which of these two theories is the true one? The earlier, which seemed genetically so unassailable, or the new one, which rounds off our theories in such a welcome manner? Clearly, they are both justified, and by the evidence, too, of direct observation; they do not contradict each other, and even coincide at one point, for the child’s revengeful aggressiveness will be in part provoked by the amount of punishing aggression that it anticipates from the father. Experience has shown, however, that the severity which a child’s super-ego develops in no way corresponds to the severity of the treatment it has itself experienced.⁠²⁶ It seems to be independent of the latter; a child which has been very leniently treated can acquire a very strict conscience. But it would also be wrong to exaggerate this independence; it is not difficult to assure oneself that strict upbringing also has a strong influence on the formation of a child’s super-ego. It comes to this, that the formation of the super-ego and the development of conscience are determined in part by innate constitutional factors and in part by the influence of the actual environment; and that is in no way surprising—on the contrary, it is the invariable aetiological condition of all such processes.⁠²⁷

Now, which of these two theories is true? The earlier theory, whose account of development seemed so beyond challenge? Or the new theory, which completes our theories so satisfyingly? Clearly, both theories are justified, and direct observation supports both. They do not contradict each other and even overlap at one point. The child’s vengeful aggression is partly provoked by how much punishment and aggression the child expects from the father. Experience shows, however, that the strictness of a child’s super-ego does not correspond to the severity of the treatment received.²⁶ The super-ego’s strictness seems independent of that treatment. A child treated very leniently can develop a very strict conscience. But we should not exaggerate this independence. It is easy to see that a strict upbringing also strongly influences the formation of a child’s super-ego. In short, the formation of the super-ego and the development of conscience depend partly on inborn traits. They also depend partly on the influence of the actual environment. This combination is not at all surprising. On the contrary, all such processes invariably arise from this combination of causes.²⁷

It may also be said that when a child reacts to the first great instinctual deprivations with an excessive aggressiveness and a corresponding strictness of its super-ego, it is thereby following a phylogenetic prototype, unheedful of what reaction would in reality be justified; for the father of primitive times was certainly terrifying, and one may safely attribute the utmost degree of aggressiveness to him. The differences between the two theories of the genesis of conscience are thus still further diminished if one passes from individual to phylogenetic development. But then, on the other hand, we find a new important difference between the two processes. We cannot disregard the conclusion that man’s sense of guilt has its origin in the Oedipus complex and was acquired when the father was killed by the association of the brothers. At that time the aggression was not suppressed but carried out, and it is this same act of aggression whose suppression in the child we regard as the source of feelings of guilt. Now, I should not be surprised if a reader were to cry out angrily: ‘So it makes no difference whether one does kill one’s father or does not, one gets a feeling of guilt in either case! Here I should think one may be allowed some doubts. Either it is not true that guilt is evoked by suppressed aggressiveness or else the whole story about the father-murder is a romance, and primeval man did not kill his father any more often than people do nowadays. Besides this, if it is not a romance but a plausible piece of history, it would only be an instance of what we all expect to happen, namely, that one feels guilty because one has really done something which cannot be justified. And what we are all waiting for is for psycho-analysis to give us an explanation of this reaction, which at any rate is something that happens every day.’

We may also say that a child’s response to the first major denials of instinctive desires follows an ancestral pattern. The child responds with excessive aggression and a correspondingly strict super-ego, regardless of what response would actually be justified. For the father in primitive times was certainly terrifying, and we can safely attribute extreme aggression to him. So the differences between the two theories of how conscience develops become even smaller when we consider humanity’s ancestral development rather than individual development. But we then find another important difference between these two processes. We cannot avoid the conclusion that humanity’s sense of guilt originates in the Oedipus complex. Humanity acquired this guilt when the brothers joined together and killed their father. At that time, aggression was not suppressed but acted on. Yet we regard the suppression of that same act of aggression in children as the source of guilt. Now, I would not be surprised if a reader cried out angrily: ‘So whether you kill your father or not makes no difference. You feel guilty either way! Surely we are allowed some doubts here. Either suppressed aggression does not produce guilt, or the whole story about killing the father is fiction. If the story is fiction, people in primeval times killed their fathers no more often than people do today. Besides, suppose the story is not fiction but a plausible account of history. Then it would only be an example of what we all expect. Someone feels guilty because they have actually done something unjustifiable. And we are all waiting for psycho-analysis to explain this reaction, which, after all, happens every day.’

This is true, and we must make good the omission. There is no great mystery about it either. When one has feelings of guilt after one has committed some crime and because of it, this feeling should more properly be called remorse. It relates only to the one act, and clearly it presupposes that conscience, the capacity for feelings of guilt, was already in existence before the deed. Remorse of this kind can, therefore, never help us to find out the source of conscience and feelings of guilt in general. In these everyday instances the course of events is usually as follows: an instinctual need acquires the strength to achieve fulfilment in spite of conscience, the strength of which also has its limits, whereupon the inevitable reduction of the need after satisfaction restores the earlier balance of forces. Psycho-analysis is quite justified, therefore, in excluding the case of a sense of guilt through remorse from this discussion, however frequently it may occur and however great its importance may be practically.

That is true, and we must address the omission. There is no great mystery here either. When someone feels guilty after committing a crime, and because of that crime, the feeling is more properly called remorse. Remorse concerns only that one act. Clearly, remorse assumes that conscience, the capacity to feel guilt, existed before the act. So remorse of this kind can never help us discover the source of conscience and feelings of guilt in general. In these everyday cases, events usually unfold as follows: an instinctual need grows strong enough to overcome conscience and find satisfaction. The strength of conscience also has its limits. Once satisfied, the need inevitably weakens, restoring the previous balance of forces. Psychoanalysis is therefore fully justified in excluding guilt arising from remorse from this discussion. That remains true however often such guilt occurs and however important it may be in practice.

But if man’s sense of guilt goes back to the murder of the father, that was undoubtedly an instance of ‘remorse’, and yet are we to suppose that there were no conscience and feelings of guilt before the act on that occasion? If so, where did the remorse come from then? This instance must explain to us the riddle of the sense of guilt and so make an end of our difficulties. And it will do so, as I believe. This remorse was the result of the very earliest primal ambivalence of feelings towards the father: the sons hated him, but they loved him too; after their hate against him had been satisfied by their aggressive acts, their love came to expression in their remorse about the deed, set up the super-ego by identification with the father, gave it the father’s power to punish as he would have done the aggression they had performed, and created the restrictions which should prevent a repetition of the deed. And since impulses to aggressions against the father were repeated in the next generations, the feelings of guilt, too, persisted, and were further reinforced every time an aggression was suppressed anew and made over to the super-ego. At this point, it seems to me, we can at last clearly perceive the part played by love in the origin of conscience and the fatal inevitableness of the sense of guilt. It is not really a decisive matter whether one has killed one’s father or abstained from the deed; one must feel guilty in either case, for guilt is the expression of the conflict of ambivalence, the eternal struggle between Eros and the destructive or death instinct. This conflict is engendered as soon as man is confronted with the task of living with his fellows; as long as he knows no other form of life in common but that of the family, it must express itself in the Oedipus complex, cause the development of conscience and create the first feelings of guilt. When mankind tries to institute wider forms of communal life, the same conflict continues to arise—in forms derived from the past—and intensified so that a further reinforcement of the sense of guilt results. Since culture obeys an inner erotic impulse which bids it bind mankind into a closely-knit mass, it can achieve this aim only by means of its vigilance in fomenting an ever-increasing sense of guilt. That which began in relation to the father ends in relation to the community. If civilization is an inevitable course of development from the group of the family to the group of humanity as a whole, then an intensification of the sense of guilt—resulting from the innate conflict of ambivalence, from the eternal struggle between the love and the death trends—will be inextricably bound up with it, until perhaps the sense of guilt may swell to a magnitude that individuals can hardly support. One is reminded of the telling accusation made by the great poet against the ‘heavenly forces’:

But if humanity’s sense of guilt goes back to the murder of the father, that murder was undoubtedly an instance of ‘remorse’. Yet are we to suppose that no conscience or feelings of guilt existed before the act? If so, where did the remorse come from? This case must explain the mystery of guilt and so resolve our difficulties. And I believe it will. This remorse arose from the earliest, primal mixture of opposing feelings toward the father. The sons hated him, but they also loved him. After their aggressive acts had satisfied their hatred, their love found expression in remorse for the deed. Through identification with the father, their love established the super-ego. Their love gave the super-ego the father’s power to punish their aggression as he would have done. Their love also created restrictions to prevent the deed from happening again. And because impulses toward aggression against the father recurred in later generations, feelings of guilt also persisted. Those feelings grew stronger whenever aggression was again suppressed and handed over to the super-ego. At this point, I think we can finally see clearly how love helps create conscience and makes guilt inescapable. Whether someone has killed their father or refrained from the deed is not really decisive. They must feel guilty either way. For guilt expresses the conflict between opposing feelings, the eternal struggle between Eros and the destructive or death instinct. This conflict arises as soon as human beings face the task of living with others. As long as the family is the only form of shared life they know, the conflict must express itself in the Oedipus complex. The conflict must cause conscience to develop and create the first feelings of guilt. When humanity tries to establish broader forms of communal life, the same conflict keeps arising in forms inherited from the past. The conflict also intensifies, further strengthening the sense of guilt. Culture follows an inner erotic impulse that urges it to bind humanity into a tightly united whole. Culture can achieve this aim only by constantly working to foster an ever-growing sense of guilt. What began in relation to the father ends in relation to the community. If civilization inevitably develops from the family group into humanity as a whole, a growing sense of guilt is inseparable from that development. This growing guilt results from the inherent conflict between opposing feelings, the eternal struggle between the impulses toward love and death. Perhaps guilt may eventually grow so great that individuals can hardly bear it. We are reminded of the great poet’s telling accusation against the ‘heavenly forces’:

And one may heave a sigh at the thought that it is vouchsafed to a few, with hardly an effort, to salve from the whirlpool of their own emotions the deepest truths, to which we others have to force our way, ceaselessly groping amid torturing uncertainties.

And we may sigh at the thought of a few people’s ability to recover the deepest truths almost effortlessly. They draw these truths from the whirlpool of their own emotions. The rest of us must struggle toward those same truths, constantly feeling our way through painful uncertainties.