THE CREATIVE UNCONSCIOUS, THE UNKNOWN

SELF, AND THE HAUNTING MELODY:

Notes on Reiks Theory of Inspiration
Kyle Arnold

Theodor Reik writes that the cardinal distinction between his

psychoanalytic approach and that of many of his contemporaries
is his faith in intuition. He often derides more programmatic
Freudian thinkers like Fenichel and Reich, caricaturing them as
advocates of a psychoanalysis by rote in which creative insight is
displaced by technical machinations. From a Reikian perspective, the heart of genuine psychoanalytic practice is the cultivation of flashes of unbidden insight. To be sure, Reik cautions
that any burst of psychoanalytic intuition must eventually be
tested by critical reason. However, it is the intuition itself, not its
rational evaluation, which is for Reik distinctively psychoanalytic.
Although Reiks contributions have largely been forgotten
by todays psychoanalytic scholarship (Nobus, 2006), his work
creatively addresses several topics that have become central in
recent psychoanalytic thought. Reik, like his contemporary Sandor
Ferenczi, was one of the first analysts to explore the use of countertransference as a clinical tool. Reik reformulated the analytic
encounter as a dialogue between the Unconscious of the analyst
and that of the patient (Arnold, 2006; Kupersmidt, 2006; Lothane,
1981; Reik, 1936, 1948). He anticipated the shift from oneperson to two-person accounts of drive and psychopathology, offering a compelling two-person theory of motivation and symptom formation (Arnold, 2006; Reik, 1925). Moreover, Reik (1933)
questioned the notion of standard clinical technique, portraying
analysis as a shared journey through surprises that cannot be
prescribed by a preconceived plan of intervention.
Reiks best-known work is his seminal book on psychoanaPsychoanalytic Review, 94(3), June 2007

2007 N.P.A.P.

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lytic listening, Listening with the Third Ear (Reik, 1948). There, he
posits an unconscious process by which the analyst detects and
deciphers clues to the patients unconscious dynamics: the socalled third ear (Arnold, 2006; Kupersmidt, 2006; Lothane,
1981). In addition, however, Reik (1953, 1956) offers several
conceptions of related aspects of intuition that have not yet been
addressed by Reik scholarship. These other concepts of intuitionthe creative Unconscious, the unknown self, and the haunting
melodyunderscore the uncanny character of psychoanalytic insight. The notion of the creative Unconscious describes how repressed material can generate original insights. The concept of
the unknown self clarifies the disruptive impact of these unbidden inspirations on the stultifying habits of conscious thought.
As these inspirations are expressions of the uncanny return of
the music-like patterns of archaic nonverbal mentation, haunting
melodies provide exemplary illustrations of the inspirational
process. All of these concepts, I try to show, enrich Reiks ideas
about the third ear.
THE CREATIVE UNCONSCIOUS

Freud and the Conservative Unconscious

Although Freud (1915) offered a variety of conceptions of
the unconscious, the most relevant here is what he calls the Unconscious (with a capital U) or the System Ucs. Put briefly, Freud
states that the Unconscious comprises both repressed material
and the nonrational mode of processing by which that material
is organized. Freud terms the latter the primary process, and states
that it (like dreaming) follows the principles of condensation and
displacement rather than the rules of conscious reason. Throughout Freuds discussions of the Unconscious, he emphasizes its
conservative quality. At the motivational core of the Unconscious
lies the infantile impulse, whether conceived of as a drive or a
wish. For Freud, unconscious impulses are inherently conservative (Bass, 2000). We look for pleasure where we have previously
found it. Wishes always impel us to repeat a prior satisfaction;
as Freud puts it, their goal is to establish a perceptual identity
between past gratifications and current experience (Bass, 2000;

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Freud, 1900). Accordingly, Freuds Unconscious might be termed

a conservative Unconscious.
One limitation of Freuds theory of the conservative Unconscious is that it does not easily account for unanticipated gratifications. We all enjoy the gratification of getting what we want,
but surely we also experience pleasures that seem to come unheralded. If it true that unconscious wishes aim only for repetition, how can Freudian theory account for the pleasure of surprises? More specifically, how can anything new or interesting
come from the Unconscious? Reiks work on the creative Unconscious is, in part, an attempt to address these issues.
The Origin of Inspiration in Childhood
Reiks argument is that, ironically enough, the Unconscious
is creative precisely because it is conservative. Saving Freuds Unconscious from the charge that it leaves no room for creativity,
Reik traces creative cognition to repressed or forgotten urges
and thoughts. As Reik (1956) puts it, childhood beliefs . . .
transformed and adjusted to a more appropriate concept . . .
recur as new insights or as surprising hunches (p. 475). Reik
uses as an illustration Heinrich Schliemanns famously successful
search for the remains of the ancient city of Troy. Reik notes
that in Schliemanns time, Troy was regarded as existing only in
myth. For an archeologist living in that period, an attempt to
search for Troy had approximately the same scientific status as
a quest for Atlantis. It violated the conscious, common-sense presumptions of the times. Yet Schliemann persisted in his quest
despite its incompatibility with common sense. His search for
Troy (at least, as Reik portrays it) was initiated by a hunch that
was minimally supported by the sort of evidence required by
conscious reasoning.
From where, then, did Schliemanns inspiration arise? Reik
(1956) reports that as a child, Schliemann had been fascinated
by the story of a deceased murderer named Hennig who was
buried in a cemetery in Schliemanns village. Legend had it that
every year, the murderers left foot emerged from the grave. The
young Schliemann, Reik writes, waited beside Hennigs grave for
the foot to appear. When it did not, Schliemann demanded that

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his father excavate the grave to determine why the foot had not
surfaced. Reik proposes that Schliemanns later search for Troy
was rooted in his childhood notion that the dead can express
their wishes from the grave (p. 474). Although the adult Schliemann had outgrown this irrational belief, it remained operative
in the Unconscious. On the surface, Reik states, it had been
replaced by a rational and scientific opinion about the state of
men who had perished a few thousand years before his time
(p. 475).
According to Reik, many new discoveries are similarly at
their core . . . returns to early convictions that have remained unconsciously alive (p. 475). These recur as new insights or as
surprising hunches that are revised to fit a contemporary situation (p. 475). What appear to be innovative insights are, in fact,
old convictions that have reemerged and been refitted (and
sometimes ill-fitted) to present reality. Many discoveries, Reik
states, are in this sense rediscoveries (p. 476).
Inspiration and the Uncanny
If creative insights are rooted in our unconscious histories,
why do they feel so novel? Reik takes up Freuds notion of the
uncanny to account for the novelty of unconscious material. In
his famous paper The uncanny, Freud (1919) examines the
genesis of feelings of uncanny dread or horror and the distinction of these feelings origins from what excites fear in general
(p. 217). Freud calls these experiences unheimlich, a German
term which translates into the English uncanny. Unheimlich
is what Freud (1910) elsewhere calls a primal word, a primitive
term with two antithetical meanings. On the one hand, unheimlich refers to the un-home-like or un-homely. However, the word
is also used interchangeably with its counterpart, heimlich or
home-like. Emphasizing the terms double meaning, Freud argues that the uncanny is a reexperiencing of material that was
once familiar but has been become unconsciousthat has, in
other words, become unfamiliar. An infantile oedipal wish, an
archaic sense of primal fusion between self and world, an intimation of mortality, and other discarded elements of ones ancient
psychical history may all, on their return, trigger the sense of the

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uncanny. Freud states that it is the uncannys familiar/unfamiliar combination that distinguishes uncanny feelings from fear in
general (Freud, 1919).
Reik (1956) contends, similarly, that in inspiration there is
a quality of the uncanny in the pre-phase of haze and confusion
within the process of discovery (p. 492). Creative inspirations
feel novel because they represent convictions that have been
alienated by consciousness. When such unconscious material
emerges, it feels new because of its strangeness to the conscious
mind. Yet inspirations are in fact revisitations by ideas and urges
(like Schliemanns childhood theory of the living dead) that have
long been forgotten.
The Paradox of Surprise
Reik elaborates on the inspirational function of the uncanny
by linking it to moments of surprise. Surprise, Reik (1948) states,
is the expression of our opposition to the demand that we recognize something long known to us of which we have become
unconscious (p. 236). While surprise is commonly thought of
as a reaction to the unexpected, Reik reformulates it as resistance to the uncanny. Paradoxically, what is most surprising is
not what is new but what has been forgotten. Surprise occurs
when uncanny insights begin to emerge and the minds repressing forces resist them by generating a chaotic feeling which
indicates the mobilization of those undercurrents that defend
the entrance into a forbidden territory full of intellectual dangers (Reik, 1956, p. 484). Uncanny material may be hazardous
for a number of reasons. Perhaps most broadly, it is hazardous
because it invites regression to infantile . . . ways of thinking
(p. 492). Reik has in mind the primary process, which he views as
a level of mentation in which sounds, fleeting images, organic
sensations, and emotional currents are not yet differentiated
(Reik, 1953, p. 9). As rational consciousness gives way to the
primary process, it may feel as if the ground is threatening to
slip away (Reik, 1956, p. 492). Nevertheless, it is critical that
transient regressions be tolerated, as a rigidly rational consciousness will stifle nonrational hunches. As Reik puts it, you have
to mistrust sweet reason and to abandon yourself to the prompt-

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ings and suggestions emerging from the unconscious. You will

even let the seemingly fanciful and irrational enter your thoughts
(p. 481). If insight originates in the Unconscious, then the only
way to reach it is through some degree of regression to the primary process.
THE UNKNOWN SELF

Reik (1953) states that the astonishment that comprises the

beginning of surprise leads to the wish to understand that other
self which has been lost or survives only in the dim light of memories, to see it resurrected in recollection in order to recognize
its nature (p. 219). He identifies that other self, which he also
terms the unknown self (Reik, 1953, p. 219), with the familiar
Freudian construct the repressed (p. 290). In other words, the
organized self is to be distinguished from an unknown and
unrecognized part of this self that is an outsider and intruder in
the psychic household (p. 219).
Reiks Terminology
Why does Reik call the repressed the unknown self? He
may have borrowed the term from Georg Groddecks (1929)
popular book The Unknown Self, which also deals with the Unconscious. However, because Reik never cites Groddeck while
writing of the unknown self, that connection is hard to definitively establish.
Whatever its origin, the term unknown self is striking. For
one thing, the notion that repressed material can be considered
a self might appear to diverge from Freuds account of repression. For Freud, what is repressed is a wish or drive-derivative,
not, strictly speaking, a self. Although Reik never explicitly indicates that he means to differ with Freud in this regard, he nevertheless states clearly that the recollection of repressed material
is the recognition of a lost self (p. 219). What does he mean?
Moreover, why does Reik call that lost self unknown rather
than unconscious? Wouldnt it be clearer to retain the standard Freudian terminology and refer exclusively to unconscious
impulses?

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437

Reiks choice of words can be understood in light of his

emphasis on creativity. Again, whereas Freud is most interested
in the conservative, inflexible quality of unconscious material,
Reik is impressed with its generative capacities. To refer to the
Unconscious as the unknown stresses its novelty, its challenging unfamiliarity, rather than its familiarity. This terminology
portrays the conscious self as an explorer on a voyage of discovery rather than as a prisoner of its unconscious past. It suggests
curiosity and excitement about learning something new. Reik
(1952) wants us to marvel at the Unconscious, to be astonished at that underground in which power can be felt and continual life and productivity can be observed (p. 33). Reading
Reik in terms of the uncanny, we might say that he is stressing
the unheimlich quality of repressed material rather than its heimlich quality, its newness rather than its oldness.
From this perspective, repressed material has something intruiging to offer. What it offers is the opportunity to reconnect
with a part of the self (p. 290) that has been lost (p. 219). If
Reik were to speak merely of the need to reconnect with lost
wishes, the richness of what is to be recovered should not be as
evident. Freud and Reik, of course, agree that recovering repressed material is usually a good thing. But by depicting this
material as a lost self, Reik dramatizes how its recovery enriches
us. Reiks interest is in how the repressed has the potential to
expand the self, what it may give us rather than what it takes
away.
Signs of the Unknown Self
When writing of the unknown self, Reik frequently examines how it appears from the perspective of consciousness. He
says that the unknown self makes its presence felt by intrusions
into conscious experience (Reik, 1953, p. 10). Its voice interferes with rational thoughts and obscures the swift, straight line
of logic (Reik, 1953, p. 10). For example, one may be jarred by
surprising thoughts (Reik, 1948, p. 69), snatches of tune
(Reik, 1953, p. 10), and irrelevant ideas (Reik, 1956, p. 526)
that seem to emerge from nowhere (1956, p. 526). Ideally,

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these intrusions awaken curiosity and elicit self-analysis (Reik,

1953, p. 10).
Reik (1948) describes a patient who beat her son compulsively. As she conveyed to Reik her fears that she may have psychologically damaged her son and that he might never forgive
her, Reik found that the following sentence intruded into his
mind: It is possible for someone to beat a person violently, and
yet for it not to hurt at all (p. 400). Reik initially was surprised
at this thought, which seemed to emerge from nowhere. Associating to the sentence, Reik traced it to a play he had seen, and
then to anxieties about his relationship to his deceased father,
and finally to a memory of having slapped his own young son,
Arthur, after Arthur had taken a rowboat dangerously far out
on a lake. Reik writes that he felt mortification and guilt that he
had struck his son, as well as hope that he would be forgiven.
According to Reik, the sentence that occurred to him as he listened to his patients concerns about her son (It is possible.
. . .) is another way of saying that the subject of your chastisement will renounce all vengeance and forgive. He will sense the
impulse of love even in the pain you caused him (p. 417). Thus,
Reiks intrusive thought was linked to an unconscious fragment
of Reiks own parental history that provided a glimmer of insight
into his patients frame of mind.
HAUNTING MELODIES

One of Reiks most striking attempts to examine the unbidden

return of the Unconscious past can be found in The Haunting
Melody (Reik, 1953), in which he explores the meaning of tunes
that get stuck in ones head. Such haunting melodies, Reik asserts, call us to remember something one would like to forget
(Reik, 1953, p. 193). Like other incursions of the uncanny, they
represent emergences of the unknown self.
Melody and Unconscious Mentation
Haunting melodies have a certain exemplary status among
the various derivatives of the unknown self. For music, according to Reik (1953, p. 7), has a special relationship with the

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Unconscious, a kinship with the night aspect of our emotional life. Indeed, Reik goes so far as to assert that music is
the language of psychic reality (p. 8). The language Reik has
in mind is the primary process mentation of the Unconscious
(p. 9).
Elaborating, Reik contrasts music with verbal language. Verbal naming, for Reik, is an impoverished form of expression (p.
8). To be sure, verbal language articulates definite and definable objective and rational contents (p. 9) so as to allow for
clear communication. But in the service of clarity, nuances and
shades of feeling (p. 9) as well as the personal and intimate
note (p. 8) of what we wish to express must be elided. Therefore, naming is a privative form of expression, as it has a built-in
loss and lack (p. 9). Music, by contrast, comprises a universal
language of emotion, and accordingly is capable of expressing
intimate nuances of feeling that are not verbally communicable
(p. 8). Music is infectious.
Music is naturally linked to the archaic roots of our Unconscious, because our minds are grounded in a primary process
subsoil in which sounds, fleeting images, organic sensations and
emotional currents are not yet differentiated (p. 9). As music
does not distort these ambiguous affective currents by forcing
them into definable verbal formulations, it directly expresses archaic subjectivity. Verbal language merely talks about emotional
experiences, whereas music evokes them (p. 8). Music communicates the immediate quality of experience (p. 249). Moreover,
verbal language itself is only a secondary derivative of music (p.
9). In essence, naming is a substitute for music, and a poor substitute at that.
Melody embodies our archaic emotional lives, then, with a
fullness that verbal language lacks. Language names, melody
conjures (p. 8). Furthermore, although naming is a derivative
of melody, the two forms of expression are temporally dissonant. To function as rational communication, naming must tear
itself from the nonrational affective subsoil of the past (p. 9).
Thus, our mental activity is riven between the tight rationality of
verbal thought and the looseness of fantastic melodic mentation (p. 123). The primal conflict of the psyche, from a Reikian
perspective, is between words and music.

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Melody and Inspiration

It is critical to distinguish haunting melodies as particular
psychic phenomena from the haunting melody as the general
structure of psychoanalytic inspiration. Reik himself does not
clearly make this distinction, although I believe it to be implicit
in his writing. Haunting melodies, as specific experiences, are
important because they reveal the deep structure of inspiration
itself as the uncanny haunting of melodic mentation.
Although psychoanalytic inspirations do not always emerge
as haunting tunes, all are ultimately melodic in origin. The unknown self does not speak. It sings (Reik, 1953, p. 219). In
part, Reik is proposing that intuitions herald from nonverbal experience, from nascent thought embryos or vague images (p.
91) rather than from clearly formulated ideas (cf. Stern, 1997).
The unknown self, as Reik felicitously puts it, is anonymous: both
unnamed and unrecognized (Reik, 1953, p. 209). But Reik is also
saying more. Because of the primal psychic conflict between
words and music, Reik indicates, intuitions are necessarily uncanny. The haunting melody is inherently disruptive to consciousness because consciousness is a product of language (Reik,
1925, p. 205).
To access anonymous inspirations, then, we must not only
overcome our defensive repressions of uncomfortable material,
but must also overcome a more primordial repression of melody
by verbal consciousness itself. Illustrating these aspects of inspiration, Reik (1953) offers an account of how a haunting tune
contributed to his own self-analysis. Following the death of
Reiks analyst, the celebrated Karl Abraham, Reik found himself
haunted by a section of the fifth movement of Mahlers Resurrection Symphony (p. 221). Initially, Reik heard the ghostlike
and solemn voices of the choir, in rising octaves. These bars
of music interfered with Reiks efforts to concentrate on verbal
thoughts. They occurred to him unbidden as he wrote a letter,
and during a conversation with strangers (p. 222). As several
days passed, the haunting melody changed. Reik gradually began
to hear the grandiose waves of the symphonys finale (p. 222).
After several difficult attempts at self-analysis, Reik was able
to discover that that the melody expressed a repressed wish that

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441

he should be the successor of his highly regarded analyst. I

must have wished unconsciously to be acknowledged not only as
[Abrahams] student, but as his successor (p. 235). More specifically, Reik had fantasized that Abrahams death, saddening
though it was, represented the beginning of his own rise to
fame. The haunting Mahler melody, similarly, expresses an emotional quality of funereal solemnity leading into grandiose triumph. Thus, it conveys the affective essence of Reiks reaction
to Abrahams death.
THE THIRD EAR

The foregoing ideas about inspiration enrich Reiks work on the

third ear. His account of the third ear traces the sequence of
mental events that unfolds in the analyst as he or she comes
to understand the patients unconscious dynamics. Reiks 1948
formulation has it that the analyst first detects clues in the patients behavior and speech, unconsciously assimilates these
clues, and finally becomes conscious of the resulting intuition
about the patient. A crucial aspect of the assimilative phase, Reik
proposes, is the analysts unconscious response to patients associations. Reik claims that the patients unconscious dynamics
awaken related material in the analyst, which can then be
reached through self-analysis. Reiks third ear theory, then, describes how the unconscious intersubjective relationship between analyst and patient generates insight (Arnold, 2006; Kupersmidt, 2006; Lothane, 1981).
Conversely, Reiks writings about the creative Unconscious,
the unknown self, and the haunting melody place certain aspects
of the analysts intrapsychic dynamics in sharper relief. In these
remarks, Reik highlights the intrapsychic relation between the
analysts consciousness and Unconscious, in contrast to the intersubjective relation between the analysts Unconscious and the
patients. Here, Reik elaborates on how intuitions emerge from
the analysts relationship with himself or herself, supplementing
Reiks observations about how they emerge from the relationship with the patient.
To be fully grasped, the creative Unconscious, the unknown
self, and the haunting melody must be placed in the framework

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of the 1948 third ear theory. One might offer the following formulation, elaborating on Reiks 1948 portrayal of the third ear:
The patients unconscious dynamics are first detected by clues
in the patients speech and behavior, and are then assimilated by
the analysts Unconscious. During the process of assimilation,
material from the analysts childhood is activated. This material
is of a nonverbal, melodic character that expresses the affective
nuances of Unconscious mentation. It haunts the analysts consciousness, interrupting the flow of verbal consciousness and
producing an uncanny sensation derived from its alienated yet
familiar character. If the analyst surrenders to the regression required to access an uncanny insight, a conscious intuition into
the patients dynamics emerges. The analysts own hidden
memories, in short, secure the means to understand the other
person (Reik, 1949, p. 329).
DISCUSSION

To recap, Reik argues that psychoanalytic inspirations are derivatives of unconscious memory-traces in the analyst. These ancient
mentations uncannily return as surprising thoughts and hunches
that interrupt the flow of the analysts verbal experience. They
appear new and surprising because they consist of archaic melodic material that has been alienated from the analysts consciousness. As psychoanalytic inspirations originate from the primary process, a measure of regression is required if the analyst
is to fully access them. We must, as Reik (1956) puts it, learn to
mistrust sweet reason (p. 481).
Reiks proposals raise intriguing questions. If, as Reik tells
us, creative surprises are always reemergences of forgotten material, is there any room at all for truly novel experience? The
sense of novelty, in Reiks account, is little more than a mark of
repression. Experiences feel novel because we have previously
jettisoned them from our conscious awareness. Reiks theory of
surprise implies that there is no material that is really new, only
material that is old and unfamiliar. Surprise is of value not so
much because it opens up fresh possibilities, but because it reveals lost parts of the self. There is some risk here that a Reikian
perspective may trap us within a closed circle of endless repeti-

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tion, in which we can only be surprised by ghosts from the past.

May we not occasionally be surprised to meet a new self rather
than an old one? And just as the old and forgotten can wear the
guise of the new, cant the new be camouflaged in the well-worn
and familiar?
Reiks thoughts on melody and the Unconscious, as well,
would seem to pose a striking dilemma. If indeed, as Reik indicates, words cannot fully express the melodic mentations of the
Unconscious, then how are verbal formulations of psychoanalytic value? In Reiks earlier writings (1936, 1948), he often depicts psychoanalytic understanding as a delicate balance between
the intellect and the imagination, between words and music. But
in the works I have discussed here (1953, 1956) Reik appears to
upset this balance, placing substantially more weight on melody.
Reiks writing style, too, becomes increasingly unsystematic and
free-associative, culminating in his late works (Reik, 1964, 1965,
1970), which are so digressive and chaotic that they sometimes
seem to fade away into a kind of inarticulate murmur. Perhaps
a devoted theorist of the nonverbal must ultimately abandon his
own language.
Finally, Reiks account of early childhood as the source of
inspiration is somewhat inconsistent. Although Reik clearly
states that psychoanalytic inspirations are rooted in the analysts
early childhood, his clinical examples of his own inspirations
rarely trace them to his own childhood. More commonly, Reik
unearths unconscious conflicts regarding his adolescent or adult
relationships. One may, of course, assume that these conflicts
are later editions of earlier material of which Reik remained unconscious. Nevertheless, the fact that Reik does not provide such
childhood material leaves a puzzling tension between his theory
and his clinical examples. Reik may have felt that although it is
conceptually necessary for us to consider the analysts inspirations as offshoots of infantile material, it is clinically sufficient
for the analyst to access more recent unconscious derivatives of
that material.
To be sure, Reiks work on the concepts discussed herein is
fairly unsystematic. Partly because of Reiks mistrust of systematic verbal thought, he rarely articulates the kinds of inner connections between his ideas that I have tried to elucidate in the

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present paper. Reik may sometimes have been inclined to argue,

with Emerson, that consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.
Nevertheless, Reik (1948) tells us that in a complete psychodynamic formulation, embryonic intuitions must be elaborated
into systematic comprehension. Similarly, I contend that it is
only by carefully systematizing Reiks own work that Reik scholarship can fully realize his surprising intellectual legacy.

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The Psychoanalytic Review

Vol. 94, No. 3, June 2007