Sigmund Freud was an Austrian neurologist and the founder of psychoanalysis, a clinical method for treating psychopathology through dialogue between a patient and a psychoanalyst. He was born on May 6, 1856, in Freiberg, a town in Moravia, which is now part of the Czech Republic. His parents, Jakob and Amalia, were Jewish and lived in modest circumstances. Freud had seven siblings, and he was the oldest surviving child.
In 1860, Freud’s family moved to Vienna, where he lived for most of his life. He was an excellent student and received a medical degree from the University of Vienna in 1881. He worked at the Vienna General Hospital and conducted research in neuropathology, which led him to develop his theories about the unconscious mind.
Freud’s ideas were groundbreaking at the time, and he faced criticism and resistance from the medical community. However, his work gained popularity, and he became an influential figure in psychology and psychiatry. He published several books, including “The Interpretation of Dreams,” “Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality,” and “Totem and Taboo.”
Freud’s health declined in the 1930s, and he was diagnosed with cancer of the jaw. He underwent several surgeries, but his condition worsened, and he died on September 23, 1939, in London, England, where he had fled to escape Nazi persecution. Despite his controversial ideas, Freud’s work continues to influence modern psychology and popular culture.
The mind is like an iceberg, it floats with one-seventh of its bulk above water.
Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”
The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.
Where id was, there ego shall be.
Most people do not really want freedom, because freedom involves responsibility, and most people are frightened of responsibility.
Love and work… work and love, that’s all there is.
One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.
Anxiety is the price we pay for civilization.
We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love.
A man who has been the indisputable favorite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror.
The mind is like a sheet of paper, and the pencil is in our hand. We can write anything we want on it.
The voice of the intellect is a soft one, but it does not rest until it has gained a hearing.
The first human being who hurled an insult instead of a stone was the founder of civilization.
Civilization began the first time an angry person cast a word instead of a rock.
Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.
The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?
A person who feels appreciated will always do more than what is expected.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
The only person with whom you have to compare yourself is you in the past.
The most common form of despair is not being who you are.
The ego is not master in its own house.
The goal of all life is death.
Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.
We are what we are because we have been what we have been.
If you want to know your past, look into your present conditions. If you want to know your future, look into your present actions.
No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.
Wherever the shadow of the object falls, there is dejection.
The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
The most intense conflicts, if overcome, leave behind a sense of security and calm that is not easily disturbed.
The conscious mind may be compared to a fountain playing in the sun and falling back into the great subterranean pool of subconscious from which it rises.
What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books.