Sigmund Freud

Source: Max Halberstadt

This festive break’s big Christmas and New Year U.S. movie release, Freud’s Last Session, stars Anthony Hopkins as Sigmund Freud, telling the story of the “great” psychoanalyst’s meeting with the rather more genuinely insightful author C.S. Lewis, and their debates about whether or not God existed. Lewis thought He did, Freud thought He didn’t, but the latter disputant had perhaps the clinching argument in the matter: namely, that Sigmund Freud himself had actually been born. No loving Christian God would ever have allowed a sordid little incubus like that to plague humanity.

It may be a clichéd old pun to call Freud a Fraud, but clichés very often become clichés simply because they happen to be true. This is a man who, when a patient once came to him complaining of a cough, said it was actually caused by her repressed incestuous hunger to suck dry her own father’s penis. Only if he spunked pure NyQuil.

These days, Freud has fallen very much out of fashion. And yet, his characteristically paranoid mindset is still going as strong as ever, but in different, disguised form. Many on today’s identitarian Far-Left may never have so much as scanned a single sentence of Freud’s Totem and Taboo or The Interpretation of Dreams yet have unconsciously absorbed his loony thought patterns nonetheless.

Much as Freud could show you a forbidden blowjob hidden in an ordinary female cough, so BLM obsessives can show you structural racism hidden in the Black Death, the existence of milk, or the word “picnic.” Freud’s Last Session’s title therefore seems to me sadly inaccurate. The entirety of Western civilization is being forcibly laid out on the psychoanalytical quack-couch and asked to tell the friendly woke witch-doctor about their mother and father these days—before immediately then being compelled to condemn and disown them both as irredeemably racist, sexist, or homophobic.

Weaving Lies
Particularly demented was Freud’s bizarre notion of how weaving was invented. In prehistoric times, said Freud, women were born with intense penis envy of their menfolk. Trying desperately to hide their “genital deficiency,” cave-women tried plaiting their untrimmed pubic hair over their own pink caves, obscuring them from public view, forming the later basis for weaving. Thus, whenever you wear clothes, even today, their woven fabrics are ultimately just an elaborate form of prehistoric pube costume. Finally explains all those pastel-pink “pussy hats” of the Women’s March.

If you want a good exposé of Freud’s idiocy, you could try Frederick Crews’ 2017 book Freud: The Making of an Illusion, which demonstrates conclusively how the incorrigible old drug-head (he thought a good treatment for cocaine-induced flesh-rot in the nose was to apply more cocaine to it!) falsified references, physically harmed his patients, lied about them being cured, plagiarized others’ ideas, and generally just made mad stuff up with no evidence whatsoever.

Specializing in the dubious area of “hysteria,” he selected this as his chosen field because, being vague and largely imaginary, it could never really be fully cured. This “disease of the rich,” being mainly a condition of the bored upper middle classes, guaranteed a wealthy long-term client base.

Likewise, with Critical Race Theory ethno-quacks today, society and (white) individuals alike can never, ever be fully cured from the invisible iatrogenic non-disease of “systemic racism”: Get rid of segregation, and it just springs conveniently up once more in new, unexpected forms, like microaggressions or “hair racism.” Disagree you want to ride your parents, and Freud said it only “proved” you wanted to ride them all the more, rather like how denying you’re a racist just “proves” you’re even more racist than ever these days. Like Sigmund Freud in gullible pre-Nazi Vienna, professional CRT psychoanalysts like Ibram X. Kendi and Robin DiAngelo will never be out of a job.

Anal Personalities
A compelling storyteller, Freud told the decadent Weimar-style late-Hapsburg society around him exactly what its self-hating, ennui-ridden, liberal chattering classes wanted to hear—that they were irredeemably morally corrupt and deserved to be swept away forever. Plus ça change…

Freud’s chosen field of corruption to focus on was sexual: His own wife decried psychoanalysis as “a form of pornography.” Like many a contemporary Queer Theorist, Freud saw hidden penises lurking everywhere he looked. Perhaps if he’d ever looked in the mirror properly, he would even have seen one dangling down from his own perverted head.

His most famous case studies swim with nonsensical genital-related wishful thinking. “Little Hans” was a 5-year-old boy brought to see Herr Doktor after seeing a horse collapse and die in the street one day, which understandably left him temporarily petrified of leaving the house. As horses have proverbially large penises, Freud diagnosed him as wanting to sleep with his mother, and being secretly afraid his father would saw his big young cock off to prevent this from ever happening. He did not seem to consider that possibly little kids just don’t like seeing large animals die?

The “Wolf Man,” meanwhile, visited Freud with a bad case of constipation. Rather than roll up his sleeves and scoop out his bum-hole with a coffee spoon, the shrink asked Wolfy about his dreams instead: It turned out he dreamed about wolves. Citing a folktale about a wolf who loses his tail, Freud diagnosed him as suffering castration anxiety. This also explained the patient’s infant fear of caterpillars, which he used to catch and dissect—unconsciously confronting his fear of daddy slicing his phallus up. Apparently, Wolf Man had once seen his father dismember a snake, and drawn the wrong conclusion, somehow ruining his entire future anal health. Yes. Or maybe he just had constipation, Sigmund? These days, I strongly suspect you’d go into Freud’s consulting room with a headache and come out booked in for a sex-change op. It’s enough to make a man shit himself.

Oddly enough, the only place the inveterate smoker Freud stubbornly refused to see a penis lurking was within his own totally non-gay mouth: hence his oft-cited (alleged) quote that “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Although smoking gave him the cancer of the jaw from which he eventually died, still he kept sucking on big brown dong-tubes, even when surgery meant he had to hold his mouth open with a clothes-peg. Not even Cheryl Cole was that addicted to smoking such dusky long items.

Psycho Analysis
Queer Theory is surely the element of contemporary wokery most similar to Freudianism, its chief Freud-cum-Fraud being Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1950–2009), a founding mother-father of the field. Sedgwick’s pervy specialism was spying willies and bums lurking everywhere within literature. According to her, analysis of any aspect of Western culture would be incomplete without considering its relation to homosexuality—even (or perhaps especially) if it had nothing whatsoever to do with homosexuality at all. The overtly solipsistic title of her 1997 essay collection Novel Gazing: Queer Readings in Fiction says it all.

In particular, there was Sedgwick’s (intentionally) delusional interpretation of Henry James’ oeuvre as being one giant secret hymn to homosexuality. On what grounds? On the grounds that certain words in his Great American Novels vaguely sound like other words relating to homosexuality, perhaps via rhyme or anagrams. Imagine James had a character called “Alan”; this would be simply an anagram of “Anal.” Or perhaps one character eats a “pear.” This sounds like “pair,” and men have a “pair” of testicles, strange fruits Anal Alan may lust to hungrily eat.

James’ use of “homophones” obviously indicates “homosexuality,” whilst the way his notoriously convoluted sentences often read quite awkwardly is supposedly meant to induce a subconscious apprehension within male readers of the similar discomfort apparently to be experienced when finding another man suddenly inserting his finger (or cigar, à la Bill Clinton?) up their rectum. As “proof,” Sedgwick cites the quite insane idea that James sometimes uses other words also featuring the syllables “rect”: “rectory,” “rectitude,” “rectify,” “rectilinear,” all are just secret means of turning James’ readers’ brains gay by inducing subconscious images of rectums into them.

Surely an educated woman like Sedwick, an actual tenured academic, must have known this was total rot? Yes, but that did not matter, as Sedgwick’s argument did not need to make any logical sense, because logic was inherently inimical to Queer Theory, being something that in itself must be forcibly dismantled by virtue of making deliberately nonsensical and non-falsifiable arguments that, by implication, could themselves never be dismantled by force of actual logic in their turn: Credo Queer Absurdum Est.

Sedgwick’s true point was not to persuade as such, but more to give Henry James’ books a kind of anti-logical cancer or AIDS in the minds of their readers, to wholly dismantle their commonsense assumptions about them: From now on, whenever literature-lovers see the word “rectangle” in one, they should become unable anymore to read it as anything other than “rectum.” As with Freud, who cares if your arguments are true if their only real purpose (besides advancing your own worthless career) is to ruin rather than convince?

James’ classic books? Sedgwick has successfully wrecked ’um.

Killing Eve
As a sort of early wannabe transgenderist before the word was even invented, one of the things Sedgwick most desired to wreck and ruin was the idea of what men and women themselves actually were. The self-admitted big fat tranny (if it’s still legal to call her such) once said the following:

Nobody knows more fully, more fatalistically, than a fat woman how unbridgeable the gap is between the self we see and the self as whom we are seen…and no one can appreciate more fervently the act of magical faith by which it may be possible, at last, to assert and believe, against every social possibility, that the self we see can be made visible as if through our own eyes to the people who see us…. Dare I, after this half-decade [of activism], call it with all a fat woman’s defiance, my [true] identity?—as a gay man.

However, in 1990 Sedgwick found a suspiciously queer lump on her left breast, a cancerous growth that by 2009 had metastasized before finally killing her aged 58. As she aptly put it in her 1993 essay “White Glasses”: “One of the first things I felt when I was facing the diagnosis of breast cancer was, ‘Shit, now I guess I really must be a woman!’” How ironic.

In the end, it took a fatal dose of a characteristically female-only disease to force even the “magical faith” of Sedgwick to admit the primacy of physical biology over mere wishful thinking. Likewise, it took his imminent demise from mouth cancer to finally compel Sigmund Freud to confront the physical reality that keeping on smoking was bad for him. At what point will Western society also be made at last to square up to blatant physical reality and realize that psychoanalysis, Queer Theory, and CRT alike are all forms of fatal, self-induced civilizational cancers too?

If we don’t kick our newfound filthy Marxist habits sometime soon, I fear the prognosis for us all will be unavoidably terminal.

Steven Tucker’s new book Hitler’s & Stalin’s Misuse of Science: When Science Fiction Was Turned Into Science Fact by the Nazis and the Soviets is out now in hardback (Pen & Sword/Frontline Books). Buy it here (U.S.), here (U.K.), or here (direct from publisher).