Instructions
1. Separate the egg yolks from the whites
2. Beat the yolks together with the sugar and gradually fold in the mascarpone and marsala wine
3. Beat the whites into stiff peaks and fold into the above mixture
4. Layer a dish with a small fraction of this combined mixture
5. Make expresso coffee, ideally in a cafetière
6. Dip the savoiardi and amaretti biscuits into the coffee and lay them out in the dish (see picture below)
7. Add a second layer of the combined mixture
8. Add a second layer of coffee-soaked biscuits
9. Add a third layer of the combined mixture
10. Dust with cocoa
11. Put in the fridge for at least 2 hours
Thanks to James Flewellen, author of the Oxford Wine Blog, for teaching me this wonderful recipe.
The second layer of the mascarpone mixture is about to go on
Sigmund Freud in 1921, photographed by Max Halberstadt.
By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.
Essay substantially revised on 8 September 2026.
People with a high level of anxiety have historically been referred to as ‘neurotic’. The term ‘neurosis’ derives from the Ancient Greek neuron (‘nerve’) and loosely means ‘disease of the nerves’.
The core feature of neurosis is anxiety, but neurosis can also manifest in more distinct forms such as phobias, panic attacks, irritability, depression, perfectionism, and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Whatever form or forms it takes, neurosis can prevent us from living in the moment, adapting usefully to our environment, and developing a richer, more nuanced, and more fulfilling outlook on life.
Neurosis and the Loss of Meaning
For Carl Jung, neurosis often reflected a crisis of purpose and meaning. In Memories, Dreams, Reflections, he noted that the majority of his patients consisted ‘not of believers but of those who had lost their faith’.
Yet he also believed that neurosis could, in some cases, benefit the sufferer.
In Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, he wrote:
The reader will doubtless ask: What in the world is the value and meaning of a neurosis, this most useless and pestilent curse of humanity? To be neurotic—what good can that do? … I myself have known more than one person who owed his whole usefulness and reason for existence to a neurosis, which prevented all the worst follies in his life and forced him to a mode of living that developed his valuable potentialities. These might have been stifled had not the neurosis, with iron grip, held him to the place where he belonged.
Freud and the Birth of Psychoanalysis
The most original, influential, and controversial theory of neurosis is that of Sigmund Freud.
Freud studied medicine in Vienna from 1873 to 1881 and, after a time, decided to specialise in neurology. In 1885–86, he spent the best part of a year in Paris, where he was impressed by the neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot’s use of hypnosis in the treatment of ‘hysteria’ (Greek, hysterikos, ‘of the womb’), an outdated and inherently sexist construct involving the conversion of psychological distress into physical and psychological symptoms.
Freud returned to Vienna and opened a private practice, but gradually abandoned hypnosis in favour of ‘free association’, which involved asking the patient to relax on a couch and say whatever came into her mind.
In 1895, inspired in particular by Josef Breuer’s treatment of Bertha Pappenheim (better known as Anna O.), Freud and Breuer published the seminal Studies on Hysteria. Following the publication of The Interpretation of Dreams (1899) and The Psychopathology of Everyday Life (1901), Freud was appointed professor at the University of Vienna and began to gather a devoted following.
He remained a prolific writer throughout his life. Some of his most influential works include Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905), Totem and Taboo (1913), and Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920).
Following the Nazi annexation of Austria in 1938, Freud fled to London, where, in the following year, he died of cancer of the jaw. His daughter Anna became a distinguished psychoanalyst in her own right and did much to develop and systematise his account of the ego defence mechanisms.
The Talking Cure
In Studies on Hysteria, Freud and Breuer argued that neurotic symptoms could originate in traumatic experiences that had been excluded from consciousness. Treatment involved helping the patient to recover these experiences and give expression to the emotion attached to them, leading to a sudden and dramatic outpouring of feeling (‘catharsis’) and, ideally, to the disappearance of the symptom.
Freud later moved beyond this early ‘cathartic method’, placing ever greater emphasis on free association, dream interpretation, and the patient’s relationship with the analyst. By remaining relatively passive and inscrutable, the analyst became a kind of blank canvas onto which the patient could project thoughts and feelings carried over from important earlier relationships—a process called ‘transference’.
In the course of analysis, the patient might display ‘resistance’ by changing the topic, blanking out, falling asleep, arriving late, or missing appointments. Such behaviour was only to be expected: it indicated that the patient was approaching repressed material but remained afraid of confronting it.
Routes into the Unconscious
Freud famously called dreams ‘the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious’. Dreams, he believed, are disguised fulfilments of repressed wishes. Their surface story, or ‘manifest content’, conceals a deeper ‘latent content’ that has been distorted to make it more acceptable to the sleeping mind. The task of dream interpretation is to work backwards from the manifest content to the hidden wish beneath it.
Besides dreams and free association, Freud identified two further routes into the unconscious: parapraxes and jokes.
Parapraxes, better known as ‘Freudian slips’, are ‘faulty actions’ that occur when unconscious thoughts and desires suddenly parallel and then override conscious thoughts and intentions. Examples include calling a partner by the name of an ex-partner, substituting one word for another that rhymes or sounds similar (‘I would like to spank/thank you’), or combining two words into a single one (‘He is a very lustrous [illustrious/lustful] gentleman’).
Although parapraxes often manifest in speech as ‘slips of the tongue’, they can also manifest as misreadings, mishearings, forgettings, and the mislaying of objects. In Freud’s world, even a joke was never only a joke—and an accident might not be entirely accidental.
The Architecture of the Mind
In The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud presented and elaborated upon his ‘topographical model’ of the mind, distinguishing between the conscious, the unconscious, and an intermediary layer called the preconscious, which, although not presently conscious, could readily be accessed by consciousness.
He later became dissatisfied with the topographical model and supplemented it with the ‘structural model’, according to which the mind is divided into the id, ego, and superego.
The id, which is wholly unconscious, contains our drives and repressed emotions. Governed by the ‘pleasure principle’, it seeks immediate gratification regardless of circumstance or consequence.
Opposing it is the partly unconscious superego, a sort of moral judge arising from the internalisation of parental figures and, by extension, of society itself.
Caught in the middle is the ego, which, unlike the id, has both conscious and unconscious parts. Governed by the ‘reality principle’, it mediates between the id, the superego, and the demands of reality, postponing gratification and enabling the person to function in the world.
Neurotic anxiety arises when the ego is overwhelmed by these competing demands. To protect itself, it deploys various defence mechanisms (‘ego defences’) that block or distort impulses from the id, making its outrageous demands seem more acceptable, tolerable, and manageable.
Freud’s topographical model (the ocean) and structural model (the iceberg) superimposed. Only the tip of the iceberg is conscious.
Sex, Death, and the Oedipus Complex
For Freud, human behaviour is driven above all by instinct. The life instinct, or Eros, seeks survival, propagation, pleasure, and creation, and draws its energy from the libido or sex drive. Opposed to it is the death instinct, the unconscious urge towards aggression, destruction, and, ultimately, the peace of non-existence.
Human life is shaped by the tension between these two elemental forces: the impulse to bind and build, and the impulse to break apart and return to nothingness.
Even in childhood, the libido is the primary motivating force. As children mature, they pass through a series of psychosexual stages—oral, anal, phallic, latent, and genital—each centred upon a different source of pleasure and conflict. If a conflict is not adequately resolved, part of the personality may remain ‘fixated’ at that stage, contributing to neurotic symptoms and patterns of character in later life.
The most notorious of these conflicts is the Oedipus complex, named after the mythological king who unwittingly killed his father and married his mother. In Freud’s account, the young boy takes his mother as his first love-object and comes to regard his father as a rival. But since his father is stronger and more powerful, he eventually relinquishes his claim upon his mother and identifies with his father instead.
Freud’s corresponding account of female development is even more controversial and, like much of his sexual theory, is better understood as a mythology of the mind than as literal science. Even so, the Oedipus complex captures something profound: that we do not enter society directly, but through the triangle of the family, by learning that we cannot possess everything—or everyone—that we desire.
Freud’s Enduring Influence
Although derided in his time and still today, Freud is without question one of the deepest and most original thinkers of the twentieth century.
Many of his specific theories are unscientific, unfalsifiable, or simply wrong. Yet his larger vision—that much of mental life takes place outside awareness, that we are divided against ourselves, that childhood shapes adulthood, that symptoms have meanings, and that human beings are strangers in their own minds—has become so deeply embedded in our culture that we can no longer easily perceive its influence.
Despite being disowned or disdained by physicians, Freud is, ironically, the most famous of all physicians, and the only physician to have become a household name. He is credited with discovering—or at least mapping—the unconscious and inventing psychoanalysis, and had a colossal impact not only on psychiatry but also on art, literature, and the humanities.
He may have been thinking of himself—he often did—when he noted that ‘the voice of intelligence is soft, but it does not die until it has made itself heard.’
Saint Augustine in His Study, by Sandro Botticelli (1480), Ognissanti, Florence. Desiderium sinus cordis: ‘Longing makes the heart grow deep.’
By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.
I’ve been reading Professor Alister McGrath’s magisterial textbook of theology, mostly by night on a palm-fringed terrace in Mauritius, where the many mosquitoes did their utmost to keep me from the knowledge of God.
It is fascinating to see philosophy approached from a different angle, and to uncover a system of understanding on the same scale as that of Plato, Aristotle, or Kant. These are the ideas that have defined our civilisation and that continue to shape and colour our lives, whether we appreciate it—in both senses of the term—or not.
Something that stood out in my reading is the theological interpretation of a common human experience: that subtle sense of longing for something undefined.
According to the philosopher and theologian St Augustine (d. 430 CE), man is prone to a feeling of dissatisfaction that arises from a subtle sense of longing for something undefined. This uneasy state arises from his fallen condition: although he has an innate potential to relate to God or the absolute, this potential can never be fully realised by any finite or earthly object, and so he yearns for other things to fill its place. Yet none of these things can satisfy, leaving him always with that insatiable longing for he knows not what.
In Surprised by Joy (1955), the scholar and writer CS Lewis—better known for The Chronicles of Narnia—calls this feeling of longing ‘joy’, which he defines as ‘an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction’, and which I like to think of, in the broadest sense, as our aesthetic and creative reservoir.
The paradox of ‘joy’ arises from the self-defeating nature of human desire, which might be described as nothing more, or less, than a desire for desire, a longing for longing.
In The Weight of Glory (1941), Lewis illustrates this paradox from the age-old quest for beauty:
The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have not visited.
Whether or not we follow Augustine and Lewis all the way to God, their account illuminates something deep in human nature. We pursue beauty, love, knowledge, travel, achievement, and possession, only to discover that the object of our longing was never quite the object before us.
What we desire is not the flower, the tune, or the country, but what seems to shine through it. And that is why, even in fulfilment, we go on longing.
On this day I’ve been diagnosed with depression.
It’s a biochemical illness of the brain,
Or so I’m told by the medical profession.
Research proves it’s a serotonin depletion,
And just as physical as chest pain or chilblain.
On this day I’ve been diagnosed with depression.
It has somehow become a common condition,
But popping a pill can make us normal again.
Or so I’m told by the medical profession.
Doctor, please, I think that I may have a question,
I’m afraid that you may find it rather profane.
‘I am a proficient, experienced clinician,
But there is only so much that I can explain.’
On this day I’ve been diagnosed with depression,
Or so I’m told by the medical profession.
– NB
The deepest truths often emerge where disciplines meet. About →
You must be logged in to post a comment.