unconscious Archives | Neel Burton

The Psychology and Philosophy of Lateness

‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!’ — The White Rabbit, *Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland*

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 30 August 2026.

The advent of the railways in the nineteenth century obliged towns in Great Britain to align with London Time, or Greenwich Mean Time (GMT). Some towns held out for longer than others. A city that stood its ground was Oxford, and for a time, the great clock on Tom Tower featured not one but two minute hands. Still today, if one is about five minutes late in Oxford, one can claim to be ‘running on Oxford time’.

Of course, no one bears a grudge if you are just five minutes late, which is why the ‘Oxford time’ excuse is a bit of a joke. Except when catching a train, to be five minutes late is not really to be late. Late is when people start getting annoyed.

They get annoyed because your lateness betrays a lack of respect and consideration for them—which is why they get more annoyed, and more quickly, if they are (or think they are) your social or hierarchical superiors. Unless you proffer a good excuse for being late, preferably something that is out of your control (e.g. an elephant on the motorway), being late sends out the message, ‘My time is more valuable than yours,’ that is, ‘I am more important than you,’ and perhaps even, ‘I am doing you a favour by turning up at all.’

It is particularly rude to be late to a formal or important occasion such as a wedding or funeral, or one involving many parts and precise timings such as an elaborate dinner party or civic event.

Why People Are Late

Being late insults others, but it also undermines the person who is late, because it may betray a lack of intelligence, planning, self-knowledge, willpower, or empathy. For instance, it may be that the person who is late has set unrealistic goals and overpacked their schedule, or underestimated the time that it takes to travel from one place to another.

But there are also some more perfidious reasons for being late than mere mediocrity. Some of these reasons involve anger and aggression, others involve self-deception.

Let’s start with anger and aggression. Angry people who behave with almost exaggerated calm and courtesy might nevertheless express their anger through passive means, that is, through (conscious or unconscious) resistance to meeting the reasonable expectations of others. Examples of passive-aggressive behaviour include creating doubt and confusion; forgetting or omitting significant facts or items; withdrawing habitual behaviours such as making a cup of tea, cooking, cleaning, or having sex; shifting blame; and, of course, being late—often on a frequent and unpredictable basis. As the name suggests, passive-aggressive behaviour is a means of expressing aggression covertly, and so without incurring the full emotional and social costs of more overt aggression. It does, however, prevent the underlying issue or issues from being identified and resolved, and can lead to a great deal of upset and resentment in the person or people on its receiving end.

Now let’s talk about the second perfidy, self-deception. As we have seen, being late, especially egregiously or repeatedly late, sends out the message, ‘I am more important than you.’ Of course, one can, and often does, send out a message without it being true—indeed, precisely because it isn’t true. Thus, a person may be late because they feel inferior or unimportant, and being late is a way for them to impose themself upon a situation, attract maximal attention, and even take control of proceedings. You may have noticed that some people in the habit of being late are also in the habit of making a scene out of it: apologising profusely, introducing themselves to everyone in turn, moving furniture around, asking for a clean glass, and so on.

Remaining on the theme of self-deception, being late could also be a form of resistance, a way of showing one’s disapproval for the purpose of the meeting, or resentment at its likely outcome. In the course of psychotherapy, an analysand is likely to display analogous resistance in the form not only of being late, but also of changing the topic, blanking out, falling asleep, or entirely missing appointments. In the context of psychotherapy, such behaviours suggest that the analysand is close to recalling repressed material but fearful of the consequences. If you are fully behind a meeting or event, chances are that you will be on time.

When Being Late Can Serve

I ought to point out that being late is not necessarily unhealthy or pathological. Sometimes, being late is your unconscious telling you that you don’t want to be there, or that it would be better for you not to be there—for instance, it could be that a meeting (or a job) is not the best use of your time, or, even, that it is working against you. Headaches, too, can serve a similar function.

Whenever you are late, you can learn a great deal simply by asking yourself, ‘Why exactly am I late?’ Even if it is ‘only’ because you are too busy, why are you too busy? Often, we keep ourselves as busy as possible so as not to be left alone with our deepest thoughts and feelings, which is, of course, highly counterproductive. And this is another reason for being late: to avoid being left with no one and nothing but ourselves (thank God for smartphones).

Finally, I have a little confession to make. In many social situations, I am often exactly eight minutes late. Why? Well, being early is just as rude, if not more so, than being late, while being exactly on time can sometimes catch out your host (I am often caught out by people who are bang on time, which I guess is a form of me being late). On the other hand, being eight minutes late is not perceived as being late, and gives your host just enough time to sit down for a couple of minutes, gather their thoughts, and begin to look forward to your arrival.

The truly punctual person is not always on time. Sometimes, he doesn’t even arrive.

Continue Exploring

If this essay spoke to you, you might look into The Art of Failure, an unconventional exploration of success, ambition, happiness, and the good life.

You may also enjoy

Explore all Self-Deception essays

Explore all Success & Failure essays

Freud and the Discovery of the Unconscious

Portrait of Sigmund Freud — 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 and structural models of the mind — *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 stages of psychosexual development

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.’