A new biography demolishes whatever was left of the Viennese con man's reputation.
Writing to his close friend and collaborator Wilhelm Fliess in 1890, Sigmund Freud explained that he couldn't pay a visit because, in a struggling psychiatric practice that suckered rich society women in Vienna, "My most important client is just now going through a kind of nervous crisis
and might get well in my absence."
No, Freud wasn't being ironic: He depended on grandes dames to stay in business. On another occasion, referring to a cartoon in which a yawning lion grumbles, "Twelve o'clock and no negroes," he wrote, "The worries begin again whether some negroes will turn up at the right time to still the lion's appetite." That appetite, as Frederick Crews makes clear in his exhaustive, reputation-pulverizing book
Freud: The Making of an Illusion, was from an early age for fame and riches, which Freud relentlessly pursued by championing one faddish quack remedy after another, backing away when justified criticism made his position untenable,
covering his tracks with misleading or even completely false claims about what he'd been up to, then bustling on to the next gold mine.
Comment: See also: Freud was a fraud!