The Struggle for British Psychohistory and the Value of Elovitz’ The Making of

Review Essays on Paul H. Elovitz, The Making of Psychohistory: Origins, Controversies, and Pioneering Contributors (New York and London: Routledge, 2018), ISBN 978-1-138-58749-6, 138 pages, paperback, $38.95, hardbound, $140.

It has always saddened me that, in the United Kingdom, where I live and work, virtually no one has a clue as to the meaning of the word “psychohistory.” When, in 1987, I established the British Institute for Psychohistory as one of the overseas branches of Lloyd deMause’s longstanding New York City-based Institute for Psychohistory, I struggled to attract an audience, as virtually no one in our psychoanalytical community, let alone in academia more broadly, had any understanding or true appreciation of this bizarre “American” concoction. Fellow mental health colleagues and professional historians either stared blankly at the mention of psychohistory or snarled in derision at what they regarded as little more than cheap reductionism and “wild analysis,” imagining that psychohistorians blamed the whole of World War II and the Nazi Holocaust on Adolf Hitler’s mother.

For many years, I pursued my psychohistorical research in relative isolation, surrounded by a mere handful of open-minded colleagues. Happily, in 1992, Lloyd deMause came to London for a lecture tour that I had organized. In just a few short days he delivered talks at both the British Psycho-Analytical Society and the Association of Child Psychotherapists at the Tavistock Clinic—two of our most venerable and prestigious organizations. Sadly, both the adult psychoanalysts and the child psychotherapists greeted deMause rather frostily; indeed, at the “Tavi,” an experienced child psychotherapist complained to deMause, “I feel like you’re bashing us on the head with all this child abuse material.” At the British Psycho-Analytical Society, a distinguished forensic psychiatrist and psychoanalyst accused deMause of exaggerating the consequences of child sexual abuse, confessing that in his own youth, at boarding school, a teacher had “fiddled” with him, and that this episode did not traumatize him in any way. Clearly, at that point in time, very

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few people had sufficient experience of treating severe trauma and, consequently, many found deMause’s work rather threatening.

I became dispirited that such seasoned mental health professionals struggled so greatly with deMause’s work and castigated him as the bearer of bad news. DeMause took this in stride. However, the lack of receptivity toward this area of research among British psychological clinicians saddened me. Indeed, I resigned myself to the fact that my enthusiasm for psychohistorical research would always remain a private and idiosyncratic one. Fortunately, the recent publication of Professor Paul Elovitz’ outstanding new book on The Making of Psychohistory: Origins, Controversies, and Pioneering Contributions has restored my faith in the potential of psychohistory to reach a wider audience of clinicians, scholars, and intellectuals.

One of the most engaging books that I have ever read, I regard Elovitz’ text as a stellar achievement, which documents only too clearly that we cannot dismiss psychohistory as a fad or as an unpleasant, trauma-laden subject. In fact, Elovitz’ erudite and informative chronicle provides ample proof that psychohistory boasts a long and rich lineage, full of profound ideas about the application of depth psychology to the study of individuals and groups, and that psychohistory as a discipline has too many loyal adherents to disappear into the archives of time. On the contrary, this field of enquiry continues to grow and flourish.

Elovitz’ monograph—a splendid combination of history, memoir, teaching, insight, and inspiration—provides readers with a detailed and engaging account of the birth of psychohistory and its subsequent development. Infused with Elovitz’ wide knowledge of the discipline and with his own first-hand recollections of a whole half-century of participation in the psychohistorical world, this book brims with authenticity, and one can trust the author as a reliable witness, commentator, and critic.

This concisely written volume grips the reader from the very start because Elovitz humanizes the theory and practice of psychohistory by drawing us into the lives and careers of its leading protagonists with compassion, frankness, and panache. In just a few short pages, we learn a great deal about the early childhood constellations of some of the major figures as well as much about their shadow sides. Elovitz describes these pioneers in a gentlemanly and well-rounded manner, but he certainly does not idealize or denigrate any of his heroes. In the most diplomatic terms, he

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celebrates their strengths and exposes, at times, their envy, self-destructiveness, and rivalry.

I read through the whole of this book in just one sitting. Having had the privilege of meeting many of the figures described herein back in the old days, I became gripped as I learned an immense amount. Not only did I derive the great pleasure of being reminded of some of these phenomenal scholars and innovators but, also, I felt very pleased to have enjoyed common interests in such diverse subjects as the history of child abuse, the study of the early traumata of political leaders, and the nature of group processes, which lead to war and other catastrophes.

With characteristic generosity, Elovitz has examined the contributions of such landmark thinkers as Rudolph Binion, Lloyd deMause, Erik Erikson, Robert Jay Lifton, Peter Loewenberg, Vamik Volkan, and many others, offering us all a wonderful introduction to this rich and captivating canvas of work. But although I enjoyed these assessments of the great psychohistorians, I most enjoyed Elovitz’ own rather modest account of his pioneering research as a presidential psychohistorian who, back in the 1970s, undertook vital investigations on the childhood of Jimmy Carter, which included face-to-face interviews in Plains, Georgia, with both the mother and sister of the future president. Learning about the careful oral history research undertaken by Elovitz and, also, appreciating his deep concern and thoughtfulness about the ethical implications of such endeavors, I felt very cheered, especially in an age when so many mental health professionals seem sufficiently confident to make brisk public diagnoses of leading politicians.

I thank Paul Elovitz for his generosity in preparing this useful and engaging text on behalf of our community of scholars, researchers, and up-and-coming students. I must confess, however, that I do have one strong criticism of this splendid publication: I only wish that the author—a gifted narrator—had written a much longer book!

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