"So it is with minds. Unless you keep them busy with some definite subject that will bridle and control them, they throw themselves in disorder hither and yon in the vague field of imagination... And there is no mad or idle fancy that they do not bring forth in the agitation."
Michel de Montaigne
Harold Bloom is his extraordinary The Western Canon (1994), claimed that Freud was our Montaigne, that is, the Montaigne of our chaotic contemporary Time.
True. Freud, once a scientific figure, has become Literature. In the good sense, of course. In the best sense. We now read his texts as great artistic (and of course tremendously clever) pieces. A kind of aesthetic intelligence, which is the highest form of intelligence. A reborn Montaigne, for our (ir)rational Time.
That said, how about reading the original? Montaigne is less structured than Freud, as the Frenchman did not have "scientific" pretensions. But he may well be even bigger, reaching even more distant horizons. Which means that he is some sort of giant, an immense field full of gems. Like this one preceding this note.
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