Friday, September 19, 2014

Carl Jung on Zen Buddhism

[Carl Jung on Zen Buddhism]

For these and many other reasons a direct transplantation of Zen to our Western conditions is neither commendable nor even possible.

All the same, the psychotherapist who is seriously concerned with the question of the aim of his therapy cannot remain unmoved when he sees the end towards which this
Eastern method of psychic 'healing"—i.e., "making whole"—is striving.

As we know, this question has occupied the most adventurous minds of the East for more than two thousand years, and in this respect methods and philosophical doctrines have been developed which simply put all Western attempts along these lines into the shade.

Our attempts have, with few exceptions, all stopped short at either magic (mystery cults, amongst which we must include Christianity) or intellectualism (philosophy from Pythagoras to Schopenhauer).

It is only the tragedies of Goethe's Faust and Nietzsche's Zarathustra which mark the first glimmerings of a break-through of total experience in our Western hemisphere.

And we do not know even today what these most promising of all products of the Western mind may at length signify, so overlaid are they with the materiality and concreteness of our thinking, as moulded by the Greeks.

Despite the fact that our intellect has developed almost to perfection the capacity of the bird of prey to espy the tiniest mouse from the greatest height, yet the pull of the earth drags it down, and the samskaras entangle it in a world of confusing images the moment it no longer seeks for booty but turns one eye inwards
to find him who seeks.

Then the individual falls into the throes of a daemonic rebirth, beset with unknown terrors and dangers and menaced by deluding mirages in a labyrinth of error.

The worst of all fates threatens the venturer: mute, abysmal loneliness in the age he calls his own.

What do we know of the hidden motives for Goethe's "main business," as he called his Faust, or of the shudders of the "Dionysus experience"?

One has to read the Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, backwards, as I have suggested, in order to find an Eastern parallel to the torments and catastrophes of the Western "way of release" to wholeness.

This is the issue here—not good intentions, clever imitations, or intellectual acrobatics.

And this, in shadowy hints or in greater or lesser fragments, is what the psychotherapist is faced with when he has freed himself from over-hasty and short-sighted doctrinal opinions.

If he is a slave to his quasi-biological credo he will always try to reduce what he has glimpsed to the banal and the known, to a rationalistic denominator which satisfies only those who are content with illusions.

But the foremost of all illusions is that anything can ever satisfy anybody.

That illusion stands behind all that is unendurable in life and in front of all progress, and it is one of the most difficult things to overcome.

If the psychotherapist can take time off from his helpful activities for a little reflection, or if by any chance he is forced into seeing through his own illusions, it may dawn on him how hollow and flat, how inimical to life, are all rationalistic reductions when they come upon something that is alive, that wants to grow.

Should he follow this up he will soon get an idea of what it means to "open wide that gate / Past which man's steps have ever flinching trod."

I would not under any circumstances like it to be understood that I am making any recommendations or offering any advice.

But when one begins to talk about Zen in the West I consider it my duty to show the European where our entrance lies to that "longest road" which leads to satori, and what kind
of difficulties bestrew the path which only a few of our great ones have trod—beacons, perhaps, on high mountains, shining out into the dim future.

It would be a disastrous mistake to assume that satori or samadhi are to be met with anywhere below these heights.

As an experience of totality it cannot be anything cheaper or smaller than the whole.

What this means psychologically can be seen from the simple reflection that consciousness is always only a part of the psyche and therefore never capable of psychic wholeness: for that the indefinite extension of the unconscious is needed.

But the unconscious can neither be caught with clever formulas nor exorcized by means of scientific dogmas, for something of destiny clings to it—indeed, it is sometimes destiny itself, as Faust and Zarathustra show all too clearly.

The attainment of wholeness requires one to stake one's whole being.

Nothing less will do; there can be no easier conditions, no substitutes, no compromises.

Considering that both Faust and Zarathustra, despite the highest recognition, stand on the border-line of what is comprehensible to the European, one could hardly expect the educated public, which has only just begun to hear about the obscure world of the psyche, to form any adequate conception of the spiritual state of a man caught in the toils of the individuation process—which is my term for "becoming whole."

People then drag out the vocabulary of pathology and console themselves with the terminology of neurosis and psychosis, or else they whisper about the "creative secret."

But what can a man "create" if he doesn't happen to be a poet?

This misunderstanding has caused not a few persons in recent times to call themselves—by their own grace—"artists," just as if art had nothing to do with ability.

But if you have nothing at all to create, then perhaps you create yourself.

Zen shows how much "becoming whole" means to the East.

Preoccupation with the riddles of Zen may perhaps stiffen the spine of the faint-hearted European or provide a pair of spectacles for his psychic myopia, so that from his "damned hole in the wall" he may enjoy at least a glimpse of the world of psychic experience, which till now lay shrouded in fog.

No harm can be done, for those who are too frightened will be effectively protected from further corruption, as also from everything of significance, by the helpful idea of "auto-suggestion."

I should like to warn the attentive and sympathetic reader, however, not to underestimate the spiritual depth of the East, or to assume that there is anything cheap and facile about Zen.

The assiduously cultivated credulity of the West in regard to Eastern thought is in this case a lesser danger, as in Zen there are fortunately none of those marvellously incomprehensible words that we find in Indian cults.

Neither does Zen play about with complicated hatha-yoga techniques, which delude the physiologically minded European into the false hope that the spirit can be obtained by just sitting and breathing.

On the contrary, Zen demands intelligence and will power, as do all greater things that want to become realities. ~Carl Jung, Psychology and Religion, Pages 554-557.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Carl Jung on the “Gifted Child.”

[Carl Jung on the “Gifted Child.”]

It therefore seems to me better to educate the gifted child along with the other children in a normal class, and not to underline his exceptional position by transferring him to a special class.

When all is said and done, school is a part of the great world and contains in miniature all those factors which the child will encounter in later life and with which he will have to come to terms.

Some at least of this necessary adaptation can and should be learnt at school.

Occasional clashes are not a catastrophe.

Misunderstanding is fatal only when chronic, or when the child's sensitivity is unusually acute and there is no possibility of finding another teacher.

hat often brings favourable results, but only when the cause of the trouble really does lie with the teacher.

This is by no means the rule, for in many cases the teacher has to suffer for the ruin wrought by the child's upbringing at home. Far too often parents who were unable to
fulfil their own ambitions embody them in their gifted child, whom they either pamper or else whip up into a showpiece, sometimes very much to his detriment in later years, as is sufficiently evident from the lives of certain infant prodigies.

A powerful talent, and especially the Danaan gift of genius, is a fateful factor that throws its shadow early before.

The genius will come through despite everything, for there is something absolute and indomitable in his nature.

The so-called "misunderstood genius" is rather a doubtful phenomenon.

Generally he turns out to be a good-for-nothing who is forever seeking a soothing explanation of himself.

Once, in my professional capacity, I was forced to confront a "genius" of this type with the alternative: "Or perhaps you are nothing but a lazy hound?"

It was not long before we found ourselves in whole-hearted agreement on this point.

Talent, on the other hand, can either be hampered, crippled, and perverted, or fostered, developed, and improved.

The genius is as rare a bird as the phoenix, an apparition not to be counted upon.

Consciously or unconsciously, genius is something that by God's grace is there from the start, in full strength.

But talent is a statistical regularity and does not always have a dynamism to match.

Like genius, it is exceedingly diverse in its forms, giving rise to individual differentiations which the educator ought not to overlook; for a differentiated personality, or one capable of differentiation, is of the utmost value to the community.

The levelling down of the masses through suppression of the aristocratic or hierarchical structure natural to a community is bound, sooner or later, to lead to disaster.

For, when everything outstanding is levelled down, the signposts are lost, and the longing to be led becomes an urgent necessity.

Human leadership being fallible, the leader himself has always been, and always will be, subject to the great symbolical principles, even as the individual cannot give his life
point and meaning unless he puts his ego at the service of a spiritual authority superordinate to man.

The need to do this arises from the fact that the ego never constitutes the whole of a man, but only the conscious part of him.

The unconscious part, of unlimited extent, alone can complete him and make him a real totality.

Biologically speaking, the gifted person is a deviation from the mean, and in so far as Lao-tzu's remark that "high stands on low" is one of the eternal verities, this deviation takes place simultaneously in the heights and depths of the same individual.

This produces a tension of opposites in him, which in its turn tempers and intensifies his personality.

Like the still waters, the gifted child runs deep. His danger lies not only in deviating from the norm, however favourable this may appear to be, but even more in that inner polarity which predisposes to conflict.

Therefore, instead of segregation in special classes, the personal interest and attention of the teacher are likely to be more beneficial.

Although the institution of a trained school psychiatrist is thoroughly to be recommended and need not be a mere concession to the craze for what is technically right, I would say, in the light of my own experience, that an understanding heart is everything in a teacher, and cannot be esteemed highly enough.

One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings.

The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child.

Because there are, among the other pupils, gifted and highly strung natures which ought not to be hemmed in and stifled, the school curriculum should for that very reason never wander too far from the humanities into over specialized fields.

The coming generation should at least be shown the doors that lead to the many different departments of life and the mind.

And it seems to me especially important for any broad-based culture to have a regard for history in the widest sense of the word.

Important as it is to pay attention to what is practical and useful, and to consider the future, that backward glance at the past is just as important.

Culture means continuity, not a tearing up of roots through "progress."

For the gifted child in particular, a balanced education is essential as a measure of psychic hygiene.

As I have said, his gift is one-sided and is almost always offset by some childish immaturity in other regions of the psyche.

Childhood, however, is a state of the past. Just as the developing embryo recapitulates, in a sense, our phylogenetic history, so the child psyche relives "the lesson of earlier humanity," as Nietzsche called it.

The child lives in a pre-rational and above all in a prescientific world, the world of the men who existed before us.

Our roots lie in that world and every child grows from those roots.

Maturity bears him away from his roots and immaturity binds him to them.

Knowledge of the universal origins builds the bridge between the lost and abandoned world of the past and the still largely inconceivable world of the future.

How should we lay hold of the future, how should we assimilate it, unless we are in possession of the human experience which the past has bequeathed to us?

Dispossessed of this, we are without root and without perspective, defenseless dupes of whatever novelties the future may bring.

A purely technical and practical education is no safeguard against delusion and has nothing to oppose to the counterfeit.

It lacks the culture whose innermost law is the continuity of history, the long procession of man's more than individual consciousness.

This continuity which reconciles all opposites also heals the conflicts that threaten the gifted child.

Anything new should always be questioned and tested with caution, for it may very easily turn out to be only a new disease.

That is why true progress is impossible without mature judgment.

But a well-balanced judgment requires a firm standpoint, and this in turn can only rest on a sound knowledge of what has been.

The man who is unconscious of the historical context and lets slip his link with the past is in constant danger of succumbing to the crazes and delusions engendered by all novelties.

It is the tragedy of all innovators that they empty out the baby with the bath-water. Though the mania for novelty is not, thank heavens, the national vice of the Swiss, we live nevertheless in a wider world that is being shaken by strange fevers of renewal.

In face of this frightening and grandiose spectacle, steadiness is demanded of our young men as never before, firstly for the stability of our country, and secondly for the sake of European civilization, which has nothing to gain if the achievements of the Christian past are wiped out.

The gifted ones, however, are the torch-bearers, chosen for that high office by nature herself. Carl Jung, The Development of Personality, Pages 142-145.