Carl Jung: He looked quite detached and aloof

Lecture 5

Questions and Discussion

No written questions were handed in. The following verbal question was asked:

“When you were in the process of investigating the unconscious, as you described it last time, did you have al- ways the sense of being in control of your tools?”

Dr. Jung:

It was as if my tools were activated by my libido.

But there must be tools there to be activated, that is, animated images, images with libido in them; then the additional libido that one supplies brings them up to the surface.

If I had not given this additional libido with which to bring them to the surface, the activity would have gone on just the same, but would have sucked my energy down into the unconscious.

By putting libido into it, one can increase the speaking power of the unconscious.

Mr. Aldrich: Is that tapas?

Dr. Jung: Yes, that is the Indian term for that type of concentration.

A further elaboration of the method might be put in this way: Suppose someone has a fantasy of a man and a woman moving about in a room.

He gets just that far with it and no further; in other words, he drops that fantasy and proceeds to another— let us say he comes upon a deer in a wood, or sees birds fluttering about.

But the technical rule with regard to fantasy is to stick to the picture that comes up until all its possibilities are exhausted.

Thus if I conjured up that man and woman, I would not let them go till I had found out what they were going to do in that room.

Thus one makes the fantasy move on.

Usually, however, one has a resistance to doing this, that is, to following the fantasy.

Something is sure to whisper in one’s ear that it is all nonsense; in fact, the conscious is forced to take a highly depreciatory attitude toward the unconscious material in order to become conscious at all, for example, a person making the effort to break away from an outgrown faith can usually be found ridiculing it; he throws out cogs to keep from slipping back into his unconscious acceptance.

This is the reason it is so difficult to get at the unconscious material.

The conscious is forever saying, “Keep away from all that,” and it is always tending to increase rather than re- duce the resistance to the unconscious.

Similarly, the unconscious pits itself against the conscious, and it is the special tragedy of man that in order to win consciousness he is forced into dissociation with nature.

He is either under the complete sway of the enantiodromia, or play of nature’s forces, or he is too far away from nature.

Going back to the question of fantasizing, if once the resistance to free contact with the unconscious can be overcome, and one can develop the power of sticking to the fantasy, then the play of the images can be watched.

Any artist is doing that quite naturally, but he is getting only the esthetic values out of it while the analyst

tries to get at all the values, ideational, esthetic, feeling, and intuitional.

When one watches such a scene one tries to figure out its special meaning for oneself.

When the figures animated are very far away from the conscious trend, then it may happen that they break forth arbitrarily as in cases of dementia praecox.

The eruption then splits the conscious and tears it to bits, leaving each content with an independent ego, hence the absolutely inadequate emotional reaction of these cases.

If there is a certain amount of ego left there may be some reaction—thus a voice in the unconscious may de- nounce one as crazy, but another may arise to counter it.

But, aside from dementia praecox cases, so-called normal people are very fragmentary—that is, they produce no full reactions in most cases.

That is to say, they are not complete egos.

There is one ego in the conscious and another made up of unconscious ancestral elements, by the force of which a man who has been fairly himself over a period of years suddenly falls under the sway of an ancestor.

I think the fragmentary reactions and inadequate emotions people so often display are best explained along these lines.

Thus you may have a person who sees always and only the dark side of life; he perhaps is forced into this onesidedness through ancestor possession, and quite suddenly another portion of the unconscious may get on top and change him into an equally one-sided optimist.

Many cases are described in the literature which show these sudden character changes, but of course they are not explained as ancestor possession, since this latter idea remains as a hypothesis for which there is no scientific proof as yet.

Following these ideas a little further, it is an interesting fact that there is no disease among primitives which cannot be caused by ghosts, which of course are ancestral figures.

There is a physiological analogy for this theory of ancestor possession which may make the idea a little clearer.

It is thought that cancer may be due to the later and anarchical development of embryonic cells folded away in the mature and differentiated tissues.

Strong evidence for this lies in the finding, for example, of a partially developed fetus in the thigh of an adult man, say, in those tumors known as teratomata.

Perhaps a similar thing goes on in the mind, whose psychological makeup may be said to be a conglomerate.

Perhaps certain traits belonging to the ancestors get buried away in the mind as complexes with a life of their own which has never been assimilated into the life of the individual, and then, for some unknown reason, these complexes become activated, step out of their obscurity in the folds of the unconscious, and begin to dominate the whole mind I am inclined to describe the historical character of the images from the unconscious in this way.

Often there occur details in these images that cannot by any stretch of the imagination be explained in terms of the personal experience of the individual.

It is possible that a certain historical atmosphere is born with us by means of which we can repeat strange details almost as if they were historical facts.

Daudet has developed a similar idea (L’Hérédo and Le Monde des images), which he calls “auto-fécondation.”

Whatever the truth of these speculations, they certainly fall within the frame of the notion of the collective unconscious.

Another way of putting these ideas of ancestor possession would be that these autonomous complexes exist in the mind as Mendelian units, which are passed on from generation to generation intact, and are unaffected by the life of the individual.

The problem then becomes this: Can these psychological Mendelian units be broken up and assimilated in a way to protect the individual from being victimized by them?

Analysis certainly makes a fair attempt to do this.

It may not achieve the complete assimilation of the complex, or unit, into the rest of the mind, but at least it points out a way of dealing with it.

In this way analysis becomes an orthopedic method analogous to that used in a disease like tabes, for exam- ple.

The disease remains the same, but certain adjustments can be developed to compensate for the kinesthetic disturbance—the tabetic can learn to control his body movements in walking, through his eye movements, and thus achieve a substitute for his lost tactile sense.

I would like today to speak further about the background for the book on the types.

As soon as one begins to watch one’s mind, one begins to observe the autonomous phenomena in which one exists as a spectator, or even as a victim.

It is very much as if one stepped out of the protection of his house into an antediluvian forest and was con- fronted by all the monsters that inhabit the latter.

One is naturally a little reluctant to reverse the machinery and get into this situation.

It is as though one gave up one’s freedom of will and offered oneself up as a victim, for with this reversal of the machinery, an entirely different attitude from that of directed thinking grows up.

One is swept into the unknown of this world, not just into a psychological function.

In a way the collective unconscious is merely a mirage because unconscious, but it can be also just as real as the tangible world.

I can say this is so, this thing I am experiencing, but it does no good.

One must be willing to accept the reality for the time being, to risk going a long way with the unconscious in other words.

I once read some stories by the German author Hoffmann, who wrote at the beginning of the nineteenth cen- tury.

He wrote in the vein of Poe, and in the midst of writing these stories he would become so gripped by the reality of the fantasies that he would shout for help and have people running to his rescue.

In fairly normal cases there is no danger, but it cannot be denied that the unconscious is overwhelmingly impressive.

The first observation I made began before I really had begun any systematic attempt to examine my unconscious— before I was fully aware of the full significance of the problem.

You remember what I told you of my relation to Freud.

When I was still writing the Psychology of the Unconscious, I had a dream which I did not understand—perhaps I only fully understood it last year, if then.

This was the dream: I was walking on a road in the country and came to a crossing. I was walking with someone, but did not know who it was—today I would say it was my shadow.

Suddenly I came upon a man, an old one, in the uniform of an Austrian customs official. It was Freud.

In the dream the idea of the censorship came to my mind.

Freud didn’t see me but walked away silently. My shadow said to me, “Did you notice him? He has been dead for thirty years, but he can’t die properly.”

I had a very peculiar feeling with this.

Then the scene changed and I was in a southern town on the slopes of mountains. The streets consisted of steps going up and down the steep slopes.
It was a medieval town and the sun was blazing in full noon, which as you know is the hour when spirits are abroad in southern countries.

I came walking through the streets with my man, and many people passed us to and fro.

All at once I saw among them a very tall man, a Crusader dressed in a coat of mail with the Maltese cross in red on the breast and on the back.

He looked quite detached and aloof, not in any way concerned with the people about him, nor did they pay any attention to him.

I looked at him in astonishment and could not understand what he was doing walking about there.

“Did you notice him?” my shadow asked me.

“He has been dead since the twelfth century, but he is not yet properly dead. He always walks here among the people, but they don’t see him.”
I was quite bewildered that the people paid no attention, and then I awoke. This dream bothered me a long time.

I was shocked at the first part because I did not then anticipate the trouble with Freud.

“What does it mean that he is dead and so depreciated?” is the question I asked myself, and why did I think of the principle of the censor in these terms when, as a matter of fact, it seemed to me then the best theory available?

I realized the antagonism between the figure of the Crusader and that of Freud, and yet I realized that there was also a strong parallelism.

They were different, and yet both were dead and could not die properly.

The meaning of the dream lies in the principle of the ancestral figure; not the Austrian officer—obviously he stood for the Freudian theory—but the other, the Crusader, is an archetypal figure, a Christian symbol living from the twelfth century, a symbol that does not really live today, but on the other hand is not wholly dead either.

It comes out of the times of Meister Eckhart, the time of the culture of the Knights, when many ideas blos- somed, only to be killed then, but they are coming again to life now.

However, when I had this dream, I did not know this interpretation.

I was oppressed and bewildered. Freud was bewildered too, and could find no satisfactory meaning for it. That was in 1912.

Then I had another dream that showed me again very clearly the limitations of the conceptions about dreams which Freud held to be final.

I had been looking on the unconscious as nothing but the receptacle of dead material, but slowly the idea of the archetypes began to formulate itself in my mind, and at the end of 1912 came this dream, which was the beginning of a conviction that the unconscious did not consist of inert material only, but that there was something living down there.

I was greatly excited at the idea of there being something living in me that I did not know anything about.

I dreamed that I was sitting in a very beautiful Italian loggia, something like the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.

It was most luxurious, with columns, floor, and balustrade of marble.

I was sitting in a golden chair, a Renaissance chair, in front of a table of green stone like emerald.

It was of an extraordinary beauty.

I was sitting looking out into space, for the loggia was on top of a tower belonging to a castle. I knew that my children were there too.
Suddenly a white bird came flying down and gracefully alighted on the table. It was like a small gull, or a dove.

I made a sign to the children to keep quiet, and the dove suddenly became a little girl with golden hair, and ran away with the children.

As I sat pondering over this, the little girl came back and put her arm around my neck very tenderly. Then all at once she was gone, and the dove was there and spoke slowly with a human voice.


It said, “I am allowed to transform into a human form only in the first hours of the night, while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.”

Then it flew away into the blue sky and I awoke.

The dove had used a peculiar word when speaking of the male dove. It is Tauber in German, and not often used, but I remembered hearing an uncle of mine use it.

But what should a male pigeon be doing with twelve dead? I felt alarmed.


Then there flashed across my mind the story of the Tabula smaragdina, or emerald table, which is part of the legend of the Thrice Great Hermes.

He is supposed to have left a table on which was engraved all the wisdom of the ages, formulated in the Greek words: “Ether above, Ether below, Heaven above, Heaven below, all this above, all this below, take it and be happy.”

All this, as I say, was very alarming to me.

I began to think of the twelve Apostles, the twelve months of the year, the signs of the Zodiac, etc. I had just written about the twelve signs of the Zodiac in the Psychology of the Unconscious.

Finally, I had to give it up, I could make nothing out of the dream except that there was a tremendous animation of the unconscious.

I knew no technique of getting at the bottom of this activity; all I could do was just wait, keep on living, and watch the fantasies.

This was at Christmastime in 1912.

In 1913 I felt the activity of the unconscious most disagreeably.

I was disturbed, but knew nothing better to do than to try to analyze my infantile memories.

So I began to analyze these most conscientiously, but found nothing.

I thought, “Well then, I must try to live through these experiences again,” so I made then the effort to recover the emotional tone of childhood.

I said to myself that if I should play like a child I could recover this.

I remembered that when I was a boy I used to delight in building houses of stone, all sorts of fantastic castles, 6 2012: In 1913, Jung noted this dream as follows: “I dreamt at that time (it was shortly after Christmas 1912), that I was sitting with my children in a marvelous and richly furnished castle apartment—an open columned hall—we were sitting at a round table, whose top was a marvelous dark green stone.

Suddenly a gull or a dove flew in and sprang lightly onto the table.

I admonished the children to be quiet, so that they would not scare away the beautiful white bird.

Suddenly this bird turned into a child of eight years, a small blond girl, and ran around playing with my children in the marvelous columned colonnades.

Then the child suddenly turned into the gull or dove.

She said the following to me: ‘Only in the first hour of the night can I become human, while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.’ With these words the bird flew away and I awoke” (cited in Liber Novus, 198).

“For Heaven’s sake,” I said to myself, “is it possible that I have to get into this nonsense for the sake of animating the unconscious?”

That year I did all sorts of idiotic things like this, and enjoyed them like a fool. It raised a lot of inferior feelings in me, but I knew of no better way.

Towards autumn I felt that the pressure that had seemed to be within me was not there anymore but in the air.

The air actually seemed darker than before.

It was just as if it were no longer a psychological situation in which I was involved, but a real one, and that sense became more and more weighty.

In October 1913 I was travelling in a train and had a book in my hand that I was reading.

I began to fantasize, and before I knew it, I was in the town to which I was going.

This was the fantasy: I was looking down on the map of Europe in relief.

I saw all the northern part, and England sinking down so that the sea came in upon it.

It came up to Switzerland, and then I saw that the mountains grew higher and higher to protect Switzerland.

I realized that a frightful catastrophe was in progress, towns and people were destroyed, and the wrecks and dead bodies were tossing about on the water.

Then the whole sea turned to blood.

At first I was only looking on dispassionately, and then the sense of the catastrophe gripped me with tremendous power.

I tried to repress the fantasy, but it came again and held me bound for two hours. Three or four weeks later it came again, when I was again in a train.
It was the same picture repeated, only the blood was more emphasized.

Of course I asked myself if I was so unfortunate as to be spreading my personal complexes all over Europe.

I thought a great deal about the chances of a great social revolution, but curiously enough never of a war.

It seemed to me all these things were becoming frightfully uncanny, then it occurred to me, there was some- thing I could do, I could write down all of it in sequence.

While I was writing once I said to myself, “What is this I am doing, it certainly is not science, what is it?” Then a voice said to me, “That is art.”

This made the strangest sort of an impression upon me, because it was not in any sense my conviction that what I was writing was art.

Then I came to this, “Perhaps my unconscious is forming a personality that is not me, but which is insisting on coming through to expression.”

I don’t know why exactly, but I knew to a certainty that the voice that had said my writing was art had come from a woman.

A living woman could very well have come into the room and said that very thing to me, because she would not have cared anything about the discriminations she was trampling underfoot.

Obviously it wasn’t science; what then could it be but art, as though those were the only two alternatives in the world. That is the way a woman’s mind works.
Well, I said very emphatically to this voice that what I was doing was not art, and I felt a great resistance grow up within me.

No voice came through, however, and I kept on writing. Then I got another shot like the first: “That is art.”

This time I caught her and said, “No it is not,” and I felt as though an argument would ensue.

I thought, well, she has not the speech centers I have, so I told her to use mine, and she did, and came through with a long statement.

This is the origin of the technique I developed for dealing directly with the unconscious contents. ~Carl Jung, 1925 Seminar, Lecture 5, Pages 37-45.

Carl Jung on the "Transcendent Function."

Questions and Discussion

Dr. Mann’s question: “Is it not by intuition that one arrives most easily at the transcendent function, and if a person is lacking in that function—that is, in intuition—are not the difficulties greatly increased?

Must one not reach the transcendent function alone, that is, unaided?”

Dr. Jung: It depends very much on the person’s type as to what part intuition plays in finding the transcendent function.

If the superior function is intuition, for example, then the intuitions are directly in the way, since the transcendent function is made, or takes place, between the superior and the inferior functions.

The inferior function can only come up at the expense of the superior, so that in the intuitive type the intuitions have to be overcome, so to speak, in order for the transcendent function to be found.

On the other hand, if the person is a sensation type, then the intuitions are the inferior function, and the transcendent function may be said to be arrived at through intuition.

It is a fact that in analysis it often seems as though intuition were the most important of the functions, but that is only so because analysis is a laboratory experiment and not reality.

Lecture

At our last meeting I told you all that I could about the making of the Psychology of the Unconscious and its effect on me.

It was published in 1912, as Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido.

The problem it brought to focus in my mind was that of the hero myth in relation to our own times.

With the fundamental thesis of the book, namely the splitting of the libido into a positive and a negative cur- rent, Freud was, as I have said, in utter disagreement.

The publishing of the book marks the end of our friendship.

Today I would like to speak about the subjective aspect of the Psychology of the Unconscious.

When one writes such a book, one has the idea that one is writing about certain objective material, and in my case I thought I was merely handling the Miller fantasies with a certain point in view together with the attendant mythological material.

It took me a long time to see that a painter could paint a picture and think the matter ended there and had nothing whatever to do with himself.

And in the same way it took me several years to see that it, the Psychology of the Unconscious, can be taken as myself and that an analysis of it leads inevitably into an analysis of my own unconscious processes.

Difficult as it is to do this in a lecture, it is this aspect I would like to discuss, tracing out especially the ways in which the book seemed to forecast the future.

As you remember, the book begins with a statement about two kinds of thinking that can be observed: intellectual or directed thinking, and fantastic or passive automatic thinking.

In the process of directed thinking, thoughts are handled as tools, they are made to serve the purposes of the thinker; while in passive thinking thoughts are like individuals going about on their own as it were.

Fantastical thinking knows no hierarchy; the thoughts may even be antagonistic to the ego.

I took Miss Miller’s fantasies as such an autonomous form of thinking, but I did not realize that she stood for that form of thinking in myself.

She took over my fantasy and became stage director to it, if one interprets the book subjectively.

In other words, she became an anima figure, a carrier of an inferior function of which I was very little conscious.

I was in my consciousness an active thinker accustomed to subjecting my thoughts to the most rigorous sort of direction, and therefore fantasizing was a mental process that was directly repellent to me.

As a form of thinking I held it to be altogether impure, a sort of incestuous intercourse, thoroughly immoral from an intellectual viewpoint.

Permitting fantasy in myself had the same effect on me as would be produced on a man if he came into his workshop and found all the tools flying about doing things independently of his will.

It shocked me, in other words, to think of the possibility of a fantasy life in my own mind; it was against all the intellectual ideals I had developed for myself, and so great was my resistance to it, that I could only admit the fact in myself through the process of projecting my material into Miss Miller’s.

Or, to put it even more strongly, passive thinking seemed to me such a weak and perverted thing that I could only handle it through a diseased woman.

As a matter of fact, Miss Miller did afterwards become entirely deranged.

During the war I had a letter from the man who was Miss Miller’s doctor in America, telling me that my analysis of her fantasy material had been a perfectly correct one, that in her insanity the cosmogonic myths touched upon had come fully to light.

Also Flournoy, who had her under observation at the time I first read her material, told me that my analysis had been correct.

There was such a tremendous activity of the collective unconscious that it is not surprising she was finally overcome.

I had to realize then that in Miss Miller I was analyzing my own fantasy function, which because it was so re- pressed, like hers, was semi-morbid.

When a function is repressed that way, it becomes contaminated by material from the collective unconscious.

So Miss Miller would, in a way, be a description of my impure thinking; and thus in this book the question of the inferior function and the anima comes up.

In the second part of the book there comes the “Hymn of Creation.”

This is the positive expression of the unfolding of energy: or generating power—it is the way up.

The “Song of the Moth”4 is the way down; it is light created, and then creating going to its end, a kind of enantiodromia.

In the first case it is the period of growth, of youth, of light and summer.

In the moth the libido is shown to burn its wings in the light it has created before; it is going to kill itself in the same urge that brought it to birth.

With this duality in the cosmic principle, the book ends.

It leads up to the pairs of opposites, that is, to the beginning of the Types. The next portion of the book deals with creative energy in a different aspect.

Energy can show itself in manifold forms and in a process of transition from6 one form to another.

The basic transformation is that which ensues when the energy passes from strictly biological needs into cultural achievements.

From this point on it is a matter of evolution.

How is it possible then to get across from the sexual, for example, to the spiritual, not only from the scientific standpoint, but as a phenomenon in the individual?

Sexuality and spirituality are pairs of opposites that need each other.

How is the process that leads from the sexual stage to the spiritual stage brought about? The first image that comes up is the hero.

It is a most ideal image whose qualities change from age to age, but it has always embodied the things people value the most.

The hero embodies the transition we are seeking to trace, for it is as though in the sexual stage man feels too much under the power of nature, a power which he is in no way able to manage.

The hero is a very perfect man, he stands out as a human protest against nature, who is seeking to rob man of that possibility of perfection.

The unconscious makes the hero symbol, and therefore the hero means a change of attitude.

But this hero symbol comes also from the unconscious, which is also nature, that same nature which is not the least interested in the ideal that man is struggling to formulate.

Man comes then into conflict with the unconscious, and this struggle is that of winning free from his uncon- scious, his mother.

His unconscious, as I said, forms images of perfect people, but when he tries to realize these hero types, an- other trend in the unconscious is aroused, [a trend] to the attempt to destroy the image.

So is developed the terrible mother, the devouring dragon, the dangers of rebirth, etc.

At the same time the appearance of the hero ideal means the strengthening of the hopes of man.

It gives man the notion that he can reorganize the lines of his life if the mother will allow it.

This can’t be done by a literal rebirth, so it is accomplished by a transformation process, or psychological re- birth.

But this is not to be done without serious battle with the mother.

The paramount question becomes, Will the mother allow the hero to be born? And then, what can be done to satisfy the mother so that she will allow it?
Thus we come to the idea of the sacrifice as embodied in the bull-sacrifice of Mithras. This is not a Christian but a Mithraic idea.

The hero himself is not sacrificed, but his animal side, the bull.

A discussion of the role of the mother or unconscious as both birthplace and source of destruction leads to the idea of the dual mother role, or the existence of the pairs of opposites in the unconscious, the principle of construction and the principle of destruction.

A sacrifice must be done in order to cut the hero away from the power of the unconscious and give him his individual autonomy.

He has to pay himself off and contrive to fill the vacuum left in the unconscious. What is to be sacrificed? According to mythology, it is childhood, the veil of Maya, past ideals.
In connection with this I may say there is a passage in the Psychology of the Unconscious upon which I have often been attacked.

I have said there that the greatest help in getting one over the dangers of the rebirth and breaking away from the mother was to be found in regular work.

Sometimes in thinking over this I have thought that was a cheap and inadequate way of meeting this tremendous problem, and then I have been inclined to side with my critics.

But the more I have thought of it, the more I have been convinced that after all I was in the first place correct, and our regularly repeated efforts to throw off unconsciousness—that is, by regular work—has
made our humanity.

We can conquer unconsciousness by regular work but never by a grand gesture. If I say to a Negro, how do you deal with your unconscious?

He gives as answer, “By work.” “But,” I say, “your life is all play.”

This he vehemently denies and explains to me that much of his life passes in the performance of the most laborious dances for the spirits.

Dancing to us is really play, it is lightness and grace, but for primitives it is really hard work.

All ceremonies may be said to be work, and our sense of work to be derivative therefrom.

Following this theme further, I can give the illustration of the action of the Australian Negro when he is sick. He goes to a place where his churinga is hidden in the rocks.
He rubs it.

The churinga is full of healthy magic, and when he rubs it, this gets into his system and his sickness goes into the churinga which then is put back in its place in the rocks where it can digest the sickness and refill itself with healthy magic. That replaces prayer.

We would say one got strength from God through prayer, but the primitive gets strength from God by work.

If you have followed these explanations at all, you will have seen that the material could not fail to make a great impression on me, I mean the mythological material with which I was working.

One of the most important influences was that I elaborated Miss Miller’s morbidity into myths in a way satisfactory to myself, and so I assimilated the Miller side of myself, which did me much good.

To speak figuratively, I found a lump of clay, turned it to gold and put it in my pocket.

I got Miller into myself and strengthened my fantasy power by the mythological material. Then I continued my active thinking, but with hesitancy.

It seemed as if my fantasy were going away from the material. At this time I wrote little.

Through the fact that I worried about my difficulty with Freud, I came to study Adler carefully in order to see what was his case against Freud.

I was struck at once by the difference in type.

Both were treating neurosis and hysteria, and yet to the one man it looked so, and to the other it was some- thing quite different.

I could find no solution.

Then it dawned on me that possibly I was dealing with two different types, who were fated to approach the same set of facts from widely differing aspects.

I began to see among my patients some who fit Adler’s theories, and others who fit Freud’s, and thus I came to formulate the theory of extraversion: and introversion.

There followed much discussion here and there among friends and acquaintances, through which I found that I had the tendency to project my inferior extraverted side into my extraverted friends, and they their introverted

sides into me.

By discussion with my personal friends, I found that because of this continued projection into them of my inferior function, I was always in danger of depreciating them.

My patients I could take impersonally and objectively, but my friends I had to meet on a feeling basis, and as feeling is a relatively undifferentiated function in me, and therefore in the unconscious, it naturally
carried a heavy load of projections.

Little by little I made a discovery that was shocking to me, namely the fact of this extraverted personality, which every introvert carries within him in his unconscious, and which I had been projecting upon my friends to their detriment.

It was equally annoying to my extravert friends to have to admit an inferior introvert within themselves.

Out of these experiences that were partly personal, I wrote a little pamphlet on the psychological types, and afterwards read it as a paper before a congress.

There were contained in this several mistakes which I afterwards could rectify.

Thus, for example, I thought that an extravert must always be a feeling type, which was clearly a projection growing out of the fact of my own extraversion being associated with my unconscious feeling.

All of this is the outside picture of the development of my book on the types.

I could perfectly well say this is the way the book came about and make an end of it there.

But there is another side, a weaving about among mistakes, impure thinking, etc., etc., which is always very difficult for a man to make public.

He likes to give you the finished product of his directed thinking and have you understand that so it was born in his mind, free of weakness.

A thinking man’s attitude toward his intellectual life is quite comparable to that of a woman toward her erotic life.

If I ask a woman about the man she has married, “How did this come about?” she will say, “I met him and loved him, and that is all.”

She will conceal most carefully all the little back alleys of the erotic highway she has travelled, all the little meannesses, and squinting situations that she may have been involved in, and she will present you with an unrivalled perfection of smoothness.

Above all she will conceal from you the erotic mistakes she has made.

She will not have it that she has been weak in this her strongest function. Just so with a man about his books.

He does not want to tell of the secret alliances, the faux pas of his mind.

This it is that makes lies of most autobiographies.

Just as sexuality is in women largely unconscious, so is this inferior side of his thinking largely unconscious in a man.

And just as a woman erects her stronghold of power in her sexuality, and will not give away any of the secrets of its weak side, so a man centers his power in his thinking and proposes to hold it as a solid front against the public, particularly against other men.

He thinks if he tells the truth in this field it is equivalent to turning over the keys of his citadel to the enemy.

But this other side of his thinking is not repellent to a woman, and therefore a man can usually speak freely of it to a woman, particularly to a certain sort of woman.

As you know I think of women as belonging in general to two types, the mother and the hetaira. The hetaira type acts as the mother for the other side of men’s thinking.

The very fact of its being a weak and helpless sort of thinking appeals to this sort of woman; she thinks of it as something embryonic which she helps to develop.

Paradoxical as it may seem, even a cocotte may sometimes know more about the spiritual growth of a man than his own wife.

Now at this time, inasmuch as I was actively thinking, I had to find some way to reserve myself, so to speak, and to pick up the other, the passive side of my mental life.

This, as I have said, a man dislikes to do because he feels so helpless.

He can’t quite manage it, and feels inferior—it is as though he were a log being tossed about in a stream, and so he gets out of it as soon as possible.

He repudiates it because it is not pure intellect—even worse than that, it might be feeling.

He feels himself a victim of all of that, and yet he must deliver himself over to it in order to get at his creative power.

Since my anima had been definitely awakened by all that mythological material I had been working with, I was forced now to give attention to that other side, to my unconscious inferior side

in other words. This sounds very easy I know, but it is a statement a man hates to make.

What I did then in order to get at this inferior, unconscious side of me was to make at night an exact reversal of the mental machinery I had used in the day.

That is to say, I turned all my libido within in order to observe the dreams that were going on.

It has been said by Léon Daudet that dreams do not only appear in the sleep but, having a life of their own, they continue also during the daytime below the level of consciousness.

This is of course not a new idea, but one that cannot be emphasized too often. One is able to catch dreams best at night because one is then passive.
However, with a dementia praecox patient it can be observed how the dreams come to the surface even in the daytime, because these people are passive all the time, so to speak, and simply turn themselves
over to the dream life.

A thinking man’s mind is active during the day (and remember I am speaking now exclusively of men; the process is different in women), but no dreams can be caught in this state.

By assuming a passive attitude at night, while at the same time pouring the same stream of libido into the un- conscious that one has put into work in the day, the dreams can be caught and the performances of the unconscious observed.

But it cannot be done by just lying down on a couch and relaxing, it has to be done by a definite giving over of the libido in full sum to the unconscious.

I trained myself to do this; I gave all my libido to the unconscious in order to make it work, and in this way I gave the unconscious a chance, the material came to light and I was able to catch it in flagrante.

I found that the unconscious is working out enormous collective fantasies.

Just as, before, I was passionately interested in working out myths, now I became just as much interested in the material of the unconscious.

This in fact is the only way of getting at myth formation.

And so the first chapter of the Psychology of the Unconscious became most correctly true.

I watched the creation of myths going on, and got an insight into the structure of the unconscious, forming thus the concept that plays such a role in the Types.

I drew all my empirical material from my patients, but the solution of the problem I drew from the inside, from my observations of the unconscious processes.

I have tried to fuse these two currents of outer and inner experience in the book of the Types, and have termed the process of the fusion of the two currents the transcendent function.

I found that the conscious current went one way and the unconscious another, and I could not see where they could become together.

The individual tends toward an abysmal split, for the intellect can only dissect and discriminate, and the creative element lies out of reach of the intellect in the unconscious.

The possibility of a mediation between the conscious and the unconscious, which I have formulated in the transcendent function, came as a great light.

Now the time is up and I have told you a very great deal, but do not assume that I have told all! Carl Jung,1925 Seminar, Pages 27 -36

Carl Jung on "Intuition" as a Superior and Inferior Function

Dr. Mann’s question: “Is it not by intuition that one arrives most easily at the transcendent function, and if a person is lacking in that function—that is, in intuition—are not the difficulties greatly increased?

Must one not reach the transcendent function alone, that is, unaided?”

Dr. Jung: It depends very much on the person’s type as to what part intuition plays in finding the transcen- dent function.

If the superior function is intuition, for example, then the intuitions are directly in the way, since the transcen- dent function is made, or takes place, between the superior and the inferior functions.

The inferior function can only come up at the expense of the superior, so that in the intuitive type the intu- itions have to be overcome, so to speak, in order for the transcendent function to be found.

On the other hand, if the person is a sensation type, then the intuitions are the inferior function, and the tran- scendent function may be said to be arrived at through intuition.

It is a fact that in analysis it often seems as though intuition were the most important of the functions, but that is only so because analysis is a laboratory experiment and not reality. Carl Jung, 1925 Seminar, Page 27

Dr. Jung asked "…did you have always the sense of being in control of your tools?”

Questions and Discussion

No written questions were handed in.

The following verbal question was asked:

“When you were in the process of investigating the unconscious, as you described it last time, did you have al- ways the sense of being in control of your tools?”

Dr. Jung:

It was as if my tools were activated by my libido.

But there must be tools there to be activated, that is, animated images, images with libido in them; then the additional libido that one supplies brings them up to the surface.

If I had not given this additional libido with which to bring them to the surface, the activity would have gone on just the same, but would have sucked my energy down into the unconscious.

By putting libido into it, one can increase the speaking power of the unconscious. Mr. Aldrich: Is that tapas?

Dr. Jung: Yes, that is the Indian term for that type of concentration.

A further elaboration of the method might be put in this way: Suppose someone has a fantasy of a man and a woman moving about in a room.

He gets just that far with it and no further; in other words, he drops that fantasy and proceeds to another— let us say he comes upon a deer in a wood, or sees birds fluttering about.

But the technical rule with regard to fantasy is to stick to the picture that comes up until all its possibilities are exhausted.

Thus if I conjured up that man and woman, I would not let them go till I had found out what they were going to do in that room.

Thus one makes the fantasy move on.

Usually, however, one has a resistance to doing this, that is, to following the fantasy.

Something is sure to whisper in one’s ear that it is all nonsense; in fact, the conscious is forced to take a highly depreciatory attitude toward the unconscious material in order to become conscious at all, for example, a person making the effort to break away from an outgrown faith can usually be found ridiculing it; he throws out cogs to keep from slipping back into his unconscious acceptance.

This is the reason it is so difficult to get at the unconscious material.

The conscious is forever saying, “Keep away from all that,” and it is always tending to increase rather than re- duce the resistance to the unconscious.

Similarly, the unconscious pits itself against the conscious, and it is the special tragedy of man that in order to win consciousness he is forced into dissociation with nature.

He is either under the complete sway of the enantiodromia, or play of nature’s forces, or he is too far away from nature.

Going back to the question of fantasizing, if once the resistance to free contact with the unconscious can be overcome, and one can develop the power of sticking to the fantasy, then the play of the images can be watched.

Any artist is doing that quite naturally, but he is getting only the esthetic values out of it while the analyst tries to get at all the values, ideational, esthetic, feeling, and intuitional.

When one watches such a scene one tries to figure out its special meaning for oneself.

When the figures animated are very far away from the conscious trend, then it may happen that they break forth arbitrarily as in cases of dementia praecox.

The eruption then splits the conscious and tears it to bits, leaving each content with an independent ego, hence the absolutely inadequate emotional reaction of these cases.

If there is a certain amount of ego left there may be some reaction—thus a voice in the unconscious may denounce one as crazy, but another may arise to counter it.

But, aside from dementia praecox cases, so-called normal people are very fragmentary—that is, they produce no full reactions in most cases.

That is to say, they are not complete egos.

There is one ego in the conscious and another made up of unconscious ancestral elements, by the force of which a man who has been fairly himself over a period of years suddenly falls under the sway of an ancestor.

I think the fragmentary reactions and inadequate emotions people so often display are best explained along these lines.

Thus you may have a person who sees always and only the dark side of life; he perhaps is forced into this one- sidedness through ancestor possession, and quite suddenly another portion of the unconscious may get on top and change him into an equally one-sided optimist.

Many cases are described in the literature which show these sudden character changes, but of course they are not explained as ancestor possession, since this latter idea remains as a hypothesis for which there is no scientific proof as yet.

Following these ideas a little further, it is an interesting fact that there is no disease among primitives which cannot be caused by ghosts, which of course are ancestral figures.

There is a physiological analogy for this theory of ancestor possession which may make the idea a little clearer.

It is thought that cancer may be due to the later and anarchical development of embryonic cells folded away in the mature and differentiated tissues.

Strong evidence for this lies in the finding, for example, of a partially developed fetus in the thigh of an adult man, say, in those tumors known as teratomata.

Perhaps a similar thing goes on in the mind, whose psychological makeup may be said to be a conglomerate.

Perhaps certain traits belonging to the ancestors get buried away in the mind as complexes with a life of their own which has never been assimilated into the life of the individual, and then, for some unknown reason, these complexes become activated, step out of their obscurity in the folds of the unconscious, and begin to dominate the whole mind.

I am inclined to describe the historical character of the images from the unconscious in this way.

Often there occur details in these images that cannot by any stretch of the imagination be explained in terms of the personal experience of the individual.

It is possible that a certain historical atmosphere is born with us by means of which we can repeat strange details almost as if they were historical facts.

Daudet has developed a similar idea (L’Hérédo and Le Monde des images), which he calls “auto-fécondation.”

Whatever the truth of these speculations, they certainly fall within the frame of the notion of the collective unconscious.

Another way of putting these ideas of ancestor possession would be that these autonomous complexes exist in the mind as Mendelian units, which are passed on from generation to generation intact, and are unaffected by the life of the individual.

The problem then becomes this: Can these psychological Mendelian units be broken up and assimilated in a way to protect the individual from being victimized by them?

Analysis certainly makes a fair attempt to do this.

It may not achieve the complete assimilation of the complex, or unit, into the rest of the mind, but at least it points out a way of dealing with it.

In this way analysis becomes an orthopedic method analogous to that used in a disease like tabes, for example.

The disease remains the same, but certain adjustments can be developed to compensate for the kinesthetic disturbance—the tabetic can learn to control his body movements in walking, through his eye movements, and thus achieve a substitute for his lost tactile sense.

I would like today to speak further about the background for the book on the types.

As soon as one begins to watch one’s mind, one begins to observe the autonomous phenomena in which one exists as a spectator, or even as a victim.

It is very much as if one stepped out of the protection of his house into an antediluvian forest and was con- fronted by all the monsters that inhabit the latter.

One is naturally a little reluctant to reverse the machinery and get into this situation.

It is as though one gave up one’s freedom of will and offered oneself up as a victim, for with this reversal of the machinery, an entirely different attitude from that of directed thinking grows up.

One is swept into the unknown of this world, not just into a psychological function.

In a way the collective unconscious is merely a mirage because unconscious, but it can be also just as real as the tangible world.

I can say this is so, this thing I am experiencing, but it does no good.

One must be willing to accept the reality for the time being, to risk going a long way with the unconscious in other words.

I once read some stories by the German author Hoffmann, who wrote at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

He wrote in the vein of Poe, and in the midst of writing these stories he would become so gripped by the reality of the fantasies that he would shout for help and have people running to his rescue.

In fairly normal cases there is no danger, but it cannot be denied that the unconscious is overwhelmingly impressive.

The first observation I made began before I really had begun any systematic attempt to examine my unconscious— before I was fully aware of the full significance of the problem.

You remember what I told you of my relation to Freud.

When I was still writing the Psychology of the Unconscious, I had a dream which I did not understand—perhaps I only fully understood it last year, if then. This was the dream: I was walking on a road in
the country and came to a crossing. I was walking with someone, but did not know who it was—today I would say it was my shadow.

Suddenly I came upon a man, an old one, in the uniform of an Austrian customs official. It was Freud. In the dream the idea of the censorship came to my mind.
Freud didn’t see me but walked away silently. My shadow said to me, “Did you notice him? He has been dead for thirty years, but he can’t die properly.”
I had a very peculiar feeling with this.

Then the scene changed and I was in a southern town on the slopes of mountains. The streets consisted of steps going up and down the steep slopes.
It was a medieval town and the sun was blazing in full noon, which as you know is the hour when spirits are abroad in southern countries.

I came walking through the streets with my man, and many people passed us to and fro.

All at once I saw among them a very tall man, a Crusader dressed in a coat of mail with the Maltese cross in red on the breast and on the back.

He looked quite detached and aloof, not in any way concerned with the people about him, nor did they pay any attention to him.

I looked at him in astonishment and could not understand what he was doing walking about there. “Did you notice him?” my shadow asked me.
“He has been dead since the twelfth century, but he is not yet properly dead. He always walks here among the people, but they don’t see him.”
I was quite bewildered that the people paid no attention, and then I awoke. This dream bothered me a long time.
I was shocked at the first part because I did not then anticipate the trouble with Freud.

“What does it mean that he is dead and so depreciated?” is the question I asked myself, and why did I think of the principle of the censor in these terms when, as a matter of fact, it seemed to me then the best theory available?

I realized the antagonism between the figure of the Crusader and that of Freud, and yet I realized that there was also a strong parallelism.

They were different, and yet both were dead and could not die properly.

The meaning of the dream lies in the principle of the ancestral figure; not the Austrian officer—obviously he stood for the Freudian theory—but the other, the Crusader, is an archetypal figure, a Christian symbol living from the twelfth century, a symbol that does not really live today, but on the other hand is not wholly dead either.

It comes out of the times of Meister Eckhart, the time of the culture of the Knights, when many ideas blos- somed, only to be killed then, but they are coming again to life now.

However, when I had this dream, I did not know this interpretation.

I was oppressed and bewildered. Freud was bewildered too, and could find no satisfactory meaning for it. That was in 1912.

Then I had another dream that showed me again very clearly the limitations of the conceptions about dreams which Freud held to be final.

I had been looking on the unconscious as nothing but the receptacle of dead material, but slowly the idea of the archetypes began to formulate itself in my mind, and at the end of 1912 came this dream, which was the beginning of a conviction that the unconscious did not consist of inert material only, but that there was something living down there.

I was greatly excited at the idea of there being something living in me that I did not know anything about.

I dreamed that I was sitting in a very beautiful Italian loggia, something like the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence.

It was most luxurious, with columns, floor, and balustrade of marble.

I was sitting in a golden chair, a Renaissance chair, in front of a table of green stone like emerald.

It was of an extraordinary beauty.

I was sitting looking out into space, for the loggia was on top of a tower belonging to a castle.

I knew that my children were there too.

Suddenly a white bird came flying down and gracefully alighted on the table. It was like a small gull, or a dove.

I made a sign to the children to keep quiet, and the dove suddenly became a little girl with golden hair, and ran away with the children.

As I sat pondering over this, the little girl came back and put her arm around my neck very tenderly. Then all at once she was gone, and the dove was there and spoke slowly with a human voice.

It said, “I am allowed to transform into a human form only in the first hours of the night, while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.”

Then it flew away into the blue sky and I awoke.

The dove had used a peculiar word when speaking of the male dove. It is Tauber in German, and not often used, but I remembered hearing an uncle of mine use it.

But what should a male pigeon be doing with twelve dead? I felt alarmed.
Then there flashed across my mind the story of the Tabula smaragdina, or emerald table, which is part of the legend of the Thrice Great Hermes.

He is supposed to have left a table on which was engraved all the wisdom of the ages, formulated in the Greek words: “Ether above, Ether below, Heaven above, Heaven below, all this above, all this below,
take it and be happy.”

All this, as I say, was very alarming to me.

I began to think of the twelve Apostles, the twelve months of the year, the signs of the Zodiac, etc. I had just written about the twelve signs of the Zodiac in the Psychology of the Unconscious.

Finally, I had to give it up, I could make nothing out of the dream except that there was a tremendous animation of the unconscious.

I knew no technique of getting at the bottom of this activity; all I could do was just wait, keep on living, and watch the fantasies.

This was at Christmastime in 1912.

In 1913 I felt the activity of the unconscious most disagreeably. I was disturbed, but knew nothing better to do than to try to analyze my infantile memories.

So I began to analyze these most conscientiously, but found nothing.

I thought, “Well then, I must try to live through these experiences again,” so I made then the effort to recover the emotional tone of childhood.

I said to myself that if I should play like a child I could recover this.

I remembered that when I was a boy I used to delight in building houses of stone, all sorts of fantastic castles, 6 2012: In 1913, Jung noted this dream as follows: “I dreamt at that time (it was shortly after Christmas 1912), that I was sitting with my children in a marvelous and richly furnished castle apartment—an open columned hall—we were sitting at a round table, whose top was a marvelous dark green stone.

Suddenly a gull or a dove flew in and sprang lightly onto the table.

I admonished the children to be quiet, so that they would not scare away the beautiful white bird.

Suddenly this bird turned into a child of eight years, a small blond girl, and ran around playing with my children in the marvelous columned colonnades.

Then the child suddenly turned into the gull or dove.

She said the following to me: ‘Only in the first hour of the night can I become human, while the male dove is busy with the twelve dead.’ With these words the bird flew away and I awoke” (cited in Liber Novus, 198).

“For Heaven’s sake,” I said to myself, “is it possible that I have to get into this nonsense for the sake of animating the unconscious?”

That year I did all sorts of idiotic things like this, and enjoyed them like a fool. It raised a lot of inferior feelings in me, but I knew of no better way.
Towards autumn I felt that the pressure that had seemed to be within me was not there anymore but in the air.

The air actually seemed darker than before.

It was just as if it were no longer a psychological situation in which I was involved, but a real one, and that sense became more and more weighty.

In October 1913 I was travelling in a train and had a book in my hand that I was reading. I began to fantasize, and before I knew it, I was in the town to which I was going.

This was the fantasy: I was looking down on the map of Europe in relief.

I saw all the northern part, and England sinking down so that the sea came in upon it.

It came up to Switzerland, and then I saw that the mountains grew higher and higher to protect Switzerland.

I realized that a frightful catastrophe was in progress, towns and people were destroyed, and the wrecks and dead bodies were tossing about on the water.

Then the whole sea turned to blood.

At first I was only looking on dispassionately, and then the sense of the catastrophe gripped me with tremen- dous power.

I tried to repress the fantasy, but it came again and held me bound for two hours. Three or four weeks later it came again, when I was again in a train.
It was the same picture repeated, only the blood was more emphasized.

Of course I asked myself if I was so unfortunate as to be spreading my personal complexes all over Europe.

I thought a great deal about the chances of a great social revolution, but curiously enough never of a war.

It seemed to me all these things were becoming frightfully uncanny, then it occurred to me, there was some- thing I could do, I could write down all of it in sequence.

While I was writing once I said to myself, “What is this I am doing, it certainly is not science, what is it?” Then a voice said to me, “That is art.”

This made the strangest sort of an impression upon me, because it was not in any sense my conviction that what I was writing was art.

Then I came to this, “Perhaps my unconscious is forming a personality that is not me, but which is insisting on coming through to expression.”

I don’t know why exactly, but I knew to a certainty that the voice that had said my writing was art had come from a woman.

A living woman could very well have come into the room and said that very thing to me, because she would not have cared anything about the discriminations she was trampling underfoot.

Obviously it wasn’t science; what then could it be but art, as though those were the only two alternatives in the world. That is the way a woman’s mind works.

Well, I said very emphatically to this voice that what I was doing was not art, and I felt a great resistance grow up within me.

No voice came through, however, and I kept on writing.

Then I got another shot like the first: “That is art.”

This time I caught her and said, “No it is not,” and I felt as though an argument would ensue.

I thought, well, she has not the speech centers I have, so I told her to use mine, and she did, and came through with a long statement.

This is the origin of the technique I developed for dealing directly with the unconscious contents. Carl Jung, 1925 Seminar, Lecture 5, Pages 37-45.

Carl Jung on: “L’Atlantide”

Mr. Bacon read the report of the committee on L’Atlantide.

The committee were of divided opinions as to the proper psychological interpretation.

One view was that the book demonstrated a conflict in Benoît’s mind between his spiritual side and a tedency toward material considerations.

It was felt, for example, that he was conscious of misusing the messages of the unconscious for the sake of writing “bestsellers.”

Looked at from that angle, Antinéa was not accepted as a true anima figure—that is, a creation of unconscious fantasies—but was taken as having been more than half constructed with a view to literary effect.

Another view represented in the committee was that the book represented a conflict between what was ratio- nal and what was irrational in Benoît’s psychology, rather than as a conflict between a spiritual and a materialistic viewpoint.

Mr. Aldrich, differing from both of these viewpoints, presented a minority report in which he valiantly defended Antinéa not only as a true anima figure, but also as being a symbol of positive importance.

According to his view, Antinéa was neither a good woman nor an evil one, but complete on all sides. He has summarized his report as follows:
“The natural complement of a complete woman is a complete man.

Insofar as the man is incompletely developed, or refuses to give her more than one side of his nature, he may expect that she will punish him. In Benoît’s romance, the hero is split in two: the sensual side of him is personified by Saint-A vit, while Morhange stands for an infantile and conventional sort of spirituality.

In effect, the hero goes to Antinéa and says, ‘I tender you my sensual side, because Nature drives me; but I mean to deny you any participation in my spiritual side because, according to my conventional morality, love of woman and spirituality are opposites and cannot be reconciled.’

Naturally, this aroused a devil in Antinéa—as it would in any woman who had any individuality.

Obviously the right woman for a man is the woman who complements his own stage of development: the mother is suitable for the baby, the wife for the man who is winning his place in the world, and the hetaira—the completely developed woman, the comrade—for the man who has achieved complete individuality, the Wise Man.

Antinéa would have been a delightful comrade for a Wise Man; but for a man who had not passed out of the Warrior stage she was as inappropriate and fatal as a wife would be for a baby.”

Dr. Jung: The most interesting point about this book is the way in which it differs from She, is it not, Mr. Bacon?

Mr. Bacon: Yes, I must say I was a little confused in trying to get at the differences, but for one thing there is the theme of luxury greatly emphasized in Benoît’s book.

Miss Raevsky: Not only that, there is a sensualism that is much developed in it, even in Antinéa.

Dr. Jung: Yes, if you think of the outside details, there is a tremendous difference.

In L’Atlantide as you say, there is an atmosphere of luxury, the beauty of the place is dwelt upon, the way which the people are received is described so as to bring out the details, while the corresponding features in She are very sparsely treated. Benoît is outspokenly esthetical.

One could [not?] imagine an Anglo-Saxon writer paying as much attention to these physical details.

Haggard pays a good deal of attention to them himself, in fact, as for example when he describes an after- noon tea under perfectly absurd conditions, but when Haggard does this, it is with a sort of frugality; it is the sort of sensuality that belongs to the sportsman, while Benoît’s is that of the salon.

When you mention the sensuality in L’Atlantide, you have something, but there is a still greater difference.

Benoît fully acknowledges the place of sexuality, while in Haggard it always appears as a fiendish element. In Benoît it plays a big part, while in all of Haggard’s books it is decidedly in the background.

One could say that one had here the French and the Anglo-Saxon viewpoints in opposition.

We cannot assume that the Anglo-Saxon view is the only one in harmony with Heaven; we must assume that the French view has also justification.

So it is worthwhile to go into some detail about this question of attitude. In order to do that we must pay some attention to Antinéa.

I am not sure if the class got a very clear picture of Antinéa.

Mr. Bacon, will you describe the ways in which Antinéa differs from “She”?

Mr. Bacon: Antinéa is a much more physiological object than “She,” who is very nebulous. Antinéa is represented as full of animal desire.

Mr. Aldrich: “She” says nothing to me, while Antinéa is to me a real woman.

I think I was the only member of the committee who did not think of her as poison.

If the author could only have got himself together and not approached her as a split personality, he would have found Antinéa a very nice girl.

Dr. Jung: But you must admit it is a bit of a bad joke to have a salon full of dead men. Mr. Aldrich: Ah, but she gave them immortality.

Dr. Jung: I must say that view is a little too optimistic, but it is true that Antinéa is usually depreciated, unnecessarily so if her circumstances are taken into consideration.

She is an omnipotent queen who can have her every mood and whim satisfied. Such an Oriental queen can be very cruel without being vicious.

If we compare her with other similar types, she is not so bad. Moreover, she is in a difficult situation.

She is a woman who has not been hampered by interferences of education; she could unfold quite completely, but we should not assume that this is the best thing that can happen.

She sees and appreciates natural values, and she is intelligent and educated intellectually, but she has had no education in the higher values.

One can be doubtful, of course, about whether or not these higher values are worthwhile, but it would be a mistake to think they can be utterly neglected.

If we compare “She” with Antinéa, we can see that the tragedy hangs about this matter of values.

“She” is tortured for thousands of years till she admits them.

Antinéa is not even so far along that she admits or sees their existence, and so she does not fight, and we see that Antinéa is on a lower level than “She.” Our sympathy therefore goes to the latter.

But Antinéa has all the charm of the native woman, all the erotic power and instinctiveness that goes with such a woman.

This is somewhat gone in “She,” for “She” is already under the influence of things.

But we must remember that Antinéa is not a real woman, but the anima of a Frenchman, and here we have a typical difference between the French and the Anglo-Saxons.

If ever there was a book that could throw light on this difference it is this one.

I should like to hear from you on this point. How do you explain this peculiar difference? Mr. Schmitz: I believe that the difference between the French and the Anglo-Saxons,
between the French and the rest of Europe for that matter, arises out of the difference in their relation to the pagan world.

The French are the only people having a direct connection with this world. When the Romans conquered Gaul they surrounded it with Roman culture.
So when Christianity came, it found France a civilized state in contradistinction to Germany.

The Germans resisted Roman culture, so there is no continuity of tradition with the pagan world. Christianity found us barbaric, and our paganism has remained with the barbaric element in it.

This difference runs through the whole French culture. Dr. Jung: What Mr. Schmitz says is very true.

Therein lies the reason for the difference between the French and the Anglo-Saxon viewpoints.

Gaul was civilized in early times; it even contained a fertile Roman culture at a time when Germany and the Anglo-Saxon were in a most primitive state of development.

In those days even Paris was in existence as a civilized place, and there were poets, even emperors, coming from the natives of Gaul.

It was, in other words, a rich civilization, the old Gauls having been assimilated into the Roman people.

The Celtic languages disappeared, and the Germanic tribes that came in were absorbed by the Romanized

population and so received the Roman civilization also.

On that basis Christianity was planted, not on a wild people as in Germany.

Therefore there is an absolute continuity between the Roman mentality and that of the Middle Ages. There is no break.

Even certain early Church Fathers were French.

Besides the Roman, there was a strong Greek influence that reached up the Rhone, and cultural influences from the Mediterranean came at a very early date.

All of these influences from the pagan world had a peculiar effect.

They fortified the antique layers to such an extent that Christianity could not undo it.

The same is true more or less for all the Mediterranean peoples; that is, they remained more pagan than Christian.

It would be hard to say this to a Frenchman, because the French think of themselves as good Catholics. And so they are, in one sense; even when most skeptical they are still good Catholics.

Otherwise Voltaire and Diderot would not be as acceptable as they are.

Thus one can be Catholic in a negative way, and be pleased with venom against the thing formerly most rever- enced.

Those within the Church have a most positive attitude.

They center about Catholicism because they feel it embraces life.

Within its scope paganism persists, and so one finds among the most religious Frenchmen a full recognition of sexuality.

Today their point of view about sexuality is that it is amoral.

It is just obvious that it is accepted, and morality scarcely enters into the question.

A man goes regularly to church and keeps up whatever sexual practices he may see fit, for sexuality in his eyes has nothing to do with morality.

That is why sexuality receives the special treatment it does in France.

This peculiar difference explains, I think, every difference between “She” and Antinéa.

And since Antinéa has so definite a character, we can reconstruct something of the author’s conscious and ar- rive at an appreciation of a modern Frenchman.

Then there are other figures that throw much light on French psychology. Take Le Mesge, for example.

Here is a pure rationalist living in an altogether irrational way, a thing typical of the French.

It is characteristic of the French mind to allow the limit of irrationality in behavior, and nowhere else can one see so many comical figures in reality; but they are nonetheless rational in their viewpoints.

Then Count Bielowsky, in spite of being a Pole, is a typical French figure of the Third Empire, a habitué of Paris.

His figure forms a necessary counterpart to that of Morhange, whose flirtatious attitude toward the church is compensated by Bielowsky’s flirtatious attitude toward “high life.”

The mediating figure between the two is Le Mesge.

Such contradictions always demand a compromise, and this comes about through a rational mediation. But here there is too little life, so then Saint-A vit is brought in to provide temperament and passion.
A Frenchman always allows himself to have “fits,” where he can apply a whole arsenal of rhetoric.

There comes out a long series of tremendous words, put together in a perfect style, and then he is all right.

Mr. Aldrich: Morhange, according to the way I see him, has only a very feeble spirituality. I don’t believe he ever had a religious emotion.

Dr. Jung: But you are Anglo-Saxon and he was a Catholic.

We can never know what Sacré-Coeur means to them, nor how they can excite themselves over the image of the Virgin.

We can say then that there is a peculiar atmosphere in L’Atlantide, and an altogether different one from She. This is something I felt very profoundly and wonder if you did not also.

When one reads such a book one asks oneself, “What does it lead to?” What does it mean to you?

Mrs. Zinno: It seems to me a going to death rather than to life.

Mr. Bacon: There is an indefinable sense of cheapness about it to me. It ends as if preparing for a sequel.

Mrs. Zinno: I think the figure of “She” is an effort to connect unreality to reality, but Antinéa remains stuck in unreality, that is, the unconscious.

Dr. Jung: You have touched upon something important there.

Antinéa does not try to get out, she makes no attempt to reach the world, nor to let the world reach her. “She” is planning to rule the world, to get at it in some way.

That is a peculiarity of the Anglo-Saxon, this desire to get at the world and rule it.

It is quite conscious in England, and probably in fifty years will be equally so in America. But the French point of view is to remain where they are.
The French are really not concerned with ruling the world, it is an affectation that Napoleon, who was not a true Frenchman, brought—i. e., the idea of dominating Europe.

The French are concerned with their own country.

It is no wonder then that Antinéa sticks where she is. What I really feel about the issue is that it is hopeless.

It will be repeated one hundred times, and then there is an end of the whole business.

Antinéa will die, and then she will be on a throne in all her royal beauty with appropriate adornments.

It is a sort of apotheosis, something one can see at the end of a film, the idea of La Gloire.

There is a pantheon of fallen heroes, and there the whole thing ends in vain ambition.

Now, in She there is the feeling of enormous expectation at the end. One does not know, but the future is looked for.

What makes a great difference between the anima of the Frenchman and that of the Anglo-Saxon is that the latter contains a mysterious side of promise, therefore there is more feeling of spiritual potencies in
“She” than in Antinéa.

All that element is taken out of Antinéa by the supposition of her birth.

That rational suspicion is, of course, a tremendous depreciation of the function of the archetypes. It is the “nothing but” spirit again.
The value is gone from the archetype.

It says, “You can’t base yourself on the archetypes, so it is better not to build at all, the ground is not safe.” This is a peculiar fact that has to be reckoned with in the analysis of Frenchmen.

It is very hard to get them to take it seriously enough. Their rationalism is blocking them at every point.

They have an exact view about everything and know what it is to the last dot.

They exhaust themselves in that fight.

Because of this knowing how everything works, they are inclined to depreciate the immediate facts of the soul, and to assume that everything is the result of an old civilization.

This was the attitude they had to take up in the Middle Ages as a compensation against the force of antiquity.

Christianity was not strong enough to hold them at the beginning, and this rationalism gave support to the Church.

The relation of this rationalism to the Church is something that an Anglo-Saxon can hardly understand.

Dr. de Angulo: Will you discuss the point made in the report of the committee to the effect that Antinéa was not an unconscious figure but was put into the unconscious setting deliberately?

Dr. Jung: I think Antinéa is partly conscious and partly unconscious.

When the Anglo-Saxon says she is twisted by the personal unconscious, he is commenting on the peculiar racial character of Antinéa.

Mrs. Jung: Could you say something about the relation of the animus to immortality in the same way that you discussed the anima and immortality?

Dr. Jung: The animus seems to go back only to the fourteenth century, and the anima to remote antiquity, but with the animus I must say I am uncertain altogether.

Mrs. Jung: It had seemed to me that the animus was not a symbol of immortality, but of movement and life, and that it is man’s attitude that gives that different aspect to the anima.

Dr.Jung: It is true that the animus is often represented by a moving figure—an aviator or a traffic manager.

Perhaps there is something in the historical fact of women being more stable, therefore there is more move- ment in the unconscious.

Mr. Schmitz: Surely there could have been no repression of the animus at the time of the matriarchy. Dr. Jung: We cannot be too sure.
Mrs. Zinno: The figures of gods carry the idea of immortality, do they not?

smuch as they are also animus figures and come into women’s dreams, I should think one could say the animus carried the meaning of immortality also.

Dr. Jung: Yes, that is true, but there remains a tremendous difference between the animus and the anima.

Mr. Schmitz: Is immortality in the individual?

Dr. Jung: No, only as the image. Immortality belongs to the child of the anima. Inasmuch as the anima has

not brought forth, she assumes immortality. When she brings forth she dies.
But this problem of the anima and the animus is far too complex to be dealt with here. The End Carl Jung, 1925 Seminar, Pages 146-168

Carl Jung: The black serpent symbolizes the introverting libido. Salome is the anima and Elijah the wise old man.

The black serpent symbolizes the introverting libido. Salome is the anima and Elijah the wise old man.

Salome, being instinctive and quite blind, needs the foreseeing eyes of wisdom that Elijah possesses.

The figure of the prophet is compensatory to that of the blind anima.

As I am an introverted intellectual my anima contains feeling [that is] quite blind.

In my case the anima contains not only Salome, but some of the serpent, which is sensation as well.

As you remember, the real Salome was involved in incestuous relations with Herod, her stepfather, and it was because of the latter’s love for her that she was able to get the head of John the Baptist.

I had read much mythology before this fantasy came to me, and all of this reading entered into the condensa- tion of these figures.

The old man is a very typical figure.

One encounters him everywhere; he appears in all sorts of forms, and usually in company with a young girl. (See Rider Haggard: Wisdom’s Daughter.)

Feeling-sensation is in opposition to the conscious intellect plus intuition, but the balance is insufficient.

When you assume the anima is due to the preponderance of the differentiated function in the conscious, the unconscious is balanced by a figure within itself that compensates the anima figure.

This is the old man Elijah.

It is as though you have a scale, and in the one side of the scale is the conscious, in the other the unconscious. This was one of my first hypotheses.
With Freud, the unconscious is always pouring out unacceptable material into the conscious, and the conscious has difficulty in taking up this material and represses it, and there is no balance.

In those days I saw a compensatory principle that seemed to show a balance between the conscious and unconscious.

But I saw later that the unconscious was balanced in itself.

It is the yea and the nay.

The unconscious is not at all exactly the opposite of the conscious.

It may be irrationally different.

You cannot deduce the unconscious from the conscious.

The unconscious is balanced in itself, as is the conscious.

When we meet an extravagant figure like Salome, we have a compensating figure in the unconscious.

If there were only such an evil figure as Salome, the conscious would have to build up a fence to keep this back, an exaggerated, fanatical, moral attitude.

But I had not this exaggerated moral attitude, so I suppose that Salome was compensated by Elijah.

When Elijah told me he was always with Salome, I thought it was almost blasphemous for him to say this.

I had the feeling of diving into an atmosphere that was cruel and full of blood.

This atmosphere was around Salome, and to hear Elijah declare that he was always in that company shocked me profoundly.

Elijah and Salome are together because they are pairs of opposites.

Elijah is an important figure in man’s unconscious, not in woman’s.

He is the man with prestige, the man with a low threshold of consciousness or with remarkable intuition.

In higher society he would be the wise man; compare Lao-tse.

He has the ability to get into touch with archetypes.

He will be surrounded with mana, and will arouse other men because he touches the archetypes in others.

He is fascinating and has a thrill about him. He is the wise man, the medicine man, the mana man.

Later on in evolution, this wise man becomes a spiritual image, a god, “the old one from the mountains” (compare Moses coming down from the mountain as lawgiver), the sorcerer of the tribe.

He is the legislator.

Even Christ was in company with Moses and Elijah in his transfiguration.

All great lawgivers and masters of the past, such as for example the Mahatmas of theosophical teaching, are thought of by theosophists as spiritual factors still in existence.

Thus the Dalai Lama is supposed by theosophists to be such a figure.

In the history of Gnosis, this figure plays a great role, and every sect claims to have been founded by such a one.

Christ is not quite suitable; he is too young to be the Mahatma.

The great man has to be given another role.

John the Baptist was the great wise man, teacher, and initiator, but he has been depotentiated.

The same archetype reappears in Goethe as Faust and as Zarathustra in Nietzsche, where Zarathustra came as a visitation.

Nietzsche has been gripped by the sudden animation of the great wise man.

This plays an important role in man’s psychology, as I have said, but unfortunately a less important part than that played by the anima.

The serpent is the animal, but the magical animal.

There is hardly anyone whose relation to a snake is neutral.

When you think of a snake, you are always in touch with racial instinct.

Horses and monkeys have snake phobia, as man has.

In primitive countries, you can easily see why man has acquired this instinct.

The Bedouins are afraid of scorpions and carry amulets to protect themselves, especially stones from certain Roman ruins.

So whenever a snake appears, you must think of a primordial feeling of fear.

The black color goes with this feeling, and also with the subterranean character of the snake.

It is hidden and therefore dangerous.

As animal it symbolizes something unconscious; it is the instinctive movement or tendency; it shows the way to the hidden treasure, or it guards the treasure.

The dragon is the mythological form of the snake.

The snake has a fascinating appeal, a peculiar attraction through fear. Some people are fascinated by this fear.
Things that are awe-inspiring and dangerous have an extraordinary attraction.

This combination of fear and attraction is shown, for instance, when a bird is hypnotized by a snake, for the bird flutters down to fight the snake, and then becomes attracted and held by the snake.

The serpent shows the way to hidden things and expresses the introverting libido, which leads man to go be- yond the point of safety, and beyond the limits of consciousness, as expressed by the deep crater.

The snake is also Yin, the dark female power.

The Chinese would not use the snake (i.e., dragon) as a symbol for Yin, but for Yang.

In Chinese [tradition], the Yin is symbolized by the tiger and the Yang by the dragon.

The serpent leads the psychological movement apparently astray into the kingdom of shadows, dead and wrong images, but also into the earth, into concretization.

It makes things real, makes them come into being, after the manner of Yin.

Inasmuch as the serpent leads into the shadows, it has the function of the anima; it leads you into the depths, it connects the above and the below.

There are mythological parallels.

Certain Negroes call the soul “My serpent”—they say, “My serpent said to me,” meaning “I had an idea.” Therefore the serpent is also the symbol of wisdom, speaks the wise word of the depths.
It is quite chthonic, quite earth-born, like Erda, daughter of the earth. The dead heroes transform into serpents in the underworld.
In mythology, that which had been the sun-bird devours itself, goes into the earth, and comes up again. The Semenda Bird, like the phoenix, burns in order to renew itself.

Out of the ashes comes the snake, and out of the snake the bird again.

The snake is the transition from the Heaven-born, back again to the bird.

The snake encoils the vessel of Ra. In the Night Journey, in the Seventh Hour, Ra must fight the serpent.

Ra is supported by the ritual of the priests: if he kills the serpent, the sun rises, if he should not succeed, the sun would rise no more.

The serpent is the personification of the tendency to go into the depths and to deliver oneself over to the al- luring world of shadows.

I had already engaged the old man in an interesting conversation; and, quite against all expectations, the old man had assumed a rather critical attitude toward my kind of thinking.

He said I treated thoughts as if I generated them myself, but, according to his views, thoughts were like ani- mals in a forest, or people in a room, or birds in the air.

He said, “If you should see people in a room, you would not say that you made those people, or that you were responsible for them.”

Only then I learned psychological objectivity.

Only then could I say to a patient, “Be quiet, something is happening.” There are such things as mice in a house.
You cannot say you are wrong when you have a thought.

For the understanding of the unconscious we must see our thoughts as events, as phenomena.

We must have perfect objectivity.

A few evenings later, I felt that things should continue; so again I tried to follow the same procedure, but it would not descend.

I remained on the surface.

Then I realized I had a conflict in myself about going down, but I could not make out what it was, I only felt that two dark principles were fighting each other, two serpents.

There was a mountain ridge, a knife edge, on one side a sunny desert country, on the other side darkness.

I saw a white snake on the light side and a dark snake on the dark side.

They met in battle on the narrow ridge.

A dreadful conflict ensued.

Finally the head of the black snake turned white, and it retired, defeated.

I felt, “Now we can go on.”

Then the old man appeared high up on the rocky ridge.

We went far up, and reached a cyclopean wall, boulders piled up in a great ring. I thought, “Ha, this is a Druidic sacred place.”
We entered through an opening, and found ourselves in a large place, with a mound[ed] Druid altar. The old man climbed up on the altar.
At once he became small and so did the altar, while the walls grew bigger and bigger.

Then I saw a tiny house near the walls, and a tiny, tiny woman, like a doll, who turned out to be Salome.

I also saw the snake, but it too was very tiny.

The walls kept on growing, and then I realized that I was in the underworld, that the walls were those of a crater, and that this was the house of Salome and Elijah.

All this time, I did not grow, but kept my own size.

As the walls grew, Salome and Elijah grew a bit bigger.

I realized that I was at the bottom of the world.

Elijah smiled and said, “Why, it is just the same, above or below.”

Then a most disagreeable thing happened.

Salome became very interested in me, and she assumed that I could cure her blindness.

She began to worship me.

I said, “Why do you worship me?” She replied, “You are Christ.”

In spite of my objections she maintained this.

I said, “This is madness,” and became filled with skeptical resistance.

Then I saw the snake approach me. She came close and began to encircle me and press me in her coils.

The coils reached up to my heart.

I realized as I struggled, that I had assumed the attitude of the Crucifixion.

In the agony and the struggle, I sweated so profusely that the water flowed down on all sides of me.

Then Salome rose, and she could see.

While the snake was pressing me, I felt that my face had taken on the face of an animal of prey, a lion or a tiger.

The interpretation of these dreams is this:

First the fight of the two snakes: the white means a movement into the day, the black into the kingdom of darkness, with moral aspects too.

There was a real conflict in me, a resistance to going down. My stronger tendency was to go up.

Because I had been so impressed the day before with the cruelty of the place I had seen,

I really had a tendency to find a way to the conscious by going up, as I did on the mountain.

The mountain was the kingdom of the sun, and the ring-wall was the vessel in which people had gathered the sun.

Elijah had said that it was just the same below or above. Compare Dante’s Inferno.

The Gnostics express this same idea in the symbol of the reversed cones.

Thus the mountain and the crater are similar.

There was nothing of conscious structure in these fantasies, they were just events that happened.

So I assume that Dante got his ideas from the same archetypes.

I have seen these ideas very often in patients—the upper and the lower cones, things above and things be- low.

Salome’s approach and her worshiping of me is obviously that side of the inferior function which is surrounded by an aura of evil.

I felt her insinuations as a most evil spell.

One is assailed by the fear that perhaps this is madness.

This is how madness begins, this is madness.

For example, in a certain Russian book there is a story of a man who fears he will go mad.

Lying in bed at night, he sees a bright square of moonlight in the middle of the room.

He says to himself, “If I should sit there and howl like a dog, then I would be mad, but I am not doing it so I am not mad.”

Then he tries to dismiss this thought, but after a while he says to himself, “I might sit there and howl like a dog, knowing it and choosing it, and still I would not be mad.”

Again he tries to put the thought away, but finally he can resist it no longer—he gets up and sits in the moon- light and howls like a dog, and then he is mad.

You cannot get conscious of these unconscious facts without giving yourself to them.

If you can overcome your fear of the unconscious and can let yourself down, then these facts take on a life of their own.

You can be gripped by these ideas so that you really go mad, or nearly so.

These images have so much reality that they recommend themselves, and such extraordinary meaning that one is caught.

They form part of the ancient mysteries; in fact, it is such figures that made the mysteries.

Compare the mysteries of Isis as told in Apuleius, with the initiation and deification of the initiate.

Awe surrounds the mysteries, particularly the mystery of deification.

This was one of the most important of the mysteries; it gave the immortal value to the individual—it gave certainty of immortality.

One gets a peculiar feeling from being put through such an initiation.

The important part that led up to the deification was the snake’s encoiling of me. Salome’s performance was deification.

The animal face which I felt mine transformed into was the famous [Deus] Leontocephalus of the Mithraic mysteries, the figure which is represented with a snake coiled around the man, the snake’s head resting on the man’s head, and the face of the man that of a lion.

This statue has only been found in the mystery grottoes (the under-churches, the last remnants of the cata- combs).

The catacombs were not originally places of concealment, but were chosen as symbolical of a descent into the underworld.

It was also part of those early conceptions that the saints should be buried with the martyrs in order to go down into the earth before rising again.

The Dionysian mysteries have the same idea.

When the catacombs decayed, the idea of the church continued.

The Mithraic religion also had an underground church, and only initiates assisted at the underground cere- monies.

Holes were cut in the walls of the underground portion in order that lay people might hear in the church above what was being said by the initiates in the church below.

The lower church was fitted up with divans or cubicles placed opposite each other. Bells were used in the ceremony, and bread marked with a cross.
We know that they celebrated a sacramental meal where this bread was eaten with water instead of wine. The Mithraic cult was strictly ascetic.
No women were admitted as members.

It is almost certain that the symbolical rite of deification played a part in these mysteries. The lion-headed god encoiled by the snake was called Aion, or the eternal being.
He derives from a Persian deity, Zrwanakarana, which word means “the infinitely long duration.”

Another very interesting symbol in this cult is the Mithraic amphora with flame arising from it, and the lion on one side with the snake on the other, both trying to get at the fire.

The lion is the young, hot, dry July sun in culmination of light, the summer. The serpent is humidity, darkness, the earth, winter.
They are the opposites of the world trying to come together with the reconciling symbol between them.

It is the famous symbolism of the vessel, a symbolism that survives till 1925—see Parsifal. It is the Holy Grail, called the Vase of Sin (see King: The Gnostics and Their Remains).

Also it is a symbol of the early Gnostics.

It is of course a man’s symbol, a symbol of the womb—the creative womb of the man out of which rises the fire.

When the pairs of opposites come together, something divine happens, and then it is immortality, the eternal, creative time.

Wherever there is generation there is time, therefore Chronos is God of Time, Fire, and Light.

In this deification mystery you make yourself into the vessel, and are a vessel of creation in which the oppo- sites reconcile.

The more these images are realized, the more you will be gripped by them.

When the images come to you and are not understood, you are in the society of the gods or, if you will, the lunatic society; you are no longer in human society, for you cannot express yourself.

Only when you can say, “This image is so and so,” only then do you remain in human society.

Anybody could be caught by these things and lost in them—some throw the experience away saying it is all nonsense, and thereby losing their best value, for these are the creative images.

Another may identify himself with the images and become a crank or a fool.

Question: What is the date of this dream?

Dr. Jung: December 1913.

All this is Mithraic symbolism from beginning to end. In 1910 I had a dream of a Gothic cathedral in which Mass was being celebrated.

Suddenly the whole side wall of the cathedral caved in, and herds of cattle, with ringing bells, trooped into the church.

You may remember that Cumont remarks that if something had happened to disrupt Christianity in the third century, the world would be Mithraic today. Carl Jung, 1925 Seminar, Pages 99-108