That's French for "the ancient system," as in the ancient system of feudal privileges and the exercise of autocratic power over the peasants. The ancien regime never goes away, like vampires and dinosaur bones they are always hidden in the earth, exercising a mysterious influence. It is not paranoia to believe that the elites scheme against the common man. Inform yourself about their schemes here.


Postby admin » Tue Oct 06, 2015 8:49 pm

by C. G. Jung, Dr. Med. et Jur. of the University of Zurich
Translated by H. Godwin Baynes, M.B., B.C. Cantab
Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc., 1923




Table of Contents:

The Two Mechanisms: Extraversion and Introversion. The Four Psychological Basic Functions: Thinking, Feeling, Sensation, and Intuition
o 1. Psychology in the Classical Age: the Gnostics, Tertullian, and Origen
o 2. The Theological Disputes of the Ancient Church
o 3. The Problem of Transubstantiation
o 4. Nominalism and Realism
 (a) The Problem of the Universalia in the Classical Age
 (b) The Universalia Problem in Scholasticism
 (c) Abelard's Attempt at Conciliation
o 5. The Holy Communion Controversy between Luther and Zwingli
o 1. Letters on the AEsthetic Education of Man
 (a) The Superior and the Inferior Functions
 (b) Concerning the Basic Instincts
o 2. A Discussion on Naive and Sentimental Poetry
 (a) The Naive Attitude
 (b) The Sentimental Attitude
 (c) The Idealist and the Realist
o 1. General Remarks upon Jordan's Types
o 2. Special Description and Criticism of the Jordan Types
 (a) The Introverted Woman (the more-impassioned woman)
 (b) The Extraverted Woman (the less-impassioned woman)
 (c) The Extraverted Man
 (d) The Introverted Man
(CARL SPITTELER'S Prometheus and Epimetheus)
o 1. Introductory Remarks on Spitteler's Characterization of Types
o 2. A Comparison of Spitteler's with Goethe's Prometheus
o 3. The Significance of the Reconciling Symbol
 (a) The Brahmanic Conception of the Problem of the Opposites
 (b) Concerning the Brahmanic Conception of the Reconciling Symbol
 (c) The Reconciling Symbol as the Principle of Dynamic Regulation
 (d) The Reconciling Symbol in Chinese Philosophy
o 4. The Relativity of the Symbol
 (a) The Service of Woman and the Service of the Soul
 (b) The Relativity of the Idea of God in Meister Eckehart
o 5. The Nature of the Reconciling Symbol in Spitteler
o 1. William James' Types
o 2. The Characteristic Pairs of Opposites in James' Types
 (a) Rationalism v. Empiricism
 (b) Intellectualism v. Sensationalism
 (c) Idealism v. Materialism
 (d) Optimism v. Pessimism
 (e) Religiousness v. Irreligiousness
 (f) Indeterminism v. Determinism
 (g) Monism v. Pluralism
 (h) Dogmatism v. Scepticism
o 3. General Criticism of James' Conception
o A. Introduction
o B. The Extraverted Type
 (I) The General Attitude of Consciousness
 (II) The Attitude of the Unconscious
 (III) The Peculiarities of Basic Psychological Functions in the Extraverted Attitude
 1. Thinking
 2. The Extraverted Thinking Type
 3. Feeling
 4. The Extraverted Feeling Type
 5. Recapitulation of Extraverted Rational Types
 6. Sensation
 7. The Extraverted Sensation Type
 8. Intuition
 9. The Extraverted Intuitive Type
 10. Recapitulation of Extraverted Irrational Types
o C. The Introverted Type
 (I) The General Attitude of Consciousness
 (II) The Unconscious Attitude
 (III) Peculiarities of the Basic Psychological Functions in the Introverted Attitude
 1. Thinking
 2. The Introverted Thinking Type
 3. Feeling
 4. The Introverted Feeling Type
 5. Recapitulation of Introverted Rational Types
 6. Sensation
 7. The Introverted Sensation Type
 8. Intuition
 9. The Introverted Intuitive Type
 10. Recapitulation of Introverted Irrational Types
 11. The Principal and Auxiliary Functions
o 1. Abstraction
o 2. Affect
o 3. Affectivity
o 4. Anima
o 5. Apperception
o 6. Archaism
o 7. Assimilation
o 8. Attitude
o 9. Collective
o 10. Compensation
o 11. Concretism
o 12. Consciousness
o 13. Constructive
o 14. Differentiation
o 15. Dissimilation
o 16. Ego
o 17. Emotion
o 18. Enantiodromia
o 19. Extraversion
o 20. Feeling
o 21. Feeling-into
o 22. Function
o 23. Idea
o 24. Identification
o 25. Identity
o 26. Image
o 27. Individual
o 28. Individuality
o 29. Individuation
o 30. Inferior Function
o 31. Instinct
o 32. Intellect
o 33. Introjection
o 34. Introversion
o 35. Intuition
o 36. Irrational
o 37. Libido
o 38. Objective Plane
o 39. Orientation
o 40. "Participation Mystique"
o 41. Phantasy
o 42. Power-Complex
o 43. Projection
o 44. Rational
o 45. Reductive
o 46. Self
o 47. Sensation
o 48. Soul
o 49. Soul-Image
o 50. Subjective Plane
o 51. Symbol
o 52. Synthetic
o 53. Thinking
o 54. Transcendent Function
o 55. Type
o 56. Unconscious
o 57. Will

The individual Self is a portion, or excerpt, or representative, of something universally present in all living creatures, and, therefore, a correspondingly graduated kind of psychological process, which is born anew in every creature.

-- Psychological Types, by C.G. Jung
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 06, 2015 8:49 pm


IN presenting this, Jung's crowning work, to the English-speaking world, I would like to make a brief sketch of the curve of the author's thought; for, like everything that is rooted in reality, Jung's standpoint shows a definite line of development, and the following of this progression may add a historical sidelight to the understanding of the present work.

I would have preferred to avoid the troubled waters of controversy, but it does not seem possible to relate the history of Jung's standpoint without at the same time contrasting it with that of Freud. That this somewhat thankless task was necessary is proved by the still frequent coupling of the two schools of thought under a common denomination~ suggesting that the general mind has, as yet, failed to make a clear distinction between the contrasting standpoints.

Freud undoubtedly is an analytical genius. One has only to read his early studies upon the aetiology of hysteria to be struck by the virtuosity of his subtle reasoning. It was an intuitive capacity of no ordinary shrewdness that revealed the hidden significance of the hysterical syndrome. For it opened the way to an entirely new conception of the unconscious, and led to a rediscovery of the dream as a significant and purposeful product of that. same unconscious activity of which the hysterical manifestations were a somatic expression.

Freud was like a master-detective tracking down the incriminating complex in the unconscious, while Breuer, his colleague, contented himself with exorcizing the repressed elements from above by abreaction under hypnosis.

In medical science we can discern two main human types or attitudes whose behaviour towards the therapeutic problem presents a characteristic contrast. The chief interest of the one lies in the welfare of .mankind and the healing, of his patient; the other's interest is monopolized by the aetiological problem presented by the patient's condition, and is concerned in a less degree with its remedy. The one attempts to discover a remedy before understanding the problem; the other tends to become so completely immersed in the problem that the original objective, e.g. the healing of mankind, is often lost to view.

We do not find the greatest minds succumbing to either of these frailties, but it is not out of place to outline such typical predispositions, since the vague benevolence and imperfect understanding of the one are as far below the scientific desideratum, as are the other's exclusive ardours for the "scientific" chase a blemish upon the ideal of humanity.

While Breuer, therefore, seems to have been content with the therapeutic efficacy of hypnotic abreaction, Freud found in this procedure merely a starting-point for a further investigation of those avenues which the abreacted material opened out, and, as he rather naively admits, no one was more surprised than himself to observe that this further investigation of the patient's subterranean activities produced valuable therapeutic results. It is, of course, true that some of the most beneficent therapeutic measures have been discovered in precisely this way, as incidental by-products as it were, of the process of scientific investigation, but for the purpose of comparison it is important to stress the fact that Freud's approach was preeminently that of the empirical investigator, because it is in this attitude that we find both his strength and his limitation as a psychologist . We will return again to this point when the picture has been more fully outlined.

While Freud was enduring the obloquy of the psychological pioneer in Vienna, Jung was approaching similar conclusions from a very different angle in Zurich. By a further elaboration of the word-association experiments formerly employed by Galton and Wundt for other ends, he succeeded in the most delicate task of devising objective criteria for the recognition of unconscious complexes. The discovery. of prolonged reaction time, perseveration, etc., associated with affect-toned presentations .led. to his invaluable formulation of the complex, from which he advanced to the same fundamental concept of repression which Freud had reached by the clinical route. This naturally brought the two pioneers together, and Jung found in Freud's masterly analytical. technique the admitted highroad to the unconscious processes.

In so far as it was purely a question of method, Freud and Jung found themselves in harmony, but the study of psychological processes can never remain a mere question of method; sooner or later it must challenge the investigator to produce a philosophic standpoint. And here a basic psychological difference began to make itself felt. Freud the empiricist wanted to limit his psychological principles to empirically ascertainable matters of fact. On the lines of orthodox scientific determinism. he preferred an exclusively causal and reductive account of the psyche. Jung, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that man was more than a variously disordered object -- he was also a self-creating subject. He argued that the causal explanation cannot be regarded as exclusive in the psychological realm, since the final or purposive explanation finds equal justification in human experience. He began to feel that the inevitable sexual interpretations, however widely the term might be stretched, were too poor a rendering of the passionate and infinitely diverse aims of the human soul. In harmony, therefore, with Robert Mayer's conception in the realm of physics, he developed the energic conception of the libido, thus lifting the whole subject from a one-sided and purely empiricistic standpoint to the level of universal concepts, where science and philosophy are able to understand one another.

The actual point of divergence between the two standpoints occurred, significantly enough, over the question of the mother-imago. As is well known, Freud's interpretation of the mother-image in dreams is exclusively referred to the actual mother or mother-surrogate. Jung contended that the almost magical influence of the parent-imago with its supreme dynamic effect upon the whole course of a man's life, not only shaping his actions, thoughts, and relations to the world with secret and invisible determination, but also creating the figures of the father and mother deities in his religious and fantasy life, could find no final explanation in the actual events of infantile and adolescent experience. The difficulty was admitted by Freud, but the acceptance of inherited racial experience as' an integral factor in psychic life opened such menacing vistas [1] involving frank disaster to the comprehensive system he had devised and was prepared to demonstrate to the world, that he resolutely shut his eyes to the possibility of this boundless and primeval continuity. He was only prepared to explain the discrete, individual psyche, and Jung's conception of the collective unconscious opened the door to unnamed things from the jungle and primeval forest: it introduced a world of unknown elemental forces which must be unconditionally excluded from a scientific system.

But, apart from the considerations above alluded to, Jung's argument was incontestable. The lungs of the new-born infant know how to breathe, the heart knows how to beat, the whole co-ordinated organic system knows how to function, only because the infant's body is the product of inherited functional experience. The whole story of man's struggle for adaptation to life, his whole phylogenetic history, are represented in that' knowing how' of the infant's body. Is it then blindness or fear that urges us to deny to the infant psyche that same functional inheritance which is so manifestly present in the other organs? What is this dark fear of our archaic past which prompts us to reject the possibility of any psychic experience other than that of our individual lives?

At all events it is clear that, once the existence of these inherited psychic structures is admitted as the basis of psychic activity, that conception of the unconscious and its contents which regards it as derived exclusively from objective experience in the single individual life must go by the board. Here, then, was the alternative which, from the historical standpoint, we must regard as crucial. Either Jung's conception of the collective unconscious must be admitted, and with it the whole inner world of the subject, wherein the inner images or archetypes are granted an equal determining power with the objects of the outer world, or the one-sided empirical system must be maintained with its somewhat arbitrary postulates, and the whole disturbing vision of the collective unconscious be rejected as a fantastic impossibility.

Jung's great work, Psychology of the Unconscious, was the final statement of his separation from and advance beyond the Freudian standpoint, and Freud's reaction to this work made it clear that he too recognized an insuperable opposition. For in this work Jung did not confine himself to a reduction of the Miller fantasies to their instinctive roots; he also identified the personal themes with universal religious and mythological conceptions, thus raising them to a level of general importance. But, in so doing, he also proved the necessity of the synthetic standpoint in analytical psychology -- a demonstration that bore unavoid able implications unfavourable to the Freudian position.

That the divergence between Freud and Jung must sooner or later have become acute will, I think, be clear when we remember that between the two men there existed not only the difference of race but also a radical difference of type. An extravert, by his very nature, is bound to produce a psychology differing essentially from that of the introvert. For Freud the aims of empirical science, with its centripetal bias towards a minute and detailed analysis of observable facts, were absolute; whereas for Jung a purely objective psychology was' not enough, in that it entirely omitted the undeniable reality and power of the idea.

This is not the place to enter into a discussion of the relative values of the extraverted empiricistic and the introverted abstracting attitudes in human thought; the struggle, of these two elements, as Jung shows in the present work, is synonymous with the history of human culture. They are both essential as mutual correctives, and it is only when either tendency becomes a one-sided habitual attitude that commonsense steps in and makes its inscrutable judgment. In science these two general tendencies appear as the twin capacities of empirical observation of facts and of intellectual abstraction from the facts observed of generally valid principles, but only in the man of genius do we find both capacities fully and symmetrically developed.

In my view, criticism of Freud's achievement should be based not upon the fact that he failed to perceive the possibility of a general application of his ideas -- this he apprehended only too clearly -- but upon his inability to frame concepts of general validity.

He attempted to make the infinitely complex phenomena of the psyche harmonize with theories intuitively derived from clinical material; but he was unable to enlarge or reconstruct his theoretical system to embrace the wider aspects of human experience and culture. The normal was considered in terms of the pathological.

A gradual, but very definite, movement of intelligent opinion away from the Freudian standpoint at the present time is, in my view, a commonsense reaction to the damaging depreciation of essential human values involved in this reductive valuation of the psyche. For the reductive standpoint fails to see that every complex is Janus-faced, and that the energy invested in it is never purely regressive, but is rather a reculer pour rnieux sauter. The extraordinary vitality of the infantile complex would be quite inexplicable on the supposition that it was a wholly regressive tendency. But it demands a synthetic standpoint to perceive that every dawning possibility in life is heralded by the image of the child, the symbol of eternal youth, and that the infantile complex with its simplicity and trust in life is also the growing point of the developing personality. Every child perceives, what the investigator may fail to see, that a living man in his most eager and productive moments exhibits certain essential characters of childhood. Creative activity demands the power and complexity of the man as well as the simple attitude of the child. But Jung himself deals so fully and so much more ably with the limitations of the purely reductive standpoint, that I need not elaborate this aspect of the subject here.

It has been argued that psycho-analysis does not claim to be more than a therapeutic technique and a method of research, and that it is irrelevant for the psychologist to concern himself with the question of human development or with the inevitable ancillary problems of morality, religion, and' human relationship. In this very argument the essential limitations of this standpoint stand self-confessed, since a psychology that excludes the most vital problems of life from its sphere of responsibility requires no further criticism. It is already moribund. Actually, of course, a psychologic nihilism which broke down every individual form into its elements and put nothing in its place could not, conceivably, have anything but disastrous therapeutic results. But Freud does put something positive and definite in its place; for there always remains the transference to the analyst, which, in the case of a positive transference, involves a gradual assimilation by the patient to the analyst's general attitude to life, and in the .alternative case a very definite rejection of the man and all his ways.

This unconscious identification with the analyst is quite outside the sphere of the latter's control. It is inherent in the analytical relationship. But for the' analyst to wash his hands of this unconscious effect, with its far-reaching moral influence upon the patient's subsequent development, is as irresponsible as though a surgeon were to shut his eyes to the inevitable dangers of haemorrhage and sepsis. The question of moral responsibility. therefore, is inherent in analytical practice, and, since this is so, we have every right to demand of a practical psychological system that it shall attempt to discover the fundamental laws of human development and, as far as possible, to formulate them.

We said at the beginning that Freud was an empirical investigator, and that this was both his strength and his limitation. It is his strength, because it required the empirical attitude to discover and establish the psycho-analytic technique; and it is his limitation, because the general attitude to life which is governed solely by objective facts and considerations is quite incapable of judging man as a subject. If, as Freud points out in Totem and Taboo, human morality can be traced back to the first primeval act of parricide, a derivative of some remote arboreal conflict between the parent's authority and the son's lust for his father's wives, then morality can exist only as a constituent of herd-psychology, and the individual moral law is as much a delusion as is free will to a determinist. It is obvious that a purely objective standpoint must similarly interpret ll the realities of the inner world as mere derivatives or reflects of objective facts. Man is wholly determined, therefore, by things outside himself. He is nothing but a "singe rate", a mere mechanism that gets out of order, and, by an appropriate use of the correct method, can be put right again.

This standpoint is well illustrated by the Freudian interpretation of dreams, which always explains the dream-figures as carefully disguised images of real people or concrete things, quite ignoring the possibility that such images may also be symbols of subjective realities existing in their own right.

The Freudian standpoint, then, in attempting to explain all the phenomena of human psychology in terms, of objective facts, remains one-sided, and the extent of its limitations may conceivably be measured by the intolerance with which it discusses or ignores every standpoint that ventures beyond its circumscribed terrain.

Since there have always been large numbers of men for whom the objects and experiences of the psychic life bear a more immediate sense of reality than the world of objective facts, it is clear that a purely objective account of the psychological processes could not win any considerable support beyond the specialized limit of its own peculiar faculty. But, however much the historical eye may regard the wider subjective valuation and synthetic method of Jung as the inevitable response of psychology to essential human demands, the greatest honour must none the less be given to Jung, for, not only was he the first psychologist to perceive these demands, but he also voiced them in principles whose universality could embrace the heights and the depths of the psyche and comprehend its manifold diversity.

In establishing the two typical mechanisms of introversion and extraversion together with the main. categories of human types based upon this fundamental antithesis, Jung has demonstrated the impossibility of every attempt to formulate a generally valid theory of human psychology which ignores these typical differences. For a theory whose validity is incontestable for the psyche from which it originated proves itself worthless and even misleading for an individual of another type. From considerations such as these we must confess our inability to devise any. rigid or dogmatic formula which can be authoritatively promulgated as a general system of psychological therapy. A physician once justly complained to Jung that he had made analysis so difficult. It is certainly true' that the pronouncements of Freud relieve the analyst of a very considerable onus. He is not required to ask himself What is the individual way of this particular subject? He has merely to reduce his patient's psychological material to its elementary constituents according to prescribed , orthodox' formulations, and if the patient is not satisfied he either proves himself psychologically inadequate to receive the truth, or so immersed in his morbid state that the analytical light serves only to reveal its impenetrable obscurities.

In his sub-title to this book Jung has called it the Psychology of Individuation, and therewith he affirms the essential principle of his philosophy; for to Jung the psyche is a world which contains all the elements of the greater world, with the same destructive and constructive forces -- a pluralistic universe in which the individual either fulfils or neglects his essential role of creator.

The individuality is the central co-ordinating principle of this realm, analogous to the principle of royalty in the nation; and, in so far as this co-ordinating will achieves an effective command of the diverse and conflicting elements which constantly tend to disrupt his kingdom, are we justified in speaking of a differentiated individual.

The individuality is universally present, but as a rule it exists mainly in the unconscious, often finding expression in dreams and fantasies in some royal or princely figure. It is a principle, therefore, which has to be created out of the unconscious by accepting individuation as a deliberate and conscious aim.

It may be asked what has individuation got to do with the treatment of nervous disorders? This question springs from the assumption that there is no fundamental relation between the realities of the psychic life and the symptomatic conditions of the body. And yet the lives of religious founders one and all bear witness to the fact that the healing of the body is not unconnected with the inner life.

If differentiation and co-ordination of function are admitted as the vital principles of organic life, it is difficult to see how one can regard psychic or functional disorders as anything else than a statement of the relative suppression of these principles in the individual in question. The psyche, therefore, has to be considered as a totality, and not as an ill-assorted collection of instincts and faculties. For, if man is not a mere passive mechanism to be shaped to the pattern of a chosen formula, he stands before us as a self-creating subject whose individual way may be directly opposed to the analyst's most cherished theories.

It has often been levelled against Jung that his is a pedagogic system, that he tries to teach people how they should live, how they should settle their problems, instead of merely indicating the unconscious state of affairs and leaving them to find their way out. We are told that the physician should confine himself to the purely medical aspect of the case, and that to voice any criticism which might suggest a definite moral or religious standpoint is to encroach upon other domains for which he has no qualifications. This point of view is very common and has a certain justification, supported as it is by the whole traditional constitution of society. But, in spite of an argument apparently so overwhelming, the individual psyche persistently over-rides the social categories, and, notwithstanding every rational attempt to regard it in terms of "mechanisms" and functions, its claim to be considered as a whole has never once abated.

Since this claim appears to have a socially subversive tendency and occasions very real fear in a great many minds, it might be well to examine its character. If we assume -- and without this assumption no system of psycho-therapy has any reasonable basis -- that a neurosis is an act of adaptation that has failed, we are faced, in an individual case, with the question: What is the nature of the reality to which this individual has failed to adapt? The materialist would fain have us believe that the only reality demanding psychic adaptation is represented by the sheer concrete facts of the physical environment. But, if concrete facts were the only reality, there would be no spiritual problem, and consequently no neurotics. The minimal adjustment to objective conditions demanded by social life could present no insuperable difficulty to anyone but an imbecile unless there were another reality of a very different nature always competing with the concrete world for prior claim upon our energy.

This other psychic or spiritual reality, which comprises the whole inner life of the subject, is as constantly demanding new forms and expressions of its energy as is the world of external objects, even though it does not make the same compelling demand upon our attention. The fantastic hallucinations of the delirium tremens patient or the paranoic are equally strong evidence for the reality of these inner claims as are the ecstatic experiences of the religious mystic; only in the former case they are seen from the reverse side. For this reality the evidence is necessarily subjective. The snakes and frogs seen by the patient in his delirium, however delusional to an objective valuation, possess an indisputable reality to the man himself. Clearly, therefore, there are two quite different kinds of reality, both of which, while pressing their respective claims upon our capacity for adaptation, are nevertheless mutually dependent in the sense that neglect or disregard of either eventually destroys the validity of both.

Again, thousands of lives are fruitlessly spent in a neurotic attempt to escape an overpowering parental influence, just as there are innumerable lives seeking a release from the unconscious tyranny of collective authority. The need of the growing child to differentiate himself as an individual from the magical parental influence is essentially the same as the individuating impulse to distinguish oneself as a "single, separate person" from the collective" en masse". But the developing child who seeks to adventure beyond the magic circle of the family encounters not only the authority and conservatism of the older generation, but also the far more dangerous inertia and infantilism of his own psychology.

In either case it is essentially the same conflict between the individual and the collective elements,. whether within or without, and what could prevail against the authority without or the inertia within, but an inner necessity or law whose incontestable superiority can stand firm against every attack.

The genuine rebel in his resistance against the law can win our sympathy in spite of ourselves. Notwithstanding every rational resistance, the inner superiority enforces our recognition of its power. The genuine neurotic (as opposed to the social deserter) is typically a man who cannot reconcile the claims of traditional forms and values with those of the obscure, but unbending, law within. For him, the inner and outer claims are contradictory and' mutually exclusive. In answer to the persistent demands of the social tax-collector he can only guarantee the overdue payments to Caesar when Caesar shall first have recognized the paramount claims of God.

For such a man to be delivered over once again to the orthodox representatives of traditional values, whatever the formula may be; is merely to hand him over to his creditors. Before he can do justice to traditional forms or fulfil his social task, he must first submit himself unconditionally to the fundamental law of his own being. This is his stronghold, this his root in an enduring reality, and with this security he can go out into the world, not only to settle the old imperial demands, but also, perchance, to reanimate the forms that are with the vision of what is to be.

To the critic then who charges Jung with pedagogic interference, we would reply: Jung does not teach a man how he shall act or think or live, but he gives him a technique by which he can comprehend and finally submit to the laws of his own nature. The basic principles of human development are not vested in any faculty -- they have no academic formula, for they embrace every function of human activity. They are commensurate with life. It is not surprising, therefore, that it is from just those quarters where authority reigns and where 'truth' is already congealed into a dogma, that this particular criticism usually springs. It is easier to teach and practise a formula than to try to interpret the meaning of life; but a rational formula is doomed from the outset, because it tends to seduce men to turn away from the enigma of life by offering them a formula in its stead: thus it opposes life, and its inherent destructiveness determines its own fate.

No psychological formula can ever explain life. At the best, it can only present the living process in a thinkable form to our reason. As soon as it claims to have explained a living process, its effect is destructive, since it interposes an authoritative, ready-made explanation between the individual and the real problems life presents, thus apparently relieving him of the need to seek his own individual solution.

This is what Jung describes as negative, in contrast to positive or creative, thinking; for what we call character is nothing but the measure of sincerity with which an individual creates a positive adaptation to the essential problems of life.

A formula is an artefact, a rigid and arbitrary frame into which the plastic and' changing forms of life are impressed. The resistance of the unconscious to this imposition is perceptible in the impassioned dogmatism of the man who has accepted a formula as an explanation of life.

A principle, on the other hand, acquires its validity not from the authority of the man who lays it down, but from life itself, whose manifold processes it correlates and brings into abstract form. Formulae live and die like their authors -- one might almost say with their authors; whereas the validity of an abstract principle is just as durable as the processes it embraces and comprehends. It needs neither authority nor defence. It bears within it its own prerogative.

Jung's analytical interpretations are admittedly based upon the principles established in the present work, but practical application of them, i.e. their translation again into life, rests wholly with the individual subject.

The individuality is the alpha and omega of Jung's system, not, however, as an expression of personal power as the egoist would like to interpret it, but essentially as a function of the whole. This in itself sufficiently disposes of the pedagogic critics, for a system which aims at individual autonomy cannot justly be described as pedagogic. Naturally there could be no interpretation at all without a standpoint. In practice, therefore, the most that we can humanly demand is that the standpoint of the analyst should constantly be orientated towards the individual way, or "greatest ought" of the subject. It is, of course, true that, however genuinely an analyst may strive to realize this aim, his interpretation will, to a large extent, be subjectively conditioned. This is psychologically unavoidable, but the very sincerity with which he strives to interpret the fundamental needs of his patient from the material at his disposal must surely make for individual autonomy. Whereas the opposite standpoint that would reduce psychic experience into terms of arbitrary mechanisms must inevitably tend to standardize mankind; because" in this case, the main criterion of judgment is the relative measure of conformity with the orthodox formula.

From the point of view of social economy, there can surely be no two opinions that a psychological technique whose aim it is to create individuals is of greater value to society than a system which aims at conformity. For an individual who is at one with himself seeks a creative collective expression from inner necessity, while the dragooned neurotic is of as little service to society as an unwilling conscript.

But how, it may be asked, can a physician learn to forgo the customary collectivized view of his fellow-man and train himself to an unprejudiced view of his patient's individuality unobscured by his own unconscious projections?

It will, I think, be clear, that before a physician can fully recognize and respect the individuality of his patient, he must first have given allegiance to this principle in himself. This does not mean to say that only a differentiated individual is fitted to practise analysis -- such a condition would disqualify every candidate -- but it does demand that the analyst shall himself have been analysed and shall have made a sincere attempt to deal with his own life-problems before undertaking to deal with those of his patients.

The aims of the individuality can never be fully apprehended by exclusive reference to the biological or instinctive life of the subject; in fact, just as little can they be explained in terms of instinct as a work-of-art in terms of energy. One might attempt to formulate the chief aim of the individuality as the effort to create out of oneself the most significant product of which one is capable. On the biological plane this is clearly the child but on the psychic level this must be interpreted more broadly as something that bears for the individual, in the fullest sense of the term, a significance at least analogous to that of the child. For the greatest individual value is always pregnant with value for mankind.

Hence the budding personality with its potentialities for good or ill is frequently represented in dreams in the form of a child.

The whole symbolism of rebirth is quite unintelligible from a purely biological standpoint; hence a system that is blinded by its preoccupation with purely instinctive interpretations presents a definite obstruction to the whole transforming or spiritualizing tendency of the libido. The obvious prospective significance of the rebirth symbolism in dreams is, to my mind, so apparent that one is tempted to accuse the reductive school of wilful blindness. But this would, of course, be quite absurd, and one has to remind oneself that the dream, like the lily of the field, is a natural product unassisted by human intention, and that it is quite as rational to regard the lily as a fortunate accidental grouping of basic organic elements as to conceive it as a symbol of purity. The standpoint, therefore, eventually decides the interpretation, as it also decides the manner in which the interpretation is employed.

I have now revealed the very practical motive which prompted me to bring this whole question of the underlying opposition of standpoint into the foreground of discussion. This attempt, although foredoomed to excite controversy', will, I hope, in spite of the obvious inadequacy of such a brief outline, help to clarify the situation in a way that a more cautious and non-committal statement would fail to do.

The great value of the present work lies in the fact that it is a mature and conscious survey of the psychological field, viewed by a mind of unique range and development whose astonishing wealth of psychological experience illumines the whole work. The range of Jung's thought has developed with his experience. The Psychology of the Unconscious was the shaft of the tree -- this work is its ample spread.

For practical psychologists it must assuredly be regarded as the foundation of the science, for in no other work do we find basic psychological principles whose validity is commensurate with the undeniable facts of man's historic development und the realities of individual experience.

The actual translation of the. work was a task of such difficulty that often I despaired of giving the book an adequate rendering into English. Fortunately I had exceptional opportunities of assistance from the author himself, for whose un stinted patience and generosity in listening to my translation week by week and offering invaluable suggestions I cannot be too grateful.

For most valued assistance in the various preparatory stages of the work I wish to tender my warmest acknowledgments to my wife, to Mrs. Lilian A. Clare, to Mr. John M. Thorburn of Cardiff University, and finally, to Mr. W. Swan Stallybrass (of Messrs Kegan Paul & Co. Ltd., my publishers) for whose friendly offices and indefatigable care in the matter of punctuation and typography throughout the book I offer my very cordial appreciation.

With regard to the use of italics in this book I wish to explain. that, with the exception of titles of books, italics have been reserved to denote stress. Had all the numerous foreign words occurring in the text been printed in italic type, in accordance with English typographical convention, the special value of this type, from the' point of view of the author's meaning, would have been lost. Our only other alternative was to use quotation-marks, but in many places foreign words occur so frequently that this would have served merely to blur the page and confuse the eye. There are a few exceptions to the above rule, the reasons for which will be obvious. Double quotation-marks are used for actual quotations; single marks for indicating philosophical terms used in special senses, facons de parler, etc.

For the fact that, with the exception of the quotations from Kant, I have nowhere availed myself of existing English translations either of the Oriental or the European authors quoted in the text, I must plead my residence in Zurich, where the various works were inaccessible.




1. Cf. Jung's treatment of the "terrible mother" motif, in the Psychology of the Unconscious.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 06, 2015 8:49 pm


"Plato and Aristotle! These are not merely two systems; they are also types of two distinct human natures, which from immemorial time, under every sort of cloak, stand more or less inimically opposed. But pre-eminently the whole medieval period was riven by this conflict, persisting even to the present day; moreover, this battle is the most essential content of the history of the Christian Church. Though under different names, always and essentially it is of Plato and Aristotle that we speak. Enthusiastic, mystical, Platonic natures reveal Christian ideas and their corresponding symbols from the bottomless depths of their souls. Practical, ordering, Aristotelian natures build up from these ideas and symbols a solid system, a dogma and a cult. The Church eventually embraces both natures -- one of them sheltering among the clergy, while the other finds refuge in monasticism; yet both incessantly at feud."

-- H. HEINE, Deutschland, i.

IN my practical medical work with nervous patients I have long been struck by the fact that among the many individual differences in human psychology there exist also typical distinctions: two types especially became clear to me which I have termed the Introversion and the Extraversion Types.

When we reflect upon human history, we see how the destinies of one individual are conditioned more by the objects of his interest, while in another they are conditioned more by his own inner self, by his subject. Since, therefore, we all swerve rather more towards one side than the other, we are naturally disposed to understand everything in the sense of our own type.

I mention this circumstance at this point to prevent possible subsequent misunderstandings. As may well be understood, this basic condition considerably aggravates the difficulty of a general description of the types. I must presume a considerable benevolence on the part of the reader if I may hope to be rightly understood. It would be relatively simple if every reader himself knew to which category he belonged. But it is often a difficult matter to discover to which type an individual belongs, especially when oneself is in question. Judgment in relation to one's own personality is indeed always extraordinarily clouded. This subjective clouding of judgment is, therefore, a frequent if not constant factor, for in every pronounced type there exists a special tendency towards compensation for the one-sidedness of his type, a tendency which is biologically expedient since it is a constant effort to maintain psychic equilibrium. Through compensation there arise secondary characters, or types, which present a picture that is extraordinarily hard to decipher, so difficult, indeed, that one is even inclined to deny the existence of types in general and to believe only in individual differences.

I must emphasize this difficulty in order to justify a certain peculiarity in my later presentation. For it might seem as though a simpler way would be to describe two concrete cases and to lay their dissections one beside the other. But every individual possesses both mechanisms -- extraversion as well as introversion, and only the relative predominance of the one or the other determines the type. Hence, in order to bring out the necessary relief in the picture, one would have to re-touch it rather vigorously; which would certainly amount to a more or less pious fraud. Moreover, the psychological reaction of a human being is such a complicated matter, that my descriptive ability would indeed hardly suffice to give an absolutely correct picture of it.

From sheer necessity, therefore, I must confine myself to a presentation of principles which I have abstracted from an abundance of observed facts. In this there is no question of deductio a priori, as it might well appear: it is rather a deductive presentation of empirically gained understanding. It is my hope that this insight may prove a clarifying contribution to a dilemma which, not in analytical psychology alone but also in other provinces of science, and especially in the personal relations of human beings one to another, has led and still continues to lead to misunderstanding and division. For it explains how the existence of two distinct types is actually a fact that has long been known: a fact that in one form or another has dawned upon the observer of human nature or shed light upon the brooding reflection of the thinker; presenting itself, for example, to Goethe's intuition as the embracing principle of systole and diastole. The names and forms in which the mechanism of introversion and extraversion has been conceived are extremely diverse, and are, as a rule, adapted only to the standpoint of the individual observer. Notwithstanding the diversity of the formulations, the common basis or fundamental idea shines constantly through; namely, in the one case an outward movement of interest toward the object, and in the other a movement of interest away from the object, towards the subject and his own psychological processes. In the first case the object works like a magnet upon the tendencies of the subject; it is, therefore, an attraction that to a large extent determines the subject. It even alienates him from himself: his qualities may become so transformed, in the sense of assimilation to the object, that one could imagine the object to possess an extreme and even decisive significance for the subject. It might almost seem as though it were an absolute determination, a special purpose of life or fate that he should abandon himself wholly to the object.

But, in the latter case, the subject is and remains the centre of every interest. It looks, one might say, as though all the life-energy were ultimately seeking the subject, thus offering a constant hindrance to any overpowering influence on the part of the object. It is as though energy were flowing away from the object, as if the subject were a magnet which would draw the object to itself.

It is not easy to characterize this contrasting relationship to the object in a way that is lucid and intelligible; there is, in fact, a great danger of reaching quite paradoxical formulations which would create more confusion than clarity. Quite generally, one could describe the introverted standpoint as one that under all circumstances sets the self and the subjective psychological process above the object and the objective process, or at any rate holds its ground against the object. This attitude, therefore, gives the subject a higher value than the object. As a result, the object always possesses a lower value; it has secondary importance; occasionally it even reo presents merely an outward objective token of a subjective content, the embodiment of an idea in other words, in which, however, the idea is the essential factor; or it is the object of a feeling, where, however, the feeling experience is the chief thing, and not the object in its own individuality. The extraverted standpoint, on the contrary, sets the subject below the object, whereby the object receives the predominant value. The subject always has secondary importance; the subjective process appears at times merely as a disturbing or superfluous accessory to objective events. It is plain that the psychology resulting from these antagonistic standpoints must be distinguished as two totally different orientations. The one sees everything from the angle of his conception, the other from the view-point of the objective occurrence.

These opposite attitudes are merely opposite mechanisms -- a diastolic going out and seizing of the object, and a systolic concentration and release of energy from the object seized. Every human being possesses both mechanisms as an expression of his natural life-rhythm -- that rhythm which Goethe, surely not by chance, characterized with the physiological concepts of cardiac activity. A rhythmical alternation of both forms of psychic activity may correspond with the normal course of life. But the complicated external conditions under which we live, as well as the presumably even more complex conditions of our individual psychic disposition, seldom permit a completely undisturbed flow of our psychic activity. Outer circumstances and inner disposition frequently favour the one mechanism, and restrict or hinder the other; whereby a predominance of one mechanism naturally arises. If this condition becomes in any way chronic, a type is produced, namely an habitual attitude, in which the one mechanism permanently dominates; not, of course, that the other can ever be completely suppressed, inasmuch as it also is an integral factor in psychic activity. Hence, there can never occur a pure type in the sense that he is entirely possessed of the one mechanism with a complete atrophy of the other. A typical attitude always signifies the merely relative predominance of one mechanism.

With the substantiation of introversion and extraversion an opportunity at once offered itself for the differentiation of two extensive groups of psychological individuals. But this grouping is of such a superficial and inclusive nature that it permits no more than a rather general discrimination. A more exact investigation of those individual psychologies which fall into either group at once yields great differences between individuals who none the less belong to the same group. If, therefore, we wish to determine wherein lie the differences of individuals belonging to a definite group, we must make a further step. My experience has taught me that individuals can quite generally be differentiated, not only by the universal difference of extra and introversion, but also according to individual basic psychological functions. For in the same measure as outer circumstances and inner disposition respectively promote a predominance of extraversion or introversion, they also favour the predominance of one definite basic function in the individual.

As basic functions, i.e. functions which are both genuinely as well as essentially differentiated from other functions, there exist thinking, feeling, sensation, and intuition. If one of these functions habitually prevails, a corresponding type results. I therefore discriminate thinking, feeling, sensation, and intuitive types. Every one of these types call moreover be introverted or extraverted according to his relation to the object in the way described above.

In two former communications [1] concerning psychological types, I did not carry out the distinction outlined above, but identified the thinking type with the introvert and the feeling type with the extravert. A deeper elaboration of the problem proved this combination to be untenable. To avoid misunderstandings I would, therefore, ask the reader to bear in mind the distinction here developed. In order to ensure the clarity which is essential in such complicated things, I have devoted the last chapter of this book to the definitions of my psychological conceptions.



1. Jung, Contribution a l'etude des Types psychologiques (Arch. de Psychologie, I, xiii, p. 289); Psychological Types (Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology, p. 287. London: Bailliere 1916) Psychologie der unbewussten Prozesse, 2te Aufl. p. 65 (Zurich 1918).
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 06, 2015 8:55 pm

Part 1 of 3


1. Psychology in the Classical Age: The Gnostics, Tertullian, and Origen

So long as the historical world has existed there has always been psychology; objective psychology, however, is of only recent growth. We might affirm of the science of former times that the lack of objective psychology corresponds with a proportionate yield of the subjective element. Hence the works of the ancients are full of psychology, but only little of it can be described as objective psychology. This may be conditioned in no small measure by the peculiarity of human relationship in classic and in medieval times. The ancients had, if one may so express it, an almost exclusively biological appreciation of their fellow-men; this is everywhere apparent in the habits of life and legal conditions of antiquity. In so far as a judgment of value found any general expression, the medieval world had a metaphysical valuation of its fellow-men; this had its source in the idea of the imperishable value of the human soul. This metaphysical valuation, which may be regarded as a compensation to the standpoint of antiquity, is just as unfavourable as the biological valuation, so far as that personal appraisement is concerned, which can alone be the groundwork of an objective psychology. There are indeed not a few who hold that a psychology can be written ex cathedra. Nowadays, however, most of us are convinced that an objective psychology must above all be grounded upon observation and experience. This foundation would be ideal, if only it were possible. But the ideal and the purpose of science do not consist in giving the most exact possible description of facts -- science cannot yet compete with kinematographic and phonographic records -- it can fulfil its aim and purpose only in the establishment of law, which is merely an abbreviated expression for manifold and yet correlated processes. This purpose transcends the purely experimental by means of the concept, which, in spite of general and proved validity, will always be a product of the subjective psychological constellation of the investigator. In the making of scientific theory and concept much that is personal and incidental is involved. There is also a psychological personal equation, not merely a psycho-physical. We can see colours, but not wave-lengths. This well-known fact must nowhere be more seriously held in view than in psychology. The operation of the personal equation has already begun in the act of observation. One sees what one can best see from oneself. Thus, first and foremost, one sees the mote in one's brother's eye. No doubt the mote is there, but the beam sits in one's own, and -- may somewhat hinder the act of seeing. I misdoubt the principle of 'pure observation' in so-called objective psychology, unless one confines oneself to the eye-pieces of the chronoscope, or to the ergograph and such-like "psychological" apparatus. With such methods one also ensures oneself against too great a yield of experimental psychological facts.

But the personal psychological equation becomes even more important in the presentation or the communication of observations, to say nothing of the interpretation and abstraction of the experimental material! Nowhere, as in psychology, is the basic requirement so indispensable that the observer and investigator should be adequate to his object, in the sense that he should be able to see not the subject only but also the object. The demand that he should see only objectively is quite out of the question, for it is impossible. We may well be satisfied if we do not see too subjectively. That the subjective observation and interpretation agrees with the objective facts of the psychological object is evidence for the interpretation only in so far as the latter makes no pretence to be universal, but intends to be valid only for that field of the object that is under consideration. To this extent it is just the beam in one's own eye that enables one to detect the mote in the brother's eye. The beam in one's own eye, in this case, does not prove (as already said) that the brother has no mote in his. But the impairment of vision might easily give rise to a general theory that all motes are beams.

The recognition and taking to heart of the subjective limitation of knowledge in general, and of psychological knowledge in particular, is a basic condition for the scientific and accurate estimation of a psyche differing from that of the observing subject. This condition is fulfilled only when the observer is adequately informed concerning the compass and nature of his own personality. He can, however, be sufficiently informed only when he has in great measure freed himself from the compromising influence of collective opinion and feeling, and has thereby reached a clear conception of his own individuality.

The further we go back into history the more we see personality disappearing beneath the wrappings of collectivity. And, if we go right down to primitive psychology, we find absolutely no trace of the idea of the individual. In place of individuality we find only collective relationship, or "participation mystique" (Levy-Bruhl). But the collective attitude prevents the understanding and estimation of a psychology which differs from that of the subject, because the mind that is collectively orientated is quite incapable of thinking and feeling in any other way than by projection. What we understand by the concept 'individual' is a relatively recent acquisition in the history of the human mind and human culture. It is no wonder, therefore, that the earlier all-powerful collective attitude almost entirely prevented an objective psychological estimation of individual differences, and forbade any general scientific objectification of individual psychological processes. It was owing to this very lack of psychological thinking that knowledge became 'psychologized', i.e. crowded with projected psychology. Striking instances of this are to be seen in the first attempts at a philosophical explanation of the universe. The development of individuality, with the resulting psychological differentiation of man, goes hand in hand with a de-psychologizing of objective science.

These reflections may explain why the springs of objective psychology have such a niggardly flow in the material handed down to us from antiquity. The description of the four temperaments gathered from antiquity is hardly a psychological typification, since the temperaments are scarcely more than psycho-physiological complexions. But this lack of information does not mean that we possess no trace in classical literature of the reality of the psychological antitheses in question.

Thus Gnostic philosophy established three types, corresponding perhaps with the three basic psychological functions: thinking, feeling, and sensation. The Pneumatici might correspond with thinking, the Psychici with feeling and the Hylici with sensation. The inferior estimation of the Psychici accorded with the spirit of the Gnosis, which. in contrast with Christianity insisted upon the value of knowledge. But the Christian principle of love and faith did not favour knowledge. The Pneumaticist would accordingly suffer a decline in value within the Christian sphere, in so far as he distinguished himself merely by the possession of the Gnosis, i.e. knowledge.

Differences in type should also be remembered when we are considering the long and somewhat dangerous fight which from its earliest beginnings the Church conducted against the Gnosticism. In the practical tendency that undoubtedly prevailed in early Christianity, the intellectual, when, in obedience to his fighting' instinct he did not lose himself in apologetic polemics, scarcely came into his own. The 'regula fidei' was too narrow and permitted no independent movement. Moreover, it was poor in positive intellectual content. It contained a few ideas, which, although of enormous practical value, were a definite obstacle to thought. The intellectual was much more hardly hit by the 'sacrificium intellectus' than the man of feeling. Hence it is easy to understand that the vastly superior intellectual content of the Gnosis, which in the light of our present intellectual development has not only not lost but has indeed considerably gained in value, must have made the greatest possible appeal to the intellectual within the Church. For him it was in very sooth the enticement of the world. Docetism, in particular, caused grave trouble to the Church, with its contention that Christ possessed only an apparent body and that his whole earthly existence and passion had been merely a semblance. In this contention the purely intellectual was given too prominent a part at the expense of human feeling. Perhaps the battle with the Gnosis is most clearly presented to us in two figures who were extremely influential, not only as Fathers of the Church but also as personalities. These are Tertullian and Origen, who lived about the end of the second century. Schultz says of them:

"One organism is able to take in nourishment well-nigh omnivorously and to assimilate it to its own nature; another with equal persistence rejects it again with every appearance of passionate refusal. Thus essentially opposed, Origen identified himself with one side, Tertullian with the other. Their "reaction to the Gnosis is not only characteristic of the two personalities and their philosophy of life; it is also fundamentally significant of the position of the Gnosis in the mental life and religious tendencies of that time."

-- (Dokumente der Gnosis, Jena 1910.)

Tertullian was born in Carthage somewhere about 160 A.D. He was a pagan, and yielded himself to the lascivious life of his city until about his thirty-fifth year, when he became a Christian. He was the author of numerous writings, wherein his character, which is our especial interest, unmistakably shows itself. Clear and distinct are his unexampled, noble-hearted zeal, his fire, his passionate temperament, and the profound inwardness of his religious understanding. He is fanatical, ingeniously one-sided for the sake of an accepted truth, impatient, an incomparable fighting spirit, a merciless opponent, who sees victory only in the total annihilation of his adversary, and his speech is like a flashing steel wielded with inhuman mastery. He is the creator of the Church Latin which lasted for more than a thousand years. He it was who coined the terminology of the Early Church. "Had he seized upon a point of view, then must he follow it through to its every conclusion as though lashed by legions from hell, even when right had long since ceased to be on his side and all reasonable order lay mutilated before him." The passion of his thinking was so inexorable that again and again. he alienated himself from the very thing for which he would have given his heart's blood. Accordingly his ethical code is bitter in its severity. Martyrdom he commanded to be sought and not shunned; he permitted no second marriage, and required the permanent veiling of persons of the female sex. The Gnosis, which in reality is a passion for thought and cognition, he attacked with unrelenting fanaticism; including both philosophy and science, which are so closely linked up with it. To him is ascribed the sublime confession: Credo quia absurdum est (I believe because it is against reason). This, however, does not altogeiher accord with historical fact; he merely said (De Carne Christi, 5): "Et mortuus est dei filius, prorsus credibile est, quia ineptum est. Et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est." ("And the Son of God died; this is therefore credible, just because it is absurd. And He rose again from the tomb; this is certain, because it is impossible".) By virtue of the acuteness of his mind he saw through the poverty of philosophic and of Gnostic learning, and contemptuously rejected it. He invoked against it the testimony of his own inner world, his own inner realities, which were one with his faith. In the shaping and development of these realities he became the creator of those abstract conceptions which still underlie the Catholic system of to-day. The irrational inner reality had for him an essentially dynamic nature; it was his principle, his consolidated position in face of the world and the collectively valid or rational science and philosophy. I translate his own words:

"I summon a new witness, or rather a witness more known than any written monument, more debated than any system of life, more published abroad than any promulgation, greater than the whole of man, yea that which constitutes the whole man. Approach then, O my soul, should'st thou be something Divine and eternal, as many philosophers believe -- the less wilt thou lie -- or not wholly Divine, because mortal, as forsooth Epicurus alone contends -- then so much the less can'st thou lie -- whether thou comest from heaven or art born of earth, whether compounded of numbers or atoms, whether thou hast thy beginning with the body or art later joined thereto; what matter indeed whence thou springest or how thou makest man what he is, namely a reasonable being, capable of perception and knowledge. But I call thee not, O soul, as proclaiming wisdom, trained in the schools, conversant with libraries, fed and nourished in the academies and pillared halls of Attica. No, I would speak with thee, O soul, as wondrous simple and uneducated, awkward and inexperienced, such as thou art for those who have nothing else but thee, even just as thou comest from the alleys, from the street-corners and from the workshops. It is just thy ignorance I need."

The self-mutilation achieved by Tertullian in the sacrificium intellectus led him to the unreserved recognition of the irrational inner reality, the real ground of his faith. That necessity of the religious process which he sensed in himself he seized in the incomparable formula "anima naturaliter Christiana" ("the soul is naturally Christian"). With the sacrificium intellectus philosophy and science, hence the Gnosis also, had no more meaning for him.

In the further course of his life the qualities I have depicted stood out in bolder relief. While the Church was driven to compromise more and more with the masses, he revolted against it and became a follower of that Phrygian prophet Montanus, an ecstatic, who represented the principle of absolute denial of the world and complete spiritualization. In violent pamphlets he now began to assail the policy of Pope Calixtus I, and thus, together with Montanism, fell more or less extra ecclesiam. According to a statement of St Augustine he must later even have rejected Montanism and founded a sect of his own.

Tertullian is a classical representative of the introverted thinking type. His very considerable and keenly developed intellect is flanked by unmistakable sensuality. That psychological process of development which we term the Christian led him to the sacrifice, the amputation, of the most valuable function, a mythical idea which is also contained in the great and exemplary symbol of the sacrifice of the Son of God. His most valuable organ was the intellect, including that clear discernment of which it was the instrument. Through the sacrificium intelledus, the way of purely intellectual development was forbidden him; it forced him to recognize the irrational dynamis of his soul as the foundation of his being. The intellectuality of the Gnosis, its specifically rational coinage of the dynamic phenomena of the soul, must necessarily have been odious to him, for that was just the way he had to forsake, in order to recognize the principle of feeling.

In Origen we may recognize the absolute opposite of Tertullian. Origen was born in Alexandria about 185. His father was a Christian martyr. He himself grew up in that quite unique mental atmosphere wherein the ideas of East and West mingled. With an intense yearning for knowledge he eagerly absorbed all that was worth knowing, and accepted everything, whether Christian, Jewish, Grecian, or Egyptian, which at that time the teeming intellectual world of Alexandria offered him. He distinguished himself as a teacher in a school of catechists. The pagan philosopher Porphyrius, a pupil of Plotinus, said of him: "His outer life was that of a Christian and against the Law; but in his view of things phenomenal and divine he was a Hellenist, and substituted the conception of the Greeks for the foreign myths."

Already before A.D. 211 his self-castration had taken place; his inner motives for this may indeed be guessed, but historically they are not known to us. Personally he was of great influence, and had a winning speech. He was constantly surrounded by pupils and a whole host of stenographers who gathered up the precious words that fell from the revered master's lips. As an author he was extraordinarily fertile and he developed an amazing academic activity. In Antioch he even delivered lectures on theology to the Emperor's mother Mammaea. In Caesarea he was the head of a school. His teaching activities were considerably interrupted by his extensive journeyings. He possessed extraordinary scholarship and had an astounding capacity for the investigation of things in general. He hunted up old Bible manuscripts and earned special merit for his textual criticism. "He was a great scholar, indeed the only true scholar the ancient Church possessed", says Harnack. In complete contrast to Tertullian, Origen did not bar the door against the influence of GJ.1osticism; in fact he even transferred it, in attenuated form, into, the bosom of the Church; such at least was his aim. Indeed, judging by his thought and fundamental views, he was himself almost a Christian Gnostic. His position in regard to faith and knowledge is portrayed by Harnack in the following psychologically significant words:

"The Bible, in like wise, is needful to both: the believers receive from it the realities and commandments which they need, while the scholars decipher thoughts therein and gather from it that power which guideth them to the contemplation and love of God -- whereby all material things, through spiritual interpretation (allegorical exegesis, hermeneutics), seem to be re-cast into a cosmos of ideas, until all is at last surmounted in the 'ascent' and left behind as stepping stones, while only this remaineth: the blessed abiding relationship of the God-created creature-soul to God (amor et visio)."

His theology as distinguished from Tertullian's was essentially philosophical; it was thoroughly pressed, so to speak, into the frame of a neo-Platonic philosophy. In Origen the two spheres of Grecian philosophy and the Gnosis on the one hand, and the world of Christian ideas on the other, peacefully and harmoniously intermingle. But this daring, intelligent tolerance and sense of justice also led Origen to the fate of condemnation by the Church. The final condemnation, to be sure, only took place posthumously, when Origen as an old man had been tortured in the persecution of the Christians by Decius, and had died not long after from the effects of the torture. In 399 Pope Anastasias I pronounced the condemnation, and in 543 his heresy was anathematized by a synod convoked by Justinian, which judgment was upheld by later Councils.

Origen is a classical example of the extraverted type. His basic orientation is towards the object; this shows itself in his conscientious consideration of objective facts and their conditions; it is also revealed in the formulation of that supreme. principle: amor et visio Dei. The Christian process of development encountered in Origen a type whose bed-rock foundation is the relation to the object; a type that has ever symbolically expressed itself in sexuality; which also accounts for the fact that there even exist to-day certain theories which reduce every essential function of the soul down to sexuality. Castration is therefore the adequate expression of the sacrifice of the most valuable function. It is entirely characteristic that Tertullian should perform the sacrificium intellectus, whereas Origen is led to the sacrificium phalli, since the Christian process demands a complete abolition of the sensual hold upon the object, in other words: it demands the sacrifice of the hitherto most valued function, the dearest possession, the strongest instinct. Considered biologically, the sacrifice is brought into the service of domestication, but psychologically it opens a door for new possibilities of development to be inaugurated through the liberation from old ties.

Tertullian sacrificed the intellect, because it was that which most strongly bound him to worldliness. He battled with the Gnosis because for him it represented the side-track into the intellectual, which at the same time involves also sensuality. Parallel with this fact we find that in reality Gnosticism was also divided into two schools: one school striving after a spirituality that exceeded all bounds, the other losing itself in an ethical anarchism, an absolute libertinism that shrank from no lechery however atrocious and perverse. One must definitely distinguish between the Encratites (continent) and the Antitactes or Antinomians (opposed to order and law), who in obedience to certain doctrines sinned on principle and purposefully gave themselves to unbridled debauchery. To the latter school belong the Nicolaitans, the Archontici, etc., and the aptly named Borborites. How closely the apparent antitheses lay side by side is shewn by the example of the Archontici, for this same sect divided into an Encratitic and an Antinomian school, both of which remained logical and consistent. If anyone wants to know what are the ethical results of a bold intellectualism carried out on a large scale, let him study the history of Gnostic morals. He will thoroughly understand the sacrificium intellectus. These people were also practically consistent and lived what they had conceived, even to absurd lengths. But Origen, in the mutilation of himself, sacrificed the sensual hold upon the world. For him, evidently, the intellect was not so much a specific danger as feeling and sensation with their enchainment to the object. Through castration he freed himself from the sensuality that was coupled with Gnosticism; he could then yield himself unafraid to the riches of Gnostic thought, while Tertullian through his sacrifice of intellect turned away from the Gnosis, but thereby reached a depth of religious feeling that we miss in Origen. "In one way he was superior to Origen", says Schultz, "because in his deepest soul he lived everyone of his words; it was not reason that carried him away, like the other, but the heart. But in another respect he stands far behind him, inasmuch as he, the most passionate of all thinkers, was on the verge of rejecting knowledge altogether, for his battle against the Gnosis was tantamount to a complete denial of human thought."

We see here how, in the Christian process, the original type has actually become reversed: Tertullian, the acute thinker, becomes the man of feeling, while Origen becomes the scholar and loses himself in the intellect. Logically, of course, it is quite easy to reverse the state of affairs and to say that Tertullian had always been the 'man of feeling and Origen the intellectual. Disregarding the fact that the difference of type is not done away with by this procedure, but exists as before, the reversed point of view has still to be explained; how comes it that Tertullian saw his most dangerous enemy in the intellect, while Origen in sexuality? One could say they were both deceived, and one could advance the fatal result of both lives by way of argument. One must assume, if that were the case, that both had sacrificed the less important thing, and thus to a certain extent both had made a bargain with fate. That is also a view which contains a principle of recognizable validity. Are there not just such sly-boots among the primitives who approach their fetish with a black hen under the arm, saying: "See, here is thy sacrifice, a beautiful black pig." I am, however, of opinion that the depreciatory method of explanation, notwithstanding the unmistakable relief which the ordinary human being feels in dragging down something great, is not under all circumstances the correct one, even though it may appear to be very 'biological.' But from what we can personally know of these two great ones in the realm of the mind, we must say that their whole nature and quality had such sincerity that their Christian conversion was neither a fraudulent enterprise nor mere deceit, but had both reality and truthfulness.

We shall not lose ourselves upon a by-path if we take this opportunity of trying to grasp what is the psychological meaning of this breaking of the natural instinctive course (which is what the Christian process of sacrifice seems to be). From what has been said above it follows that conversion signifies also a transition to another attitude. It is further clear whence the impelling motive towards , conversion arises, and how far Tertullian was right in conceiving the soul as "naturaliter Christiana." The natural, instinctive course, like everything in nature, follows the principle of least resistance. One man is rather more gifted here, another there; or, again, adaptation to the early environment of childhood may demand either relatively more restraint and reflection or relatively more sympathy and participation, according to the nature of the parents and other circumstances. Thereby a certain preferential attitude is automatically moulded, which results in different types. In so far then as every man, as a relatively stable being, possesses all the basic psychological functions, it would be a psychological necessity with a view to perfect adaptation that he should also employ them in equal measure. For there must be a reason why there are different ways of psychological adaptation: evidently one alone is not sufficient, since the object seems to be only partially comprehended when, for example, it is either merely thought or merely felt. Through a one-sided (typical) attitude there remains a deficit in the resulting psychological adaptation, which accumulates during the course of life; from this deficiency a derangement of adaptation develops, which forces the subject towards a compensation. But the compensation can be obtained only by means of amputation (sacrifice) of the hitherto one-sided attitude. Thereby a temporary heaping up of energy results and an overflow into channels hitherto not consciously used though already existing unconsciously. The adaptation deficit, which is the causa efficiens of the process of conversion, becomes subjectively perceived as a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Such an atmosphere prevailed at the turning-point of our era. A quite astonishing need of redemption came over mankind, and brought about that unheard-of efflorescence of every sort of possible and impossible cult in ancient Rome. Moreover, representatives of the (living the. full life,' theory were not wanting, who, albeit innocent of 'biology,' operated with similar arguments founded on the science of that day. They, too, could never be done with speculations as to why it is that mankind is in such a poor way; only the causalism of that day, as compared with the science of ours, was somewhat less restricted; their 'harking back' reached far beyond childhood to cosmogony, and many systems were devised that pointed to all sorts of events in remote antiquity as being the source of insufferable consequences for mankind.

The sacrifice that Tertullian and Origen carried out is drastic -- too drastic for our taste -- but it corresponded with the spirit of that time, which was thoroughly concretistic. In harmony with this spirit the Gnosis simply took its visions as real, or at least as bearing directly upon reality; hence for Tertullian there was an objective validity in the realities of his feeling. Gnosticism projected the subjective inner perception of the attitude-changing process into the form of a cosmogonic system, and believed in the reality of its psychological figures.

In my book Psychology of the Unconscious [1] I left the whole question open as to the origin of the libido course peculiar to the Christian process. I spoke of a splitting of the libido into halves, each directed against the other. The explanation for this is to be found in the one-sidedness of the psychological attitude growing so extreme that the need for compensation became urgent on the side of the unconscious. It is precisely the Gnostic movement in the early Christian centuries which most clearly demonstrates the outbreak of unconscious contents in the moment of compensation. Christianity itself signified the demolition and sacrifice of the cultural values of antiquity, i.e. of the classical attitude. As regards the problem of the present, it need hardly be said that it is quite indifferent whether we speak of to-day or of that age two thousand years ago.

2. The Theological Disputes of the Ancient Church

It is more than probable that the contrast of types would also appear in the history of those schisms and heresies so frequent in the disputes of the early Christian Church. The Ebionites or Jewish Christians, who in this respect were probably identical with the primitive Christians generally, believed in the exclusive humanity of Christ and held him to be the son of Mary and Joseph, only subsequently receiving his consecration through the Holy Ghost. The Ebionites are, therefore, upon this point diametrically opposed to the Docetists. The effects of this opposition endured long after. The conflict came to light again in an altered form -- which, though essentially attenuated, had in reality an even graver effect upon Church politics -- about the year 320 in the heresy of Arius. Arius denied the formula propounded by the orthodox church Image (like unto the Father). When we examine more closely the history of the great Arian controversy concerning Homoousia and Homoiousia (the. complete identity as against the essential similarity of Christ with God), it certainly seems to us that the formula of Homoiousia definitely lays the accent upon the sensuous and humanly perceptible, in contrast to the purely conceptual and abstract standpoint of Homoousia. In the same way it would appear to us, as though the revolt of the Monophysites (who upheld the absolute one-ness of the nature of Christ) against the Dyophysitic formula of the Council of Chalcedon (which upheld the inseparable duality of Christ, namely his human and divine nature fashioned in one body) once more asserted the standpoint of the abstract and unimaginable as opposed to, the sensuous and natural viewpoint of the Dyophysitic formula. At the same time the fact becomes overwhelmingly clear to us that alike in the Arian movement as in the Monophysite dispute, the subtle dogmatic question, though indeed the main issue for those minds where it originally came to light, had no hold upon the vast majority who took part in the quarrel of dogmas. So subtle a question had even at that time no motive force with the mass, stirred as it was by problems and claims of political power that had nothing to do with differences of theological opinion. Ii the difference of types had any significance at all here, it was merely because it provided catch-words that gave a flattering label to the crude instincts of the mass. But in no way should this blind one to the fact that, for those who had kindled the quarrel, Homoousia and Homoiousia were a very serious matter. For concealed therein, both historically and psychologically, lay the Ebionitic creed of a purely human Christ with only a relative ("apparent") divinity, and the Docetist creed of a purely divine Christ with only apparent corporeality. And beneath this level again lies the great psychological schism. The one position holds that supreme value and importance lie in the sensuously perceptible, where the subject, though indeed not always human and personal, is nevertheless always a projected human sensation; while. the other maintains that the chief value lies in the abstract and extra-human, of which the subject is the function; in other words in the objective process of Nature, that runs its course determined by impersonal law, beyond human sensation, of which it is the actual foundation. The former standpoint overlooks the function in favour of the function complex, if man can be so regarded; the latter standpoint overlooks the individual as the indispensable controlling vehicle in favour of the function. Both standpoints mutually deny each other their chief value. The more resolutely the representatives of either standpoint identify themselves with their own point of view, the more do they mutually strive, with the best intentions perhaps, to obtrude their own standpoint and thereby violate the other's chief value.

Another aspect of the type-antithesis appears on the scene in the Pelagian controversy in the beginning of the fifth century. The experience so profoundly sensed by Tertullian, that man cannot avoid sin even after baptism, grew with St. Augustine -- who in many respects is not unlike Tertullian -- into that thoroughly characteristic pessimistical doctrine of original sin, whose essence consists in the concupiscentia [2] inherited from Adam. Over against the fact of original sin there stood, according to St Augustine, the redeeming grace of God, with the institution of the church ordained by His grace to administer the means of salvation. In this conception the value of man stands very low. He is really nothing but a miserable rejected creature, who is delivered over to the devil under all circumstances, unless through the medium of the church, the sole means of salvation, he is made a participator of the divine grace. Therewith, to a greater or less degree, not only man's value but also his moral freedom and self-government crumbled away; as a result, the value and importance of the church as an idea was so much the more enhanced, corresponding to the expressed programme in the Augustinian civitas Dei.

Against such a stifling conception, springing ever anew, rises the feeling of the freedom and moral value of man; it is a feeling that will not long endure suppression whether by inspection however searching, or logic however keen. The justice of the feeling of human value found its advocates in Pelagius, a British monk, and Celestius, his pupil. Their teaching was grounded upon the moral freedom of, man as a given fact. It is significant of the psychological kinship existing between the Pelagian standpoint and the Dyophysitic view that the persecuted Pelagians found asylum with Nestorius, the Metropolitan of Constantinople. Nestorius emphasized the separation of the two natures of Christ in contrast to the Cyrillian doctrine of the Image , the physical one-ness of Christ as God-man. Also, Nestorius definitely did not wish Mary to be understood as Image (Mother of God), but only as Image (Mother of Christ). With some justification he even called the idea that Mary was Mother of God heathenish. From him originated the Nestorian controversy, which finally ended with the secession of the Nestorian church.

3. The Problem of Transubstantiation

With those immense political upheavals, the collapse of the Roman Empire and the sinking of antique civilization, these controversies lapsed likewise into oblivion. But, as in the course of many centuries a certain stability was again reached, psychological differences also reappeared, tentatively at first but becoming ever more intense with advancing civilisation. No longer indeed was it those problems which had brought the ancient church into confusion; new forms had come to light, under which however the same psychology was concealed.

About the middle of the ninth century the Abbot Paschasius Radbertus appeared with a writing upon the Holy Communion, in which he advanced the doctrine of transubstantiation, i.e. the view that the wine and holy wafer become transformed in the Communion into the actual blood and body of Christ. As is well-known, this conception became a dogma, according to which the transformation is accomplished "vere, realiter, substantialiter" ("in truth, in reality, in substance"); although the 'accidentals' preserve their outer aspect of bread and wine, they are substantially the flesh and the blood of Christ. Against this extreme concretization of a symbol Ratramnus, a monk of the same monastery in which Radbertus was abbot, dared to raise a certain opposition. Radbertus, however, found a more resolute adversary in Scolus Erigena, one of the great philosophers and daring thinkers of the early Middle Ages; who, as Hase says in his History if the Church, stood so high and solitary above his time that the anathema of the Church reached him only after centuries. As Abbot of Malmesbury, he was butchered by his own monks about the year 889. Scot us Erigena, to whom true philosophy was also true religion, was no blind follower of authority and the 'once accepted'; because, unlike the majority of his age, he could himself think. He set reason above authority, very unseasonably perhaps but in a way that assured him of the recognition of the later centuries. Even the Fathers of the Church, who were considered to be above discussion, he held as authorities only in so far as their writings contained treasures of human reason. Thus he also held that the Communion is merely a commemoration of that Last Supper which Jesus celebrated with his disciples; a view in which the reasonable man of every age will, moreover, participate. But Scotus Erigena, although clear and humanly simple in his thoughts and little disposed to detract from the meaning and value of the sacred ceremony, was not at one with the spirit of his time and the desires of the world around him; a fact that might, indeed, be inferred from his betrayal and assassination by his own comrades of the cloister. Because he could think reasonably and consistently success did not come to him; instead, it fell to Radbertus, who assuredly could not think, but who 'transubstantiated' the symbolical and meaningful, making it coarse and sensuous: in so doing he clearly chimed in with the spirit of his time, which craved for the concretizing of religious occurrences.

Again, in this controversy one can easily recognise those basic elements which we have already met with in the disputes commented upon earlier, namely, the abstract standpoint that is averse from any intercourse with the concrete object and the concretistic, that is, turned to the object.

Far be it from us to pronounce, from the intellectual view-point, a one-sided, depreciatory judgment upon Radbertus and his achievement. Although to the modern mind this dogma must appear simply absurd, we must not be misled on that account into regarding it as historically worthless. It is, indeed, a showpiece for every collection of human errors, but its worthlessness is not therefore eo ipso established; before passing judgment, we must minutely investigate what this dogma effected in the religious life of those centuries, and what our age still indirectly owes to its operation. It must, for instance not be overlooked, that it is precisely the belief in the reality of this miracle that demanded a release of the psychic process from the purely sensuous; and this cannot remain without influence upon the nature of the psychic process. The process of directed thinking, for instance, becomes absolutely impossible when the sensuous holds too high a threshold value. By virtue of too high a value it constantly invades the psyche, where it disintegrates and destroys the function of directed thinking based as this is precisely upon the exclusion of the unsuitable. From this elementary consideration there immediately follows the practical importance of those rites and dogmas which hold their ground both from this standpoint as well as from a purely opportunist, biological way of thinking; to say nothing of the direct specific religious impressions which came to individuals from belief in this dogma. Highly as we esteem Scotus Erigena, the less is it permitted to despise the achievement of Radbertus. We may, however, learn from this example, that the thought of the introvert is incommensurable with the thought of the extravert, since the two thought-forms, as regards their determinants, are wholly and fundamentally different. One might perhaps say: the thinking of the introvert is rational, while that of the extravert is programmatical.

These arguments -- and this I wish particularly to emphasize -- do not pretend to be in any way decisive with regard to the individual psychology of the two authors. What we know of Scotus Erigena personally -- it is little enough -- is not sufficient to enable us to make any sure diagnosis of his type. What we do know speaks in favour of the introversion type. Of Radbertus we know next to nothing. We know only that he said something that ran counter to common human thought, but with surer feeling-logic he divined what his age was prepared to accept as suitable. This fact would speak in favour of the extraversion type. We must, however, through our insufficient knowledge, suspend judgment upon both personalities, since, especially with Radbertus, the matter might quite well be decided differently. Equally might he have been an introvert, but with a level of intelligence that altogether failed to rise above the conceptions of his milieu, and with a logic so lacking in originality that it merely sufficed to draw an obvious conclusion from already prepared premises in the writings of the Fathers. And, vice versa, Scotus Erigena might as well have been an extravert, if it could be shown that he was carried by a milieu which in any case was distinguished by common sense and which felt a corresponding expression to be suitable and desirable. The latter is in no sort of way proved concerning Scotus Erigena. But on the other hand we do know how great was the yearning of that time for the reality of the' religious miracle. To this character of that age the view of Scotus Erigena must have seemed cold and deadening, whilst the assertion of Radbertus must have been alive with a sense of promise, since it concretized what every man desired.
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Part 2 of 3

4. Nominalism and Realism

The Holy Communion controversy of the ninth century was merely the anacrusis of a much greater strife that for centuries severed the minds of men and embraced immeasurable consequences. This was the opposition between nominalism and realism.

By nominalism one understands that school which asserted that the so-called universalia, namely the generic or universal concepts, such as beauty, goodness, animal, man, etc., are nothing but nomina (names) or words, derisively called "flatus vocis". Anatole France says: "Et qu'est-ce que penser? Et comment pense-t-on? Nous pen sons avec des mots -- songez-y, un metaphysicien n'a, pour constituer le systeme du monde, que le cri perfectionne des singes et des chiens." This is extreme nominalism; so with Nietzsche when he conceives reason as" speech metaphysics".

Realism, on the contrary, affirms the existence of the universalia ante rem, namely, that the universal concepts have existence in themselves after the manner of the Platonic ideas. Despite its ecclesiastical association, nominalism is a sceptical current which denies that separate existence which is characteristic of the abstract. It is a kind of scientific scepticism within a quite rigid dogmatism. Its concept of reality necessarily coincides with the sensuous reality of things; it is the individuality of things which represents the real as opposed to the abstract idea. Strict realism, on the contrary, transfers the accent of reality to the abstract, the idea, the universal, which it places ante rem (before the thing).

(a) The Problem of the Universalia in the Classical Age

As is shown by the reference to the Platonic ideology, we are discussing a conflict that reaches very far back. Certain venomous remarks in Plato concerning "greybeards and belated scholars" and "the poor in spirit" hint at the representatives of two allied schools of philosophy which agreed ill with the Platonic spirit, namely the Cynics and the Megarians. Antisthenes, the representative of the former school, although by no means remote from the Socratic mental atmosphere and even a friend of Xenophon, was nevertheless avowedly illdisposed to Plato's beautiful world of ideas. He even wrote a pamphlet against Plato, in which he offensively converted Plato's name to Image. Image means boy or man, but from the sexual aspect, since Image comes from Image, penis; whereby Antisthenes, in the well-known manner of projection, delicately suggests to us upon what matters he has a grudge against Plato. As we have seen, this was also for Origen, the Christian, the 'other' -- prime-cause (Auch-Urgrund), that very nevi I whom he sought to lay hold of by means of self-castration, in order to pass over without impediment into the richly embellished world of ideas. But Antisthenes was a pre-Christian pagan, to whom that thing was still of profound interest for which the phallus since earliest times has stood as the acknowledged symbol, namely sensation in its most liberal sense; not that he was alone in this interest, for as we well know it concerned the whole Cynic school, whose Leitmotiv was: back to nature! The reasons which might push Antisthenes' concrete feeling and sensation into the foreground were by no means few; he was before everything a proletarian, who made a virtue of his envy. He was no Image , no thorough-bred Greek: he was of the periphery; moreover, his teaching was carried on outside, before the gates of Athens, where he devoted himself to the study of proletarian behaviour, a model of Cynic philosophy. Furthermore, the whole school was composed of proletarians, or at least "peripheral" people, all of whom were in themselves a demolishing criticism of traditional values. After Antisthenes one of the most outstanding representatives of the school was Diogenes, who conferred upon himself the title Image (Dog); his tomb was also adorned by a dog in Parian marble. Despite his warm love of man, for his whole nature irradiated a wealth of human understanding, he none the less ruthlessly satirized everything that men of his time held sacred. He ridiculed the horror that gripped the spectators in the theatre at sight of the Thyestian repast [3] or the incest tragedy of OEdipus; anthropophagy was not so bad, since human flesh can lay no claim to an exceptional position as against other flesh, and furthermore the misfortune of an incestuous relationship was by no means such a grave evil, as the illuminating example of our domestic animals proves to us. In various respects the Megarian school was allied to the Cynics. Was not Megara the unhappy rival of Athens? After a most promising start, in which Megara had risen to prominence through the founding of Byzantium and the Hyblaeaic Megara in Sicily, internal squabbles broke out, from which Megara soon wasted and fell away, and in every respect became outstripped by Athens. Loutish peasant wit was called in Athens: 'Megarian jesting'. From this envy, which in a defeated race is imbibed with the mother's milk, not a little might be explained that is characteristic of Megarian philosophy. Like the Cynic, this philosophy was thoroughly nominalistic and directly opposed to the realism of Plato's ideology.

A prominent representative of this school was Stilpon of Megara, about whom the following characteristic anecdote is related: Stilpon came one day to Athens and saw upon the Acropolis the wondrous statue of Pallas Athene made by Phidias. A true Megarian, he observed, it is not the daughter of Zeus, but of Phidias. In this jest the whole of the Megarian thought is expressed, for Stilpon taught that generic concepts are without reality or objective validity; who, therefore, speaks of man speaks of nobody, because he designates "Image" ("neither this nor that "). Plutarch ascribes to him the statement "Image" ("one thing can affirm nothing concerning [the nature of] another"). Antisthenes' teaching was very similar. The most ancient representative of this manner of thought seems to have been Antiphon of Rhamnus, a Sophist and contemporary of Socrates. One statement handed down from him runs: "Whoso perceiveth just some long objects, neither seeth length with the eyes nor discerneth it with the mind." The denial of the substantiality of the generic concept follows directly from this statement. Naturally the whole position of the Platonic ideas is undermined by this characteristic sort of judgment, for with Plato it is precisely ideas that receive an eternal and immutable validity, while the "actual" and the "multiple" are merely a fugitive reflection. The Cynic-Megarian criticism, on the contrary, from the standpoint of the actual, resolves these generic concepts into purely casuistic and descriptive nomina, without any substantiality. The accent is laid upon the individual thing.

This manifest and fundamental opposition was lucidly apprehended by Gomperz as the problem of inherency and predication. When, for instance, we speak of 'warm' and 'cold' we speak of 'warm' and 'cold' things, to which 'warm' and 'cold' as attributes, predicates, or assertions respectively belong. The statement refers to something perceived and actually existing, namely to a warm or a cold body. From a plurality of similar cases we abstract the concepts of 'warmth' and 'coldness', with which also we immediately connect or associate something concrete. Thus 'warmth' and 'coldness', etc., are to us something real, because of the perseveration of perception in the abstraction. It is extremely difficult for us to strip off that which pertains to things from the abstraction, since there naturally clings to every abstraction its corresponding derivation. In this sense the 'thing-ness' of the predicate is essentially a priori. If now, we pass over to a higher grade generic concept 'temperature' its 'thingness' (das Dinghafte) is still readily perceptible to us, so that, in spite of a certain diminution in its sensuous definiteness, it has renounced none of its representability. But representability also adheres closely to sensual perception. If we further ascend to a still higher generic concept, viz. energy, the character of 'thingness' quite disappears, and with it, to a certain degree, goes the quality of representability. At this point the conflict about the "nature" of energy appears: whether energy is purely conceptual and abstract, or whether something real. Assuredly the learned nominalist of our day is quite convinced that 'energy' is merely a nomen, a 'counter' of our mental calcule; yet, in spite of this, our every-day speech refers to 'energy' as though it were something quite tangible; thus constantly sowing among devoted heads the greatest confusion from the standpoint of the theory of cognition.

The reality of the purely conceptual, which thus naturally creeps into our process of abstraction, and evokes the" reality" either of the predicate or the abstract idea, is no artificial product, no arbitrary hypostasizing of a concept, but necessary by nature. For it is not the case that the abstract idea is arbitrarily hypostasized and transplanted into another world of equally artificial origin: the actual historical process is just the reverse. With the primitive, for instance, the imago, the psychic reverberation of the sense-impression, is so strong and so avowedly sensuous in hue and texture, that, when it appears reproduced, i.e. as a spontaneous memory-image, it sometimes even has the quality of hallucination. Thus when the memory-image of his dead mother suddenly reappears to a primitive, it is as if it were her ghost that he sees and hears. We only 'think' of the dead, the primitive perceives them, just because of the extraordinary sensuousness of his mental images. Hence arises the primitive belief in ghosts. The ghosts are what we quite simply call 'thoughts '. When the primitive 'thinks', he literally has visions, whose reality is so great that he is constantly mistaking the psychic for the real. Powell says: "La confusion des confusions dans la pensee des non-civilises est: la confusion de l'objectif et du subjectif." Spencer and Gillen observe: "What a savage experiences during a dream is just as real to him as what he sees when he is awake." What I myself have seen of the psychology of the negro completely endorses that finding. From this basic fact of the sensuous realism of the image, in presence of the autonomy of the sense impression, springs the belief in spirits, and not from any need of explanation on the part of the savage, which is merely a European imputation. For the primitive, thought is visionary and auditory -- hence it also has the character of revelation. Thus the magician, i.e. the visionary, is always the thinker of the tribe who brings to pass the manifestation of spirits or gods. This is the source of the magical effect of thought; it is as good as action, just because it is real. In the same way the word, the outer covering of thought, has 'real' effect, because the word calls up 'real' memory images. Primitive superstition surprises us only because we have very largely succeeded in de-sensualizing the psychic image, i.e. we have learnt to think 'abstractly', always, of course, with the above-mentioned limitations.

Whoever is engaged in the practice of analytical psychology grows constantly more aware of the fact that a frequent reminder is necessary, even for his' educated' European patients, that 'thinking' is not 'action'; this one needs it, may be, because he believes that to think something is enough, and that one, because he feels he must not think something, else must he go and do it. The dream of the normal individual, and the hallucination that accompanies mental disorientation, show how easily the primitive reality of the psychic image once more emerges. Mystical practice endeavours, even by use of artificial introversion, to re-establish the primitive reality of the imago, in order to increase the counter-weight against extraversion. We find a speaking example of this in the initiation of the Mohammedan mystic, Tewekkul-Beg, by Molla-Shah [4]. Tewekkul-Beg relates:

"After these words he (Molla-Shah) called me to seat myself opposite to him, while still my senses were as though bemused, and commanded me to create his own image in my inner self; and after he had bound mine eyes, he bade me assemble all the forces of the soul into my heart. I obeyed, and in the twinkling of an eye, by divine favour and with the spiritual succour of the Sheikh, my heart was opened. I beheld there in my innermost heart something resembling an overturned bowl; when this vessel was righted, a feeling of boundless joy flooded my whole being. I said to the Master: 'From this cell, in which I am seated before thee, I behold within me a true vision, and it is as though another Tewekkul-Beg were seated before another Molla-Shah.'"

The Master explained this to him as the first phenomena of his initiation. Other visions soon followed, when once the way to the primitive real images had been opened up.

The reality of the predicate is granted a priori, since it has always existed in the human mind. Only by subsequent criticism is the abstraction deprived of the character of reality: Even in the time of Plato the belief in' the magical reality of the word-idea was so great that it was actually worth the philosopher's while to devise traps or fallacies by which he was able, with the aid of the absolute verbal significance, to extort an absurd reply. A simple example is the Enkekalymmenos (the veiled man) fallacy, called after the Megarian Eubulides. It is worded as follows: "Canst thou recognize thy father? Yes. Canst thou recognise this veiled man? No. Thou contradictest thyself; for this veiled man is thy father. Thus thou canst recognize thy father and yet at the same time not recognize him." The fallacy lies merely in this, that the one questioned naively assumes that the word 'recognize' designates in all cases one and the same objective matter of fact, while in reality its validity is limited only to certain definite cases, The fallacy of the Keratines (the horned one) rests upon the same principle: it runs as follows: "What thou hast not lost, thou still hast; thou hast not lost horns, therefore thou hast horns." Here also the fallacy lies in the naivete of the questioned one, who accepts in the premise a definite matter of fact. It could be convincingly proved by this method that absolute verbal significance was a delusion. As a consequence, the reality of the generic concept, which in the form of the Platonic idea [5] had a metaphysical existence and exclusive validity, was also in jeopardy. Gomperz says: "Men were not yet filled with that distrust of speech which inspires us and makes us perceive in words a frequently quite inadequate expression of the actual facts. Instead, there prevailed the naive belief that the orbit of the meaning and the orbit of application of the word on the whole corresponding with it must in every respect coincide." In presence of this absolute magical verbal significance, which pre-supposes that in the word there is also given the objective behaviour of things, the Sophist criticism is thoroughly in place. It convincingly proves the impotence of language. In so far as ideas are only nomina -- a supposition that has to be proved -- the attack upon Plato is justified. But generic concepts cease to be merely nomina when similarities or conformities of things are designated by them. Then the question at issue is, whether or not these conformities are objective realities. Such conformities actually exist, hence the generic concept also corresponds with reality. As a container of the reality of a thing, it is as good as the exact description of a thing. The generic concept is distinguished from the latter only in the fact that it is the description or designation of the conformities of things. The discrepancy, therefore, lies neither in the concept nor in the idea but in its verbal expression, which obviously under no circumstances renders either the thing adequately or the conformity of things. The nominalist attack upon the doctrine of ideas is therefore, in principle, an encroachment without justification. Thus Plato's irritated parry was altogether justified.

According to Antisthenes, the inherency-principle consists in this, that not only not many predicates. but that no predicate at all, can be affirmed of a subject which differs from it. Antisthenes granted as valid only those predicates that were identical with the subject. Apart from the circumstance that such statements of identity (as 'the sweet is sweet') affirm nothing at all and are, therefore. without meaning, the weakness of the inherency principle lies in this: that a judgment of identity has also nothing to do with the thing; the word' grass' has literally nothing to do with the thing 'grass.' The principle of inherency suffers then in much the same degree as the ancient word-fetichism, which naively assumes that the word coincides also with the thing. When, therefore, the nominalist calls to the realist: "You are dreaming -- you think you are dealing with things, but in reality you are only fighting verbal chimeras", the realist can answer the nominalist in precisely the same words; for neither is the nominalist concerned with things in themselves but with words, which he sets in the place of things. Even when for every separate thing he sets a separate word, yet they are always only words and not things themselves.

Although indeed, the idea of "energy" is admittedly a verbal concept, it is nevertheless so extraordinarily real that the electrical Company pays dividends out of it. The board of directors would certainly allow no metaphysical argument to convince them of the unreality of energy. 'Energy' simply designates the undeniable conformity of the phenomena of force, which in the most telling ways daily proves its existence. In so far as the thing is real, and a word conventionally designates the thing, the word also receives 'reality-significance'. In so far as the conformity of things is real, the generic concept designating the conformity of things also receives 'reality-significance'; furthermore, it is a significance that is neither greater nor less than that of the word which designates the individual thing. The shifting of the accent of value from one side to the other is a matter of individual attitude and contemporary psychology. Gomperz also felt this psychological foundation in Antisthenes, and brings out the following points: ... "a sturdy commonsense, a resistance to all enthusiasm, perchance also a strength of individual feeling, which stamp the personality and therefore the whole individual character as a type of complete reality." We might further add, the envy of a man without the full rights of citizenship, a proletarian, a man whom fate had sparingly endowed with beauty, and who could at the best, only climb to the heights by demolishing the values of others. Especially was this characteristic of the Cynic, who must ever be carping at others, and to whom nothing was sacred when it chanced to belong to another; he even made no scruples at destroying the peace of the home, if he might thereby seize an occasion to impose upon mankind his invaluable counsel.

To this essentially critical attitude of mind Plato's world of ideas with its eternal reality stands diametrically opposed. It is plain that the psychology of the man who fashioned that world had an orientation that was altogether foreign to the critical, disintegrating judgments portrayed above. Plato's thinking, abstracted and created from the plurality of things synthetic constructive concepts, which designate and express the universal conformities of things as the essentially existing. Their invisible and suprahuman quality is directly opposed to the concretism of the inherency principle, which would reduce the material of thought to the category of the unique, individual, and objective. This attempt is, however, just as impossible as the exclusive acceptance of the principle of predication, which would exalt what has been affirmed concerning many isolated things to an eternally existing substance above all decay. Both .forms of judgment are justifiable, as both are also naturally present in every man. This is best seen, according to my view, in the fact that the very founder of the Megarian school, Euclid of Megara, established an "All-unity" principle that stands immeasurably above the individual and casuistic. For he linked together the Eleatic principle [6] of the "existing" with the "good", so that for him the "existing" and the "good" were identical. Against which there stood only the "non-existing evil". This optimistic 'all-oneness' is, of course, nothing but a generic concept of the highest order, one that directly embraces the existing, but at the same time contravenes all evidence, and this in a much higher degree than the Platonic ideas. With this concept Euclid created a compensation to the critical disintegration of the constructive judgment into mere word things. This all-in-one principle is so remote and so vague that it utterly fails to express the conformity of things; it is no type at all, but rather the product of a desire for a unity that shall comprehend the disordered multitude of individual things. The desire for such a unity urges itself upon all who pay allegiance to an extreme nominalism, in so far as there is an effort to emerge from the negatively critical attitude. Hence, not at all infrequently we find in people of this sort an idea of fundamental homogeneity that is manifestly improbable and arbitrary. For the inherency principle as an exclusive basis is an impossibility. Gomperz pertinently observes:

"That such an attempt will prove abortive in every age can be foreseen. Its success was absolutely out of the question in an age that was destitute in historical understanding, and in which any deep insight into the soul was almost completely disregarded. The danger that the more obvious and transparent, but taken all in all the less important, forms of usefulness should force the more concealed, but in reality the more solid, potentialities into the background, was in such conditions not only menacing -- it was inevitable. In taking the animal kingdom and primitive man for a model, and in the attempt to prune back the outgrowths of civilization to this standard, a. destroying hand was laid upon much that was the fruit of a more or less ascending development through countless myriads of years."

Constructive judgment -- which, as opposed to inherency, is based upon the conformity of things -- has created universal ideas which belong to the greatest values of civilization. Even if these ideas belong only to the dead, yet threads, still bind us to them, which, as Gomperz says, have gained an almost unbreakable strength. He continues: "The inanimate thing can merit a claim to honour, consideration, and even self-sacrificing devotion, in the same way as the human dead; one need only mention the statues, graves, and colours of the soldier. But, though I do violence to myself and succeed in my efforts to tear down those threads, I will assuredly relapse into brutality; for I suffer grave damage to all those feelings that clothe the hard rock-bottom of naked reality as with a rich covering of living bloom. Upon the high valuation of this covering growth, upon the estimation of all that one might call inherited values, depends every refinement, every grace and delicacy of life, every cultivation of animal instinct, as well as every enjoyment and pursuit of art -- in fact, all those things which the Cynics without scruple or compassion would have striven to uproot. Certainly -- and one may readily concede this to them and their not inconsiderable modern following -- there is a limit beyond which we may not suffer the sway of the principle of association to extend, without ourselves being equally guilty of that same folly and superstition which quite certainly grew out of the unlimited sway of that principle."

We have entered thus minutely into the problem of inherency and predication, not merely because this problem was revived once more in the nominalism and realism of the scholastics, but because it has never yet been finally set at rest, and, presumably, it never will. For here again the question at issue is the typical opposition between the abstract standpoint -- in which the decisive value lies in the thought process itself -- and the specific thinking and feeling upon which, whether consciously or unconsciously, the objective orientation is based. In the latter case, the mental process is a means which has the development of the personality for its end. It is little wonder that it was precisely the proletarian philosophy that adopted the inherency principle. Wherever sufficient reasons exist for the shifting of emphasis upon individual feeling, thinking and feeling become negatively critical, through a poverty of positive creative energy (which is diverted to personal ends); thinking declines to a mere analytical organ that reduces down to the concrete and the singular. Over the resulting accumulation of disordered individual things a vague all-in-oneness whose wish character is more or less transparent will, at best, supervene. But when the emphasis is laid upon the mental processes, the result of the mental activity is super-ordinated over the multiplicity as idea. The idea is as far as possible de-personalized; but the personal apprehension goes over almost completely into the mental process which it hypostasizes.

Before passing on we might perhaps enquire whether the psychology of the Platonic ideology justifies us in the supposition that Plato may personally belong to the introverted type, and whether the psychology of the Cynics and the Megarians allows us to reckon such figures as Antisthenes, Diogenes, or Stilpon as extraverted? A decision of the question put in this form is quite impossible. A really careful and minute examination of Plato's authentic writings considered as his 'documents humains' might possibly allow one to conclude to which type he personally belonged. For my own part, I would not venture to pronounce any positive judgment. If someone were to furnish evidence that Plato belonged to the extraverted type, it would not surprise me. What has been transmitted concerning the others is so very fragmentary that a decision is, in my opinion, an impossibility.

Since the two kinds of thinking under review depend upon a displacement of the accent of value, it is of course equally possible in the case of the introvert that personal apprehension may, for various reasons, be pushed into the foreground and will supersede thinking, so that his thinking becomes negatively critical. For the extravert, the accent of value is laid upon the relation to the object simply, and not necessarily upon his personal relationship to it. If the relation to the object stands in the foreground, the mental process is already subordinate; but, in so far as it is exclusively occupied with the nature of the object and avoids the admixture of personal apprehension, it does not possess a destructive character. We have, therefore, to note the particular conflict between the principles of inherency and of predication as a special case, which in the further course of our investigation will be given a more thorough examination. The special nature of this case lies in the positive and negative parts played by personal apprehension. When the type (generic concept) suppresses the individual thing to a shadow, then the type, the idea, has won to reality. When the value of the individual thing abolishes the type (generic concept), anarchic disintegration is at work. Both positions are extreme and unfair, but they make a contrasting picture whose clear outlines leave nothing to be desired, and whose very exaggeration brings into relief certain traits, which, albeit in milder and therefore more concealed forms, also adhere to the nature of the introverted and extraverted type, even when personalities are concerned in whom personal apprehension is not pushed into the foreground. It makes, for instance, a considerable difference whether the intellectual function is master or servant. The master thinks and feels differently from the servant. Even the most far-reaching abstraction of the personal in favour of the general value never renders a complete elimination of personal admixture possible. Yet, in so far as this exists, thought and feeling contain also those destructive tendencies which proceed from the self-assertion of the person in face of the inclemency of social conditions. But it would surely be a great folly if, for the sake of personal tendencies, we were to reduce values of universal reality down to mere personal undercurrents. That would be pseudo-psychology. Such, however, exists.

(b) The Universalia Problem in Scholasticism

The problem of the two forms of judgment remained unsolved because -- tertium non datur. Porphyrius handed down the problem to the Middle Ages thus: "Mox de generibus et speciebus illud quidem sive subsistant sive in nudis intellectibus posita sint, sive subsistentia corporalia sint an incorporalia, et utrum seperata a sensibilibus an in sensibilibus posita et circa haec consistentia, dicere recusabo." ("As regards the universal and generic concepts, the real question is whether they are substantial or merely intellectual, whether material or immaterial, whether apart from things perceived or in and around them"). Somewhat in this form the Middle Ages resumed the discussion: they distinguished the Platonic view, the universalia ante rem, the universal or the idea as a standard or example above all individual things and altogether detached from them, existing Image(in a heavenly place), as the wise Diotima says to Socrates in the dialogue upon Beauty:

"This beauty will not reveal itself to him as a face or as hands or whatever else belongeth to the body, nor yet as an abstract statement or knowledge, nor as anything at all that belongeth to another, whether it be an individual being on the earth or in heaven or in any other place, but it is in and for itself, and is itself eternally, the same; for every other beauty only partly revealeth its beauty, so that itself, through the dawning and passing hence of other beauty, is neither increased nor diminished, nor yet suffereth any ill." (Symposium, 211 B).

The Platonic form, as we saw, stood opposed to the critical assumption that generic concepts are merely words. In this case the real is prius, the ideal posterius. To this view the label was attached: universalia post rem.

Between both conceptions stands the temperate realistic conception of Aristotle, which can be called the "universalia in re", namely, that form (Image) and matter co-exist. The Aristotelian standpoint is a concretistic attempt at a settlement fully corresponding with Aristotle's nature. In contrast to the transcendentalism of his teacher Plato, whose school then relapsed into a Pythagorean mysticism, Aristotle was entirely a man of reality -- of his classical reality one should add -- which contained much in concrete form which was subtracted by later epochs and added to the inventory of the human mind. His solution corresponds with the concretism of classical common sense.

These three forms also show the structure of medieval opinions in the great universalia dispute, which was the real essence of the scholastic controversy. It cannot be my task -- even were I competent -- to probe deeply into the particular points of the great controversy. I must content myself with a mere survey of the orientating allusions.

The dispute began with the views of Johannes Roscellinus about the end of the eleventh century. The univer salia were for him nothing but nomina rerum, names of things, or, as tradition says "flatus vocis". For him there were only individual things. He was, as Taylor aptly observes, "strongly held by the reality of individuals". To think of God also as only individual was the next obvious conclusion, thereby dissolving the Trinity into three persons; so that Roscellinus actually arrived at tritheism. That, the prevailing realism of that time, could not stand; in 1092 the views of Roscellinus were anathematized by a synod at Soissons. Upon the other side stood Guillaume von Champeaux, the teacher of Abelard, an extreme realist but of Aristotelian complexion. According to Abelard, he taught that one and the same thing existed both in its totality and in different individual things at the same time. There were no essential differences at all between individual things, but merely a multiplicity of 'accidentals'. In the latter concept the actual differences of things are explained as fortuitous, just as in the dogma of transubstantiation, bread and wine, as such, are only "accidentals".

Upon the side of realism also stood Anselm of Canterbury, the father of the Scholastics. A genuine Platonist, the universalia were for him part of the divine Logos. From this position, the psychologically important proof of God which Anselm established, and which is called the ontological proof, can also be understood. This proof demonstrates the existence of God as contingent upon the idea of God. Fichte (Psychologic, ii, 120) formulated this proof concisely as follows: "The existence of the idea of an absolute in our consciousness proves the real existence of this absolute." Anselm's view is that the concept of a Supreme Being present in the intellect involves also the quality of existence (non potest esse in intellectu solo). He continues thus: "Vero ergo est aliquid, quo majus cogitari non potest, ut nec cogitari posset non esse, et hoc es tu, Deus noster." ("In sooth there exists something than which nothing greater can be thought, as also it cannot be thought that it exists not, and this, our God, art Thou"). The logical weakness of the ontological argument is so obvious that it even requires psychological explanation to show how a mind like Anselm's could advance such an argument. The immediate ground can be sought in the general psychological disposition of realism, namely in the fact that there were not only a class of men, but, in keeping with the current of the age, also certain groups of men who laid their accent of value upon the idea, so that the idea represented for them a higher reality or life-value than the reality of individual things. Hence it seemed simply impossible to concede that what to them was most valuable and significant should not also really exist. Indeed, they had the most striking proof of its efficacy to their very hands, since it is evident that their lives, thoughts, and feelings were wholly orientated to this point of view. The invisibility of the idea matters little by the side of its extraordinary efficacy, which in fact is a reality. They had an ideal and not a sensational concept of reality.

A contemporary opponent of Anselm, Gaunilo, objected, it is true, that the oft-recurring idea of the Islands of the Blessed (after the manner of Phaeacia; Homer, Od. viii) does not necessarily prove their actual existence. This objection is palpably reasonable. Not a few objections of this nature were raised in the course of centuries, which, however, in no way hindered the survival of the ontological argument even down to quite recent times; for if still found representatives in the nineteenth century in Hegel, Fichte, and Lotze. Contradictions of this kind are not to be ascribed to some peculiar defect in logic or to an even greater infatuation for one side or the other. That would be absurd. Rather is it a matter of deep-seated psychological differences, which must be recognized and upheld. The assumption that there exists only one psychology or only one fundamental psychological principle is an intolerable tyranny, belonging to the pseudoscientific prejudice of the normal man. People are always speaking of the man and of his 'psychology', which is invariably traced back to the' nothing else but'. In the same way one always talks of the reality, as though there were only one. Reality is that which works in a human soul and not that which certain people assume to be operative, and about which prejudiced generalizations are wont to be made. Moreover, however scientifically such generalizations may be advanced, it must not be forgotten that science is not the summa of life, that it is indeed only one of the psychological attitudes, only one of the forms of human thought.

The ontological argument is neither argument nor proof, but merely the psychological verification of the fact that there is a class of men for whom a definite idea has efficacy and reality -- a reality which practically rivals the world of perception. The sensationalist relies upon the certainty of his 'reality', and the man of the idea adheres to his psychological reality. Psychology has to recognize the existence of these two (or more) types, and must under all circumstances avoid thinking of one as a misconception of the other; and it should never seriously try to reduce one type to the other, as though everything essentially 'other' were only a function of the one. This does not mean that the trustworthy scientific principle -- principia explicandi praeter necessitatem non sunt multiplicanda -- should be abrogated. But the necessity for' a plurality of psychological principles still remains. But, quite apart from the foregoing arguments in favour of this assumption, our eyes should be opened by the remarkable fact that, notwithstanding the apparently final despatch of the ontological argument by Kant, there are still not a few post-Kantian philosophers who have again resumed it. And we are to-day just as far or perhaps even further from an understanding of the pairs of opposites-idealism: realism, spiritualism: materialism, and all the subsidiary questions involved therein-than were the men of the early Middle Ages, who at least had a common world-philosophy.

In favour of the ontological proof there is surely no logical argument that appeals to the modern intellect. The ontological argument in itself had really nothing to do with logic, but in the form in which Anselm bequeathed it to history there arises a supplementary intellectualized or rationalized psychological fact, which, naturally, without petitio principii or other sophistries could never have occurred. But it is just in this that the unassailable validity of the argument reveals itself; namely, that it exists, and that the consensus gentium proves it to be universally existing. It is the fact that has to be reckoned with, not the sophistry of its proof; for the impotence of the ontological argument consists simply and solely in this: that it will argue logically, while in reality it is much more than a purely logical proof. For the real issue is a psychological fact whose occurrence and effectiveness are so overwhelmingly clear that no sort of argumentation is needed. The consensus gentium proves that, in the statement "God is, because he is thought", Anselm is right. It is an obvious truth, indeed nothing but a statement of identity. The 'logical' argumentation about it is quite superfluous, and is moreover wrong, inasmuch as Anselm wished to establish his idea of God as a concrete reality. He says: "Existit ergo procul dubio aliquid, quo majus cogitari non volet, et in intellectu et in re." Beyond all doubt there exists something than which nothing greater can be thought, and moreover it exists as much in the intellect as in the thing (Dinglichkeit, 'reality'). The concept "res" was, however, to the Scholastics something that stood upon the same level as thought. Thus Dionysius the Areopagite, whose writings exercised a considerable influence upon early medieval philosophy,. distinguishes in neighbouring categories "entia rationalia, intel1ectualia, sensibilia, simpliciter existentia" (rational, intellectual, perceptible, simply existing things). Thomas Aquinas calls that which is in the soul "res" (quod est in anima), as also that which is outside the soul (quod est extra animam). This noteworthy juxtaposition stilt enables us to discern the primitive objectivity of the idea in the thought of that time. From this mental attitude the psychology of the ontological proof becomes easily intelligible. The hypostasizing of the idea was not at all an essential step; but, rather, as an echo of the primitive concreteness of thought, it was taken for granted. The counter-argument of Gaunilo is psychologically insufficient, for although, as the consensus gentium proves, the idea of an Island of the Blessed frequently occurs, yet it is. indubitably less effective than the idea of God, which consequently receives a higher "reality-value".

Later writers who resumed the ontological argument all fell, at least in principle, into Anselm's error. Kant's reasoning should be final. We will therefore briefly outline it. He says:

"The concept of an absolutely necessary Being is a pure concept of reason, i.e. an idea only, whose objective reality is not by any means proved because the reason has need of it."

"The unconditioned necessity of a judgment, however, is not an absolute necessity of the thing. For the absolute necessity of a judgment is only a conditioned necessity of the thing or of the predicate in the judgment."

Immediately prior to this Kant gives, as an example of a necessary judgment, that a triangle must have three angles. He is referring to this statement when he continues:

"The proposition just cited does not say that three angles are absolutely necessary, but only that, if a triangle exists, it must contain three angles. But this mere logical necessity has given evidence of such a great power of illusion that people have framed a priori the conception of a thing that seems to include existence within its content, and have then assumed that because existence belongs necessarily to the object as conceived, it must also belong necessarily to the thing itself. Thus it is inferred that there is an absolutely necessary being, because the existence of that being is thought in a conception that has been arbitrarily assumed, and assumed under the supposition that there is an actual object corresponding to it."

The power of illusion to which Kant here alludes, is nothing else but the primitive magical power of the word, which likewise mysteriously inhabits the idea. It needed a long process of development before man once fundamentally realized that the word, the flatus vocis, does not in every case also signify or effect a reality. But that certain men have understood this, has not by any means sufficed to uproot from every mind that superstitious power which dwells within the formulated concept. There is evidently something in this 'instinctive' superstition that will not be uprooted: it exhibits, therefore, some right to existence, which till now has not been sufficiently appreciated. The paralogism (false conclusion) is in like manner introduced into the ontological argument, namely through an illusion which Kant elucidates as follows. He is now speaking of the assertion of "absolutely necessary subjects" the conception of which is simply inherent in the idea of existence, and, therefore, without intrinsic contradiction cannot be dismissed. This conception would be that of the "most real being for all".

"This being, it is said, possesses all reality, and such a being. as I am willing to admit, we are justified in assuming to be possible. Now that which really comprehends all reality must comprehend also existence. Hence existence is involved in the conception of a thing as possible. If, therefore, the thing is denied existence, even its internal possibility is denied, and this is self-contradictory. Either the thought in you must itself be the thing, or you have simply assumed existence to be implied in mere possibility, which is nothing but a wretched tautology."

"Being is evidently no real predicate, i.e. a conception of something that is capable of being added to the conception of a thing. It is merely the ungrounded assertion of a thing or of certain determinations as an object of thought. In logic, being is simply the copula of a judgment. The proposition: 'God is omnipotent' contains two conceptions, the objects of which are respectively 'God' and 'omnipotence', and the word is adds no new predicate but is merely a sign that the predicate omnipotent is asserted in relation to the subject God. If, then, I take the term God, which is the subject, to comprehend the whole of the predicates, including the predicate omnipotent, and say: 'God is', or 'There is a God', I do not enlarge the conception of God by a new predicate, but I merely bring the subject in itself with all its predicates, in other words, the object, into relation with my conception. The content of the object and of my conception must be exactly the same, and hence I add nothing to my conception, which expresses merely the possibility of the object by simply placing its object before me in thought and saying that it is. The real contains no more than the possible. A hundred real dollars do not contain a cent more than a hundred possible dollars. No doubt there are in my purse a hundred dollars more if I actually possess them than if I have merely the conception -- that is, have merely the possibility of them."

"Our conception of an object may thus contain whatever and how much it will; nevertheless we must ourselves stand away from the conception, in order to bestow existence upon it. This happens with sense-objects through the connection with anyone of our perceptions in accordance with empirical laws; but for objects of pure thought there is no sort of means for perceiving their existence because it is wholly a priori that they can be known; our consciousness of all existence, however, belongs altogether to a unity of experience and an existence outside this field cannot absolutely be explained away as impossible. But it is a supposition that we have no means of justifying."

This detailed reminder of the fundamental exposition of Kant seems to me necessary, since it is precisely here that we find the sharpest division between the esse in intellectu and the esse in re. Hegel cast the reproach at Kant that one could not compare the idea of God with the phantasy of a hundred dollars. But, as Kant rightly pointed out, logic must be abstracted from all content; there would certainly be no more logic if content were to prevail. Seen from the standpoint of logic, there exists, as ever, no third -- between the logical "either ... or." But between "intellectus" and "res" there is still "anima," and this "esse in anima" makes the entire ontological argument superfluous. Kant himself in his Critique of Practical Reason (Eng. transl., p. 298) attempted on a large scale to make a philosophical estimate of the "esse in anima". There he introduces God as a postulate of practical reasoning proceeding from the a priori recognition of "respect for moral law necessarily directed towards the highest good, and the supposition or inference therefrom of the objective reality of the same."

The "esse in anima" then is a matter of psychological fact, concerning which it is only necessary to decide whether it appears once, often, or universally in human psychology. The fact which is called God and is formulated as "the highest good" signifies, as the term already reveals, the supreme psychic value, or in other words the idea which either confers or actually receives the highest and most general significance in respect of the determination of our action and thought. In the language of analytical psychology the concept of God coincides with that complex which, in accordance with the foregoing definition, combines within itself the highest sum of libido (psychic energy). Accordingly the actual God-concept of the anima differs completely in different men -- a fact which also corresponds with experience. Even in the idea, God is not one constant Being, still less is He so in reality. For, as we well know, the highest operative value of a human soul is variously located. There are men ImageImage (whose God is their belly. -- Phil., 3, 19); similarly there are men whose God is money, science, power, sexuality, &c. The whole psychology of the individual, at least in its principal tendencies, is displaced in accordance with the respective localization of the 'highest good', so that a psychological theory which is exclusively based upon any one basic instinct, as for example power or sexuality, can adequately explain features of only secondary significance, when applied to an individual of another orientation.
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Part 3 of 3

(c) Abelard's Attempt at Conciliation

It is not without interest to investigate how Scholasticism itself attempted to settle the universalia dispute, how it tried to create an equipoise between the typical opposites which the tertium non datur divided. This attempt at settlement was the work of Abelard, that unhappy man who burned with love for Heloise and who paid for his passion with the loss of his manhood. Whoever is acquainted with the life of Abelard will know how intensely his own soul housed those severed opposites whose philosophical reconciliation was for him such a vital issue. De Remusat [7] characterizes Abelard as an eclectic, who criticized and rejected every accepted theory concerning the universalia, but who none the less freely borrowed from them what was true and tenable. Abelard's writings, so far as they relate to the universalia dispute, are confusing and difficult, because the author is constantly engaged in weighing every argument and aspect of the case. It is precisely because he acknowledged no truth in the avowed standpoint, but always sought to comprehend and reconcile the contrary view, which is responsible for the fact that he was never once thoroughly understood even by his own pupils. Some understood him as a nominalist, others as a realist. This misunderstanding is characteristic: it is much easier to think from one definite type -- for within it one can remain logical and consistent-than it is to remain consistent with both types, since the intermediate standpoint is lacking. Realism as well as nominalism if pursued consistently leads to finality, clarity, and uniformity. But the weighing and adjustment of the opposites leads to confusion and to an unsatisfactory issue for the types, since to neither is the solution completely satisfying.

De Remusat has collected from Abelard's writings a whole series of almost contradictory assertions relating to our subject. He exclaims: "Faut-il admettre en effet, ce vaste et incoherent ensemble de'doctrines dans la tete d'un seul homme et la philosophie d'Abelard est elle le chaos?"

From nominalism Abelara takes the truth that the universalia are words, in the sense that they are intellectual conventions expressed by language; furthermore, he takes from it the truth that a thing in reality is not universal but always something particular, and that substance in reality is never a universal but an individual fact. From Realism Abelard takes the truth that 'genera' and 'species' are combinations of individual facts and things on the ground of their indubitable similarity. Conceptualism is for him the mediatory standpoint; this is to be understood as a function which comprises the individual objects perceived, classifies them into genera and species upon the basis of their similarity, and thus reduces their absolute multiplicity to a relative unity. However unquestionable multiplicity and diversity may be, the existence of similarities, which by means of the concept makes fusion possible, is equally beyond dispute. For whoever is psychologically so adapted as to perceive mainly the similarity of things the collective or constellating concept is, so to speak, taken for granted, i e. it frankly obtrudes itself with the undeniable actuality of the sense-perception. But, for the man who is psychologically so adjusted as to perceive mainly the diversity of things, the similarity of things is not exclusively assumed; what he sees is their difference, which indeed forces itself upon him with just as much actuality as similarity does to the other.

It seems as though "feeling-into" (Einfuhlung) the object were the psychological process which brought the distinctiveness of the object into an especially bright light, and as though abstraction from the object were the process most calculated to blind one's eyes to the actual distinctiveness of individual things in favour of their general similarity, which is the very foundation of the idea. Feeling-into and abstraction combined produce that function which underlies the idea of conceptualism. It is founded, therefore, upon the only psychological function which has any real possibility of uniting the divergence between nominalism and realism and bringing them upon a common way.

Although the Middle Ages knew how to speak great words of the soul, psychology they had none, which is one of the youngest of all sciences. If at that time a psychology had existed, Abelard would have framed the esse in anima as his mediatory formula. De Remusat clearly discerned this, for he says:

"Dans la logique pure les universalia ne sont que les termes d'un langage de convention. Dans la physique, qui est pour lui plus transcendante qu'experimentale, qui est sa veritable ontologie, les genres et les especes se fondent sur la maniere dont les etres sont reellement produits et constitues. Entin, entre la logique pure et la physique, il y a un milieu et comme une science mitoyenne. qu'on peut appeler une psychologie, ou Abelard recherche comment s'engendrent nos concepts et retrace tout cette genealogie intellectuelle des etres, tableau ou symbole de leur hierarchie et de leur existence reelle." (Tome ii, p. 112)

[Google translate: "In the pure logic universalia are only the words of conventional language. In physics, which for him is more transcendent than experimental, which is its true ontology, genera and species are based on the manner in which beings are actually the goods and established. Entin, between pure logic and physics, there is an environment and as a terraced science, can be called a psychology or how to generate search Abelard our concepts and traces all this intellectual genealogy of beings, painting or symbol of their hierarchy and their actual existence."]

The universalia ante rem and post rem have remained a matter of dispute for every ensuing century, even though they cast aside their scholastic robe and appeared under a new disguise. Fundamentally it was the old problem. At one time the attempt at solution inclined towards the realistic side, at another towards the nominalistic. The scientific character of the nineteenth century gave the problem a push once more towards the side of nominalism, after the philosophy of the beginning of the nineteenth century had first done full justice to realism. But the opposites are no longer so widely sundered as in Abelard's time. We have a psychology, a mediatory science; which alone is capable of uniting idea and thing, without doing violence either to the one or to the other. This capacity abides in the very nature of psychology, but no one could contend that psychology has hitherto accomplished this task. One must, in this connection, acquiesce in the words of De Remusat:

"Abelard a donc triomphe; car, malgre les graves restrictions qu'une critique clairvoyante decouvre dans le neminalisme ou le conceptualisme qu'on lui impute, son esprit est bien l'esprit mod erne a son origine. Il l'annonce, il le devance, il le promet. La lumiere qui blanchit au matin l'horizon est deja celle de l'astre encore invisible qui doit eclairer le monde."
[Google translate: "Abelard thus triumph. Because, despite serious restrictions that a critical clairvoyant discovers in neminalisme or conceptualism against him, his spirit is the spirit modern It originated the ad, he ahead, he promises, the light that whitens the morning the horizon is already one of the star still invisible that must illuminate the world."]

If one overlooks the existence of psychological types, as also the contingent circumstance that the truth of the one is the error of the other, then Abelard's labour will mean nothing but one Scholastic sophistry the more. But in so far as we recognize the existence of the two types, the effort of Abelard must appear to us of the greatest importance. He seeks the mediatory standpoint in the "sermo," by which he understood not so much a "discourse" as a formed sentence joined to a definite meaning; a definition, in fact, only requiring additional words for the consolidation of its meaning. He does not speak of "verbum," for to nominalism this is nothing more than a "vox," a "flatus votis." Indeed, it is the great psychological achievement of both the classic and medieval nominalism that it completely abolished the primitive, magical, or mystical identity of the word with the objective matter of fact; too completely, indeed, for the type of man who has his foundation not in the foothold offered by things but in the abstraction of the idea from things. Abelard was too wide in his outlook to have been able to overlook this value of nominalism. For him the word was indeed a "vox," but the statement (or in his language the "sermo") was something more, for it -carried with it solid meaning, it described the common factor, the idea, what in fact has been thought and understood about things. In the senno the universale lived, and there alone. It is, therefore, intelligible that Abelard was also counted among the nominalists; incorrectly however, for the universale was to him a greater reality than a vox.

The expression of his Conceptualism must have been difficult enough for Abelard, for he had necessarily to construct it out of contradictions. An epitaph contained in an Oxford manuscript gives us, I think, a searching insight into the paradox of his teaching:

Hic docuit voces cum rebus significare, Et docuit voces res significando notare; Errores generum correxit, ita specierum. Hic genus et species in sola voce locavit, Et genus et species sermones esse notavit.
[Google translate: He showed how the words to things which are signified, and taught men to mark the significance of the matter; Corrects errors in law, so the species. Here, in words alone, let it out to the genus and the species in, and the kind and the form of the words to be noted.]


Sic animal nullumque animal genus esse probatur. Sic et homo et nullus homo species vocitatur.
[Google translate: Thus, no animal the genus is proved to be an animal. So, too, is called a man, and no man is a species of.]

In so far as an expression is striven for, that is based in principle upon one standpoint, viz. the intellectual in the case in point, the antagonism can hardly be bridged except by paradox. We must not forget that the radical difference between nominalism and realism is not purely a logical and intellectual distinction but also a psychological one, which in the last resort amounts to a typical difference of psychological attitude to the object as well as to the idea. Whoever is orientated to the idea, appre hends and reacts from the angle of vision governed by the idea. But the man who is orientated to the object; apprehends and reacts from the standpoint of his sensation. For him the abstract is of secondary importance, since what must be thought about things seems to him relatively inessential, while with the former it is just the reverse. The man who is orientated to the object is naturally nominalistic: "the name is sound and smoke" (Goethe's Faust) in so far as he has not yet learnt to compensate his objective attitude. Should this latter event take place, he will become, if he has the necessary ability, an overnice logician, one who is constantly on the lookout for a meticulousness, a method and a dullness that can equal his own. The man who is orientated to the idea is naturally logical; that is why, when all is said and done, he can neither understand nor appreciate text-book logic. The development towards a compensation of his type makes him, as we saw in Tertullian, a man of passionate feeling, whose feelings, however, remain within the magic circle of his ideas. But the man who is a logician by compensation remains with his world of ideas within the magic circle of his object.

With these reflections we come to the shaded side of Abelard's thought. His attempt at solution is one-sided. If in the opposition between nominalism and realism it were merely a question of logical-intellectual arrangement, it would be incomprehensible why no terminal conclusion other than a paradox is possible. But since it is a question of a psychological opposition, a one-sided intellectual formulation must end in paradox. "Sic et homo et nullus homo species vocitatur". ("Thus both man and not-man are called species"). The logico-intellectual expression is absolutely incapable, even in the form of the sermo, of providing that mediatory formula which can do justice to the real natures of the two opposing psychological attitudes, for it is wholly derived from the side of the abstract and is completely lacking in the recognition of concrete reality.

Every logico-intellectual formulation, however embracing it may be, divests the objective impression of its living and immediate quality. It must do this in order to reach any formulation whatsoever. But, in so doing, just that is lost which to the extraverted attitude seems absolutely essential, namely the relationship to the real object. No possibility exists, therefore, that we shall find upon the line of either attitude any satisfactory and reconciling formula. And yet man cannot remain in this division -- even if his mind could -- for this discussion is not merely a matter of remote philosophy; it is the daily repeated problem of the relations of man to himself and to the world. And, because this at bottom is the problem at issue, the division cannot be resolved by a discussion of nominalist and realist arguments. For its solution a third intermediate standpoint is needed. To the "esse in intellectu" tangible reality is lacking; to the "esse in re" the mind.

Idea and thing come together, however, in the psyche of man which holds the balance between them. What would the idea amount to if the psyche did not provide its living value? What would the objective thing be worth if the psyche withheld from it the determining force. of the sense impression? What indeed is reality if it is not a reality in ourselves, an "esse in anima"? Living reality is the exclusive product neither of the actual, objective behaviour of things, nor of the formulated idea; rather does it come through the gathering up of both in the living psychological process, through the "esse in anima." Only through the specific vital activity of the psyche does the sense-perception attain that intensity, and the idea that effective force, which are the two indispensable constituents of living reality.

This peculiar activity of the psyche, which can be explained neither as a reflexive reaction to sense-stimuli nor as an executive organ of eternal ideas is, like every vital process, a perpetually creative act. Each new day reality is created by the psyche. The only expression I can use for this activity is phantasy. Phantasy is just as much feeling as thought; it is intuitive just as much as sensational. There are no psychic functions which in phantasy are not inextricably inter-related with the other psychic functions. At one time it appears primordial, at another as the latest and most daring product of gathered knowledge. Phantasy, therefore, appears to me as the dearest expression of the specific psychic activity. Before everything it is the creative activity whence issue the solutions to all answerable questions; it is the mother of all possibilities, in which too the inner and the outer worlds, like all psychological antitheses, are joined in living union. Phantasy it was and ever is which fashions the bridge between the irreconcilable claims of object and subject, of extraversion and introversion.

In phantasy alone are both mechanisms united.

If Abelard had gone deep enough to recognize the psychological difference between the two standpoints, he would logically have had to enlist phantasy for the formulation of the reconciling expression. But in the world of science phantasy is just as much taboo as is feeling. If, however, we appreciate the underlying opposition as a psychological one, it will be seen that psychology is not only obliged to recognize the standpoint of feeling; it must also acknowledge tile intermediate standpoint of phantasy. Here, however, comes the great difficulty: phantasy for the most part is a product of the unconscious. It doubtless includes conscious elements, but none the less it is an especial characteristic of phantasy that it is essentially involuntary and stands inherently opposed to conscious contents. It has this quality in common with the dream, though the latter has of course strangeness and spontaneity in a much higher degree.

The relation of the individual to his phantasy is very largely conditioned by his relation to the unconscious in general, and this in its turn is peculiarly influenced by the spirit of the age. In inverse ratio to the degree of prevailing rationalism will the individual be more or less disposed to have dealings with the .unconscious and its products. The Christian sphere, like every completed religious form, undoubtedly tends to suppress the unconscious in the individual to .the fullest limit, thus paralysing his phantasy activity. In its stead, religion offers stereotyped symbolical ideas which replace the individual unconscious. The symbolical presentations of all religions are stages of unconscious processes in a typical and universally binding form. Religious teaching gives, as it were, conclusive information concerning the 'Last Things' and the 'other world' of human consciousness. Wherever we can observe a religion at its birth, we see how even the figures of his doctrine flow into the founder as revelations, i.e. as concretizations of his unconscious phantasy. The forms arising out of his unconscious are interpreted as universally valid and thus in a measure replace the individual phantasies of others. The evangelist Matthew has preserved for us a fragment of this process from the life of Christ: in the story of the Temptations we see how the idea of kingship emerges from the Founder's unconscious in the form of the devil who offers him power over the kingdoms of the earth. Had Christ misunderstood the phantasy and taken it concretely, there would have been one madman the more in the world. But he refused the concretism of his phantasy and entered the world as a King, unto whom the Kingdoms of Heaven are subject. He was therefore no paranoiac, as indeed the result also proved. The views advanced from time to time from the psychiatric side concerning the morbidity of Christ's psychology are nothing but ludicrous rationalistic twaddle, altogether remote from any sort of comprehension of the meaning of such processes in the history of man.

The forms in which Christ presented the content of his unconscious to the world became accepted and interpreted as universally binding. Therewith all individual phantasy lapsed; it became not only invalid and worthless but it was actually persecuted as heretical, as the fate of the Gnostic movement, and of all later heresies testifies. The prophet Jeremiah speaks in a similar sense when he says (Jeremiah, xxiii):

16. "Thus saith the Lord of Hosts, Hearken not unto the words of the prophets that prophesy unto you: They make you vain: They speak a vision of their own heart, And not out of the mouth of the Lord.

26. I have heard what the prophets said, That prophesy lies in My name, saying: -- 'I have dreamed, I have dreamed.'

26. How long shall this be in the heart of the prophets that prophesy lies? Yea, they are prophets of the deceit of their own heart;

27. 'Which think to cause My people to forget My name By their dreams which they tell every man to his neighbour, As their fathers have forgotten My name through Baal.

28. The prophet that hath a dream, Let him tell a dream; And he that hath My word, Let him speak My word faithfully. What is the chaff to the wheat? saith the Lord.'"

We see also in early Christianity how, for example, the Bishops zealously strove to root out the efficacy of the individual unconscious among the monks. The Archbishop Athanasius of Alexandria in his biography of St. Anthony offers us a particularly valuable insight into this activity [8]. In this document he describes, by way of instruction to his monks, the apparitions and visions, the perils of the soul, which befall those that pray and fast in solitude. He warns them how cleverly the devil disguises himself in order to bring saintly men to their fall. The devil is, of course, the voice of the anchorite's own unconscious, which revolts against the violent suppression of the individual nature. I give a group of exact quotations from this rather inaccessible book. Very clearly they show how the unconscious was systematically suppressed and depreciated.

"There is a time when we see no man and yet the sound of the working of the devils is heard by us, and it is like the singing of a song in a loud voice; and there are times when the words of the Scriptures are heard by us, just as if a living man were repeating them, and they are exactly like the words which we should hear if a man were reading the Book. And it also happeneth that they (the devils) rouse us up to the night prayer, and incite us to stand upon our feet, and they make us to see also the similitudes of monks and the forms of those who mourn (i.e. the anchorites); and they draw nigh unto us as if they had come from a long journey, that they may make lax the understanding of those who are feeble of soul, and they begin to utter words like unto these: 'Are we condemned throughout all creation to love places of desolation. Were we not able when we came to our houses, to fear God and to do fair deeds?' And when they are unable to work their will by means of a scheme of this kind, they cease from this kind of deceit and turn unto another and say: 'How is it possible for thee to live? For thou hast sinned and committed iniquity in many things. Thinkest thou, that the Spirit hath not revealed unto me what hath been done by thee, or that I know not that thou hast done such and such a thing?' If therefore a simple brother hear these things, and feel within himself that he hath done evil as the Evil One hath said, and he be not acquainted with his craftiness, his mind will be troubled straightway, and he shall fall into despair and turn backwards.

It is then, O my beloved, unnecessary for us to be terrified at these things, and we have need to fear only when the devils multiply the speaking of the things which are true and then we must rebuke them severely ... Therefore let us be on our guard ... We must not then even appear to incline our hearing to their words, even though they be words of truth which they utter; for it would be 'a disgrace unto us that those who have rebelled against God should become our teachers. And let us, O my brethren, arm ourselves with the armour of righteousness, and let us put on the helmet of redemption, and in the time of contending let us shoot out from a believing mind spiritual arrows as from a bow which is stretched. For they (the devils) are nothing at all, and even if they were, their strength hath in it nothing which would enable it to resist the might of the Cross."

St. Anthony relates:

"Once there appeared unto me a devil of an exceedingly haughty and insolent appearance, and he stood up before me with the tumultuous noise of many people, and he dared to say unto me: 'I, even I, am the power of God', and 'I, even I, am the Lord of the worlds.' And he said unto me: 'What dost thou wish me to give thee? Ask, and thou shalt receive.' Then I blew a puff of wind at him, and I rebuked him in the name of Christ ....

And on another occasion, when I was fasting, the crafty one appeared to me in the form of a brother monk carrying bread, and he began to speak unto me words of counsel, saying 'Rise up, and stay thy heart with bread and water, and rest a little from thine excessive labours, for thou art a man, and howsoever greatly thou mayest be exalted thou art clothed with a mortal body and thou shouldest fear sickness and tribulations.' Then I regarded his words, and I held my peace and refrained from giving an answer. And I bowed myself down in quietness, and I began to make supplications in prayer, and I said: 'O Lord, make Thou an end of him, even as Thou hast been wont to do him away at all times'; and as I concluded my words he came to an end and vanished like dust, and went forth from the door like smoke.

Now on one occasion Satan approached the house one night and knocked at the door, and I went out to see who was knocking, and I lifted up mine eyes and saw the form of an exceedingly tall and strong man; and, having asked him 'Who art thou?', he answered and said unto me: 'I am Satan.' And after this I said unto him: 'What seekest thou?' and he answered unto me: 'Why do the monks and the anchorites, and the other Christians revile me, and why do they at all times heap curses upon me?' And having clasped my head firmly in wonder at his mad folly, I said unto him: 'Wherefore dost thou give them trouble?' Then he answered and said unto me: 'It is not I who trouble them, but it is they who trouble themselves. For there happened to me on a certain occasion that which did happen to me, and had I not cried out to them that I was the Enemy, his slaughters would have come to an end for ever. I have therefore no place to dwell in, and not one glittering sword, and not even people who are really subject unto me, for those who are in service to me hold me wholly in contempt; and moreover, I have to keep them in fetters, for they do not cleave to me because they esteem it right to do so, and they are ever ready to escape from me in every place. The Christians have filled the whole world, and behold, even the desert is filled full with their monasteries and habitations. Let them then take good heed to themselves when they heap abuse upon me.'

Then, wondering at the grace of our Lord, I said unto him: 'How doth it happen that whilst thou hast been a liar on every other occasion, at this present the truth is spoken by thee? And how is it that thou speakest the truth now when thou art wont to utter lies? It is indeed true that when Christ came into this world, thou wast brought down to the lowest depths, and that the root of thine error was plucked up from the earth.' And when Satan heard the name of Christ, his form vanished and his words came to an end."

These quotations show how, with the aid of the universal belief, the unconscious of the individual was rejected notwithstanding the fact that it transparently spoke the truth. There are in the history of the mind especial reasons for this rejection. It does not behove us at this point to elucidate these reasons further. We must content ourselves with the actual fact that it was suppressed. Speaking psychologically, this suppression consists in a withdrawal of libido (psychic energy). The libido thus acquired, promotes the synthesis and development of the conscious attitude, whereby a new conception of the world is gradually built up. The undoubted advantages gained by this process naturally consolidate this attitude. It is, therefore, not surprising that the psychology of our time is characterized by a prevailingly unfavourable attitude towards the unconscious.

It is not only intelligible, but absolutely necessary, that all sciences have excluded both the standpoints of feeling and of phantasy. They are sciences for that very reason. But how does it stand with psychology? If it is to be regarded as a science, it must do the same. But will it then do justice to its material? Every science ultimately seeks to formulate and express its material in abstractions; thus psychology could, and indeed does, lay hold of the processes of feeling, sensation, and phantasy in the form of intellectual abstractions. This treatment certainly establishes the right of the intellectual-abstract standpoint, but not the claims of other quite possible psychological points of view. These other possible standpoints can obtain only a bare mention in a scientific psychology; they cannot emerge as the independent principles of a science. Science, under all circumstances, is an affair of the intellect, and the other psychological functions are submitted to it in the form of objects. The intellect is sovereign of the scientific realm. But it is another matter when science steps across into the realm of practical application. The intellect, which was formerly king, is now merely a resource, a scientifically perfected instrument it is true, but still only an implement -- no more the aim itself, but merely a condition. The intellect, and with it science, is now placed at the service of creative power and purpose. Yet this is still "psychology" although no longer science: it is a psychology in a wider meaning of the word, a psychological activity of a creative nature, in which creative phantasy is given priority. Instead of using the term "creative phantasy", it would be just as true to say that in a practical psychology of this kind the leading role is given to life, for on the one hand, it is undoubtedly phantasy, procreating and productive, which uses science as a resource, but on the other, it is the manifold demands of external reality which prompt the activity of creative phantasy. Science as an end in itself is assuredly a high ideal, but its accomplishment brings about as many "ends in themselves" as there are sciences and arts. Naturally this leads to a high differentiation and specialization of the particular functions concerned, but it also leads to their aloofness from the world and from life, and an inevitable multiplication of specialized terrains, which gradually lose all connection with each other. The result of this is an impoverishment and stagnation that is not merely confined to the specialized terrains, but also invades the psyche of the man, who is thus differentiated up or reduced down to the specialist level. By this token must science prove her value to life; it is not enough that she be mistress -- she must also be the maid. By so doing she in no way dishonours herself. Although science has already led us to recognize the disproportions and disorders of the psyche, thus deserving our profound respect for her intrinsic intellectual gifts, it is nevertheless a grave mistake to concede her an absolute aim which would incapacitate her for her metier as an instrument of life. For when we approach the province of actual living with the intellect and its science, we realize at once we are in a confined space that shuts us out from other, equally real provinces of life. We are, therefore, compelled to acknowledge the universality of our ideal as a limitation, and to look around us for a spiritus rector which from the standpoint and claims of a complete life, can offer us a greater guarantee of psychological universality than the intellect alone can compass.

When Faust exclaims "feeling is everything", he is expressing merely the antithesis to the intellect, and therefore only reaches the other extreme; he does not achieve that totality of life and of his own psyche in which feeling and thought are joined in a third and higher principle. This higher third, as I have already indicated, can be understood either as a practical goal or as the phantasy which creates the goal. This aim of totality can be recognized neither by the science, whose end is in itself, nor by feeling, which lacks the faculty of vision belonging to thought. The one must lend itself as auxiliary to the other, yet the contrast between them is so great that we need a bridge. This bridge is already given us in creative phantasy. It is not born of either, for it is the mother of both -- nay, further, it is pregnant with the child, that final aim which reconciles the opposites. If psychology remains only a science, we do not reach life -- we merely serve the absolute aim of science. It leads us, certainly, to a knowledge of the actual state of affairs, but it always resists every other aim but its own. The intellect remains imprisoned in itself just so long as it does not willingly sacrifice its supremacy through its recognition of the value of other aims: It recoils from the step which takes it out of itself, and which denies its universal validity; since from the standpoint of intellect everything else is nothing but phantasy. But what great thing ever came into existence that was not first phantasy? Just in so far as the intellect rigidly adheres to the absolute aim of science is it insulated from the springs of life. It interprets phantasy as nothing but a wish-dream, wherein is expressed that depreciation of phantasy which for science is both welcome and necessary. It is inevitable that science should be regarded as an absolute aim so long as the development of science is the sole question at issue. But this at once becomes an evil when it is a question of life itself demanding development. Thus it was an historical necessity in the Christian process of culture that unfettered phantasy activity should be kept under; and, similarly, though for different reasons, it was also a necessity that phantasy should be suppressed in our age of natural science. It must not be forgotten that creative phantasy, if not restrained within just bounds, can also degenerate into a most pernicious luxuriance. But these bounds are never those artificial limitations set by the intellect or by reasonable feeling; they are boundaries governed by necessity and incontestable reality.

The tasks of every age differ, and it is only in retrospect that we can discern with certainty what had to be and what should not have been. In the momentary present the conflict of convictions always predominates, for "war is the father of all". History alone decides. Truth is not eternal -- it is a programme. The more "eternal" a truth, the more is it lifeless and worthless; it tells us nothing more, because it is self-evident.

How phantasy is assessed by psychology, so long as this remains merely a science, is beautifully exemplified in the well-known views of Freud and of Adler. The Freudian interpretation reduces it to causal, primitive, instinctive processes. Adler's conception reduces it to the final, elementary aims of the self. The former is an instinctive psychology, the latter an ego-psychology. Instinct is an impersonal biological phenomenon. A psychology which is founded upon instinct must by its nature neglect the ego, since the ego owes its existence to the principium individuation is, i.e. to individual differentiation whose sporadic and individual character at once removes it from the category of general biological phenomena. Although general biological instinct-forces make the moulding of personality possible, individuality is nevertheless essentially different from general instincts; indeed, it stands in the most direct opposition to them, just as the individual is as a personality always distinct from the collective. Its essence consists precisely in this distinction. What every ego-psychology must therefore exclude and ignore is just the collective element that is essential to instinct-psychology, for it is describing that very ego-process which is differentiated from collective instincts. The characteristic animosity between the representatives of the two standpoints arises from the fact that either standpoint necessarily involves a depreciation and lowering of the other. For so long as the radical difference between instinct and ego-psychology is not realized, either side must naturally hold its respective theory to be universally valid. This does not mean to say that instinct-psychology, for example, could not put up a theory of the ego-process. It can do so very ably, but in a form and manner which to the ego-psychologist looks too much like the negative of his theory. Hence we find that with Freud the "ego-instincts" do indeed occasionally emerge, but in the main they support a very modest existence. With Adler, on the other hand, it would seem as though sexuality were the merest vehicle, which in one way or another serves the elementary aims of power. The Adlerian principle is the safe-guarding of personal power, which is superimposed upon the general instincts. With Freud it is instinct that makes the ego serve its purposes, so that the ego appears as a mere function of instinct.

Within both types the scientific tendency prevails to reduce everything to its own principle; from which their deductions again proceed. With phantasies this operation is accomplished with particular ease; since these, unlike the functions of consciousness, which are adapted to reality and have therefore an objectively orientated character, express both instinctive as well as ego-tendencies. It is not difficult for the man who adopts the standpoint of instinct to discover in them the "wish-fulfilment", the "infantile wish", and "repressed sexuality". But the man who judges from the standpoint of the ego can just as easily discover those elementary aims concerned with the safeguarding and differentiation of the ego, since phantasies are intermediary products between the ego and the general instinct. They accordingly contain elements of both sides. Interpretation from either side is always, therefore, somewhat forced and arbitrary, because one character is always suppressed. Nevertheless, a demonstrable truth does on the whole appear; but it is only a partial truth, which can make no claim to general validity. Its validity extends just so far as the range of its principle. But in the province of other principles it is invalid. The Freudian psychology is characterized by one central idea, namely the repression of incompatible wish-tendencies. Man appears as a bundle of wishes which are only partially adaptable to the object. His neurotic difficulties consist in the fact that milieu-influences, educational and objective conditions, are a considerable check upon a free expression of instinct. Influences are derived from father and mother, either morally hindering or infantile, which tend to produce fixations that compromise later life. The original instinctive constitution is an unalterable quantity which suffers disturbing modifications mainly through objective influences; hence the most untrammeled possible expression of instinct towards the suitably chosen object would appear to be the needful remedy. Conversely, Adler's psychology is characterized by the central idea of ego-superiority. The individual appears pre-eminently as an ego-point which must under no circumstances be subjected to the object. While with Freud the craving for the object, the fixation to the object, and the impossible nature of certain desires towards the object play an important role, with Adler everything aims at the superiority of the subject. Freud's repression of instinct towards the object becomes with Adler the safe-guarding of the subject. With him the healing remedy is the removal of the isolating safe-guard; with Freud it is the removal of the repression that renders the object inaccessible. Hence with Freud the basic formula is sexuality, which expresses the strongest relation between subject and object; with Adler it is that power of the subject which most effectively ensures him against the object, and gives to the subject an unassailable isolation which amputates every relation. Freud would vouchsafe the instincts an unfettered excursion towards their objects. But Adler would break through the inimicable spell of the object, in order to deliver the ego from suffocation in its own defensive armour. The former view must therefore be essentially extraverted, while the latter is introverted. The extraverted theory holds good for the extraverted type, while the introverted theory is valid only for the introverted type. In so far as the pure type is a quite one-sided product of development, it is also necessarily unbalanced. Over-emphasis upon the one function is synonymous with repression of the other.

Psycho-analysis fails to resolve this repression just in so far as the particular method applied is orientated according to the theory of its own type. Thus the extravert, in accordance with his theory, will reduce his phantasies, as they emerge from the unconscious, to their instinct content. But the introvert will reduce them to his power-tendency. The gain accruing from such analysis goes to the already existing predominance. This kind of analysis, therefore, merely intensifies the already existing type, and by such means no mutual understanding or mediation between the types is made possible. On the contrary, the gap is widened, both without and within. An inner dissociation arises, because fragments of other functions, occasionally arising to the surface in unconscious phantasies (dreams, etc.) are depreciated and again repressed. On these grounds a certain critic was in a measure justified when he described Freud's as a neurotic theory; but the truth of the statement cannot justify a certain malevolence in expression which only serves to absolve one from the duty of serious concentration upon the problems raised. The standpoints both of Freud and of Adler are equally one-sided and are, therefore, characteristic of only one type.

Both theories reject the principle of imagination, since they reduce phantasies and treat them as a merely semiotic [9] expression. But in reality phantasies mean more than that, for they represent also the other mechanism. Thus with the introverted type they represent repressed extraversion, and with the extraverted repressed introversion. But the repressed function is unconscious, hence, undeveloped, embryonic, and archaic. In this condition it is not to be reconciled with the higher niveau of the conscious function. The inacceptable nature of phantasy is principally derived from this peculiarity of the unrecognised function-root.

Imagination, for everyone to whom adaptation to external reality is the leading principle, is for these reasons something objectionable and useless. And yet we know that every good idea and all creative work is the offspring of the imagination, and has its source in what one is pleased to term infantile phantasy. It is not the artist alone, but every creative individual whatsoever who owes all that is greatest in his life to phantasy. The dynamic principle of phantasy is 'play,' which belongs also to the child, and as such it appears to be inconsistent with the principle of serious work. But without this playing with phantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable. It is therefore short-sighted to treat phantasy, on account of its daring or inacceptable character, as of small account. It must not be forgotten that it is just in the imagination that the most valuable promise of a man may lie. I say may advisedly, because on the other hand phantasies are also valueless, since in the form of raw material they possess no sort of realizable worth. In order to unearth the valuable treasure they contain, a development is needed. But this development is not achieved by a simple analysis of the phantasy material; a synthetic treatment is also needed by means of a constructive method [10].

It remains an open question whether the opposition between the two standpoints can ever be satisfactorily adjusted intellectually. Although in one sense Abelard's attempt must be profoundly respected, yet practically no consequences worth mentioning have matured from it; for he was able to establish no mediatory psychological function beyond conceptualism or sermonism, which is merely a revised edition, altogether one-sided and intellectual, of the ancient Logos conception. The Logos, as a mediator, had of course this advantage over the sermo, inasmuch as in His [11] human manifestation He also did justice to non-intellectual aspirations.

I cannot, however, rid myself of the impression that Abelard's brilliant mind, which so fully grasped the great Yea and Nay, would never have remained satisfied with his paradoxical conceptualism, thus renouncing all claim to creative effort, if the impelling force of passion had not been lost to him through the tragedy of fate. In confirmation of this idea we need only compare conceptualism with the way in which the great Chinese philosophers Lao-Tse and Tschuang-Tse, as also the poet Schiller, confronted this problem.

5. The Holy Communion Controversy between Luther and Zwingli

Of the later antagonisms which stirred men's minds Protestantism and the Reformation movement should really receive our first consideration. Only this phenomenon is of such complexity that it must first be resolved into many separate psychological processes before it can become an object for analytical elucidation. But that lies outside my province. I must therefore content myself by selecting a single case from that great arena, namely the Holy Communion controversy between Luther and Zwingli. The transubstantiation dogma, already mentioned, was sanctioned by the Lateran Council of 1215, and from that time formed an established article of faith; in which form Luther himself grew up. Although the notion that a ceremony and its concrete practice can have an objective redeeming value is really quite unevangelical, since the evangelical movement was actually directed against Catholic institutions, Luther was nevertheless unable to free himself from the immediately effective sensuous impression in the taking of bread and wine. He perceived in it not merely a token, but the actual sensuous reality with its contingent and immediate experience; these were for him an indispensable religious necessity. He therefore claimed the actual presence of the body and blood of Christ in the Communion. "In and beneath" bread and wine he received the body and the blood of Christ. For him the religious meaning of the immediate objective experience was so great that his imagination was spell-bound by the concretism of the material presence of the sacred body. All his attempts at explanation are, therefore, under the spell of this fact: the body of Christ is present, albeit 'non-spatially'. According to the so-called doctrine of consubstantiation the actual substance of the sacred body was also really present beside the substance of the bread and wine. The ubiquity of Christ's body, which this assumption postulated, an idea involving considerable distress to human intelligence, was indeed substituted by the concept of volipresence, which means that God is everywhere present, where He wills to be. But Luther, untroubled by all these difficulties, held unflinchingly to the immediate experience of the sensuous impression and preferred to assuage all the scruples of human reason with explanations which were either absurd or at the best quite unsatisfying.

It is hardly credible that it was merely the power of tradition which determined Luther to cling to this dogma, for he assuredly gave abundant proof of his ability to throw aside traditional forms of belief. Indeed we should not go far wrong in assuming that it was rather the actual contact with the 'real' and material in the Communion, and the feeling-significance of this contact for Luther himself, that prevailed over the evangelical principle, which maintained that the word was the sole vehicle of grace and not the ceremony. With Luther the word certainly had redeeming power, but the partaking of the Communion was also a transmitter of grace. This, I repeat, must have been only an apparent concession to the institutions of the Catholic Church; for in reality it was the acknowledgment, demanded by Luther's psychology, of the fact of feeling, grounded upon the immediate sense-experience.

As against the Lutheran standpoint Zwingli represented the purely symbolic conception. What really concerned him was a 'spiritual' partaking of the body and blood of Christ. This standpoint has the character of reason; it is a conceptual attitude to the ceremony. It has the merit that it offers no violence to the evangelical principle, and at the same time it avoids all hypotheses that run counter to reason. This conception, however, does little justice to the thing which Luther wished to preserve, namely the reality of the sense-impression and its peculiar feeling-value. Zwingli, it is true, also administered the Communion, and with Luther also partook of bread and wine -- nevertheless his conception contained no formula which could have adequately rendered the unique sensational and feeling value of the object. Luther gave a formula for this, but it was opposed to reason and the evangelical principle. To the standpoint of sensation and feeling this matters little, and indeed rightly, for the idea, the 'principle', is just as little concerned about the sensation of the object. Both points of view are in the last resort mutually exclusive.

The Lutheran formulation favours the extraverted conception of things, while Zwingli has. the conceptual standpoint. Although Zwingli's formula does no violence to feeling and sensation, but merely gives a conceptual formulation, and appears furthermore to have left room for the efficacy of the object, yet it seems as though the extraverted standpoint is not content with an open space, but demands also a formulation in which the conceptual. follows the sensuous value, exactly as the conceptual formulation requires the subservience of feeling and sensation.

At this point, with the consciousness of having given merely a statement of the problem, I close this chapter on the principle of types in the history of classic and medieval thought. I am not sufficiently competent to be able to treat so difficult and voluminous a problem in any way exhaustively. If I have been successful in conveying to the reader an impression of the existence of typical differences of standpoint, my purpose has been achieved. I need scarcely add that I am aware that none of the material here touched upon has been conclusively dealt with. I must bequeath this task to those who command a fuller knowledge of this province than myself.



1. Translated by Dr. B. M. Hinkle (London: Kegan Paul & Co. 1919; new edn. 1921).

2. Cupidity. We would rather say: untamed libido, which as Image (rule of the stars, or fate) led man into wrong-doing and destruction.

3. Thyestes, son of Pelops, in the course of a struggle for the kingdom with his brother Atreus, was given -- unknown to himself -- the flesh of his own children to eat. [Translator]

4. Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen, 1909, p. 31 ff.

5. The unities which lie at the basis of the visible and changeable, and which can be reached only by pure thinking, were ideas in Plato's sense. He included under the term everything stable amidst changing phenomena, e.g. the Ideas of genus, species, and the laws and ends of Nature. [Translator]

6. The Eleatic was a Greek school of philosophy founded by Xenophanes of Elea about 460 B.C. Its fundamental doctrine was that the One, Absolute, pure Being is the only real existence; that the world of phenomena, or the many, is merely an appearance. All attempts to explain it, therefore, are useless. [Translator]

7. Charles de Remusat, Abelard (Paris 1845)

8. Lady Meux' Manuscript, no. 6: The Book of Paradise, by Palladius, Hieronymus, etc., edited by E. A. Wallis Budge (London 1904)

9. I say "semiotic" in contradistinction to "symbolic". What Freud terms symbols are no more than signs for elementary instinctive processes. But a symbol is the best possible expression for an actual matter of fact, which nevertheless cannot be expressed except by a more or less close analogy.

10. Cf. Jung, Collected Papers: Content of the Psychoses. Idem, Psychology of Unconscious Processes.

11. Logos appearing in human form as Christ the Son of God.
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Part 1 of 3


1. Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man

(a) The superior and the inferior functions

So far as my somewhat limited range extends, Friedrich Schiller seems to have been the first to have made any considerable attempt at a conscious discrimination of typical attitudes, and to have developed a fairly complete presentation of their singularities. This important endeavour to represent the two mechanisms in question, and at the same time to discover a possibility of their reconciliation, is to be found in his treatise first published in 1795: Uber die asthetische Erziehung des Menschen [1]. The paper consists of a number of letters which Schiller addressed to the Duke of Holstein-Augustenburg.

Schiller's essay, by the depth of its thought, the psychological penetration of its material, and its wide vision of the possibility of a psychological solution of the conflict, prompts me to a somewhat extensive presentation and appreciation of his ideas, for never yet has it fallen to their lot to be treated in such a connection.

The merit due to Schiller from our psychological viewpoint, as will become clear in our further discussion, is by no means inconsiderable; for he gives us developed points-of-view which we, as psychologists, are just beginning to appreciate. My responsibility will, of course, not be light, for it may well happen that I shall be accused of giving a construction to Schiller's ideas which his actual words do not warrant. For, although I shall take considerable pains, at every essential point, to quote the actual words of the author, yet it may not be altogether possible to introduce his ideas in the connection I intend to establish here without giving them certain interpretations or constructions. I am obliged not to overlook this possibility, but, on the other hand, we must bear in mind the fact that Schiller himself belongs to a definite type, and is therefore constrained, even in spite of himself, to deliver a one-sided characterization.

The limitation of our conceptions and cognition becomes nowhere so apparent as in psychological presentations, where it is almost impossible for us to trace any other picture than that whose main outlines are already marked out in our own psyche. From various characteristics I conclude that Schiller belongs to the introverted type, while Goethe inclines more to the extraverted side.

We can easily trace Schiller's own image in his description of the idealistic type. An inevitable limitation is imposed upon his formulation through this identification, a fact which must never be lost sight of in our effort to gain a fuller understanding. This limitation is to be ascribed to the fact that the one mechanism is presented by Schiller in richer outline than the other, for the latter is still imperfectly developed in the introvert, and just because of its imperfect development it must necessarily have certain inferior characters clinging to it. In such cases the presentation of the author demands our criticism and correction. It is clear, too, that this limitation of Schiller's has also prompted him to use a terminology which fails in general applicability. As an introvert Schiller has a better relation to ideas than to things of the world. The relation to ideas can be relatively more ,emotional or reflective according to whether the individual belongs more to the feeling or the thinking type. At this point I would request the reader, who perhaps may have been led by my earlier publications to identify feeling with extraversion and thinking with introversion, to be good enough to bear in mind the definitions furnished in the last chapter. With the introverted and extraverted types I have there distinguished two general classes of men, which can be further sub-divided into function-types, e.g. thinking, feeling, sensational, and intuitive. Hence an introvert can be a thinking or a feeling type, since feeling as well as thinking can come under the supremacy of the idea, just as both in given cases can be ruled by the object.

If then I consider that Schiller, both in his nature and particularly in his characteristic opposition to Goethe, corresponds with the introvert, the question next arises as to which subdivision he belongs. This question is hard to answer. Without doubt the factor of intuition plays a considerable role with him; we might on this account, or if we were regarding him exclusively as a poet, count him as an intuitive type. But in the Letters on Aesthetic Education it is undoubtedly Schiller the thinker who confronts us. Not only from these, but also from his own repeated admissions, we know how strong the reflective element was in Schiller. Consequently we must shift his intuitiveness over towards the side of thinking, so that we may also approach him from this other angle, i.e. from our understanding of the psychological viewpoint of an introverted thinking type. It will, I hope, be sufficiently proved hereafter that this conception coincides with reality, for there are not a few passages in Schiller's writings that speak distinctly in its favour. I would, therefore, request the reader to bear in mind that the hypothesis I have just outlined underlies my whole argument. This is, in my opinion, necessary, because Schiller handles the problem from the angle of his own inner experience. In view of the fact that another psychology, i.e. another type, would have apprehended the problem in quite another form, the highly general formulation which Schiller gives to it might be regarded in the nature of an encroachment, or as an ill-considered generalization. But such a judgment would be incorrect, since there is actually a large class of men for whom the problem of the differentiated functions is precisely the same as it was for Schiller. If, therefore, in the ensuing argument I occasionally emphasize Schiller's one-sidedness and subjectivity, I do not wish to detract from the importance and validity of the problem he has raised, but rather to make room for other formulations. Such criticisms as I may occasionally offer, therefore, are intended rather as a transcription into a form of expression, which disembarrasses Schiller's formulation of its subjective limitations. My argument, nevertheless, clings very closely to Schiller's, since it is concerned much less with the general question of introversion and extraversion -- which in Chapter 1 exclusively engaged our attention -- than with the typical conflict of the introverted thinking type.

Schiller concerns himself at the very outset with the question of the cause and origin of the bifurcation of the two mechanisms. With sure instinct he hits upon the differentiation of the individual as the basic motive. "It was culture itself, which dealt this wound to the modern man" (p. 22). This one sentence at once shows Schiller's embracing understanding of our problem. The breaking up of the harmonious co-operation of the psychic forces that exists in instinctive life is like an ever open and never healing wound, a veritable Amfortas' wound; since the differentiation of one function among several inevitably leads to overgrowth of the one and to neglect and crippling of the rest.

"I do not ignore the advantages", says Schiller, "which the present generation, regarded as a whole, and measured by reason, may boast over what was best in the bygone world; but it must enter the contest as a compact phalanx and measure itself as whole against whole. What individual modern could enter the lists, man against man, and contest the prize of manhood with an individual Athenian? Whence then arises this unfavourable individual comparison in the face of every advantage from the standpoint of the race?" (p. 22).

Schiller places the responsibility for this decline of the modern individual upon culture, i.e. upon the differentiation of functions. He next points out how, in art and scholarship, the intuitive and the speculative minds have become estranged, and how each has zealously excluded the other from its respective field of application.

"And with the sphere into which man confines his operation, he has also made unto himself a ruler; which fact not infrequently results in the suppression of his other faculties. Whereas, in the case of the former, the luxuriating power of imagination makes a wilderness of the laborious plantations of the mind, in the latter the spirit of abstraction consumes the fire that should have warmed the heart and kindled phantasy" (p. 23).

And further:

"When the commonwealth makes the office or function the measure of the man, when of its citizens it does homage only to memory in one, to a tabulating intelligence in another, and to a mechanical capacity in a third; when here, regardless of character, it urges only towards knowledge, while there it encourages a spirit of order and law-abiding behaviour with the profoundest intellectual obscurantism -- when, at the same time, it wishes these single accomplishments of the subject to be carried to just as great an intensity as it absolves him of extensity -- is it to be wondered at that the remaining faculties of the mind are neglected, in order to bestow every care upon the special one which it honours and rewards?"

In these thoughts of Schiller there lies much weight. It is understandable that Schiller's age, whose imperfect knowledge of the Grecian world appraised the man of Greece by the greatness of his bequeathed works, should thereby over-estimate him beyond all bounds, inasmuch as the peculiar beauty of Grecian art owed its existence in no small measure to its contrast with the milieu from which it arose. The advantage of the Greek consisted in the fact that he was less differentiated than the modern, if indeed one is disposed to regard that as an advantage; for the disadvantage of such a condition must at least be equally obvious. The differentiation of functions is assuredly no product of human caprice; its origin, like that of everything in nature, was necessity. Could one of these modern admirers of the Grecian heaven and Arcadian bliss have visited the earth as an Attic helot, he might well have surveyed the beauties of the land of Greece with rather different eyes. Even were it the fact that the primitive conditions of the fifth century before Christ yielded the individual a greater possibility for an all-round unfolding of his qualities and capacities, this nevertheless was possible only because thousands of his fellow-men were admittedly cramped and crippled in wretched circumstances. A high level of individual culture was undoubtedly reached by certain figures, but a collective culture was quite unknown to the ancient world. This achievement was reserved for Christianity. Hence it comes about that, as a mass, the moderns can not only rival the Greeks, but by every standard of collective culture they easily surpass them. Schiller, on the other hand, is perfectly right in his contention that our individual has not kept pace with our collective culture; and it has certainly not improved during the hundred and twenty years that have passed since Schiller wrote -- rather the reverse; for, if we had not wandered even farther into the collective atmosphere to the prejudice of individual development, the violent reactions which took shape in the mind of a Stirner or a Nietzsche would scarcely have been required. Still to-day, therefore, Schiller's words must remain both timely and valid.

Like the ancients, who with a view to individual development catered for the claims of an upper class by an almost total suppression of the great majority of the common people (helots and slaves), the subsequent Christian world reached a condition of collective culture through an identical process, albeit translated as far as possible into the individual sphere (or, raised to the subjective level, as we prefer to express it). While the value of the individual was proclaimed to be an imperishable soul by the Christian dogma, it became no longer possible for the inferior majority of the people to be suppressed for the freedom of a superior minority, but now the superior function was preferred over the inferior functions in the individual. In this way the chief importance was transferred to the one valued function, to the prejudice of all the rest. Psychologically this meant that the external form of society in antique civilization was translated into the subject, whereby in individual psychology, an inner condition was produced which had been external in the older civilization, namely, a dominating, preferred function, which became developed and differentiated at the expense of an inferior majority. By means of this psychological process a collective culture gradually came into existence, in which "les droits de l'homme" certainly had an immeasurably greater guarantee than with the ancients. But it had this disadvantage, that it depended upon a subjective slave-culture, i.e. upon a transfer of the antique majority enslavement into the psychological sphere, whereby collective culture was undoubtedly enhanced, while individual culture depreciated. Just as the enslavement of the mass was the open wound of the antique world, the enslavement of the' inferior function is an ever-bleeding wound in the soul of man today. "One-sidedness in the exercise of his powers leads in the individual infallibly to error, but in the race to truth" (p. 29) says Schiller. The favouritism of the superior function is just as serviceable to society as it is prejudicial to the individuality. This prejudicial effect has reached such a pitch that the great organizations of our present day civilization actually strive for the complete disintegration of the individual, since their very' existence depends upon a mechanical application of the preferred individual functions of men. It is not man that counts, but his one differentiated function. Man no longer appears as man in collective civilization: he is merely represented by a function -- nay, further, he is even exclusively identified with this function and denies any responsible membership to the other inferior functions. Thus the modern individual sinks to the level of a mere function, because this it is that represents a collective value and alone affords a possibility of livelihood. But, as Schiller clearly discerns, differentiation of function could have come about in no other way: "There was no other means to develop man's manifold capacities than to set them one against another. This antagonism of human qualities is the great instrument of culture; it is only the instrument, however, for so long as it endures man is only upon the way to culture" (p. 28).

According to this conception the present state of warring capacities could not yet be a state of culture, but only a stage on the way. Opinion will, of course, be divided about this, for by culture one man will understand a state of collective-culture, while another will merely regard this as civilization and will, ascribe to culture the sterner demands of individual development. Schiller is, of course, mistaken when he exclusively allies himself with the second stand-point and contrasts our collective culture with that of the individual Greek, since he overlooks the defectiveness of the civilization of that time, which renders the absolute validity of that culture very questionable. Hence no culture is ever really complete that swings towards a one-sided orientation, i.e. when at one. time the cultural ideal is extraverted, the chief value being. given to the object and the objective relation, while at another the ideal is introverted when the supreme importance lies with the individual or subject and his relation to the idea. In the former case, culture takes on a collective character, while in the latter an individual. 'One can easily understand; therefore, that it was through the operation of the Christian sphere, whose principle is Christian love (and also through contrast-association with its counterpart, viz. the violation of the individuality) that a collective culture came about in which the individual threatens to be swallowed up, and individual values are depreciated on principle. Hence there arose in the time of the German 'classics', that extraordinary yearning for the antique which was for them a symbol of individual culture, and on that account was for the most part very much overvalued and often grossly idealized. Not a few attempts were even made to imitate or recapture the spirit of Greece; attempts which now-a-days appear to us somewhat silly, but which none the less must be valued as the forerunners of an individual culture. In the hundred and twenty years which have passed since Schiller's time, conditions in respect to individual culture have become not better but worse, since individual interest is to-day engrossed to a far greater extent in collective preoccupations, and therefore much less leisure is available for the development of individual culture. Hence we possess to-day a highly developed collective culture, which in organization far exceeds anything that ever existed, but which for that very reason has become increasingly injurious to individual culture. There exists a deep gulf between what a man is and what he represents, i.e. between, the man as an individual and his function-capacity as a collective being. His function is developed at .the expense of his individuality. Should he excel, he is merely identical with his collective function; but should he not, then, although certainly esteemed as a function in society, he is as an individuality wholly on the side of .his inferior, undeveloped functions, and therefore simply barbarous, whereas the former has more fortunately deceived himself concerning his actually existing barbarism. This one-sidedness has undoubtedly yielded not inconsiderable advantages to society, which has thereby gained acquisitions that could have been won in no other way; as Schiller finely observes: "Only by focusing the whole energy of our mind and knitting together our entire nature in one unique faculty, do we, as it were, give wings to this individual gift and bring it by artifice far beyond the limits which nature seems to have laid down for it" (p. 29).

But this onesided development must inevitably lead to a reaction, since the repressed inferior functions cannot be indefinitely excluded from common life and development. The time will come when "the cleavage in the inner man must again be resolved", that the undeveloped may be granted an opportunity to live.

I have already alluded to the fact that the differentiation of function in civilized development ultimately effects a dissociation of the basic functions of the psyche, thus in a certain measure transcending the differentiation of capacity, and even encroaching upon the province of the psychological attitude in general, which governs the whole manner and character of the application of capacity. By this means culture effects a differentiation of that function which already enjoys a better development through heredity. In one man it is the function of thought, in another feeling, which is especially accessible to further development. Thus it happens that the urge of cultural demands engages the individual's special concern with the development of that capacity which Nature has already intended as his most favourable line. But this capacity for development does not mean that the function has an a priori claim to any particular fitness; it merely pre-supposes -- one might almost say, on the contrary -- a certain functional delicacy, lability, and plasticity. On this account the highest individual value is not by any means always to be sought or found in this function; but just in so far as it is developed for a collective end, it may possibly yield the highest collective value. But it may well be the case, as already observed, that far higher individual values lie hidden among the neglected functions, which, although of small importance for the collective life, are of the very greatest value to individual development. These, therefore, represent a living value which can endow the life of the individual with an intensity and beauty that he will vainly seek in his collective function. The differentiated function certainly procures for him the possibility of collective existence, but not that satisfaction and joy of life which the development of individual values alone can give. Their absence is often sensed as something deeply lacking, and the severance from them is like an inner division which, with Schiller, one might compare with a painful wound.

"Thus, however much may be gained for the world at large by the separate development of human capacities, it cannot be denied that the individuals affected by it suffer under the curse of this general aim. Athletic bodies are certainly built up by means of gymnastic exercises, but beauty is won only through the free and uniform play of the limbs. In the same way the tension of individual mental powers can produce extraordinary men, but it is only the uniform temperature of the same that can give man happiness and fulfilment. And in what sort of relation should we stand to past and coming ages, if the development of human nature compelled us to such a sacrifice? We would become the thralls of mankind; thousands of years long for humanity's sake we should be doing slave labour, and have imprinted upon our crippled nature the shameful brand of this servitude only that some later generation might nurse its moral health in blissful leisure, and unfold the ample spread of its humanity! But can it be that man is destined, for any aim whatsoever, to neglect himself? Can Nature with her aims rob us of that perfection which the aims of reason prescribe for us ? It must, therefore, be false, that the development of individual capacities necessitates the sacrifice of their totality; or, even if the law of nature still pressed towards such a goal, we must never relinquish that totality in our nature which cunning art has demolished, but which a still higher art may re- establish." (p. 30 ) [2]

It is evident that Schiller in his personal life had a profound sense of this conflict, and that it was just this antagonism in himself which beg at a longing to seek that coherence and uniformity which should bring deliverance to the wasting and enslaved functions and a restoration of harmonious life. This is also the impelling motive in Wagner's Parsifal, where it receives symbolical expression in the restitution of the missing spear and the healing of the wound. What Wagner attempted to say in artistic, symbolical expression Schiller laboured to formulate in philosophical thought. Although it is nowhere frankly stated, the implication is clear enough that his problem revolves around the possibility of resuming the classical manner and conception of life; from which one is obliged to conclude that he either overlooks the Christian solution of his problem or deliberately ignores it. In any case his mind is focused more upon classic beauty than upon the Christian doctrine of redemption, which, nevertheless, has no other aim but the solution of that selfsame problem in which Schiller himself travailed, viz. the deliverance from evil. The heart of man is "filled with raging battle", says Julian the Apostate in his discourse upon King Helios: and these words significantly mark his insight not only into his own problem but into that of his whole time, namely that inner laceration of the later classical epoch which found its outward expression in an unexampled, chaotic confusion of hearts and minds, and from which the Christian doctrine promised deliverance. What Christianity gave was, of course, not a solution but a redemption, a detachment of one valuable function from all the other functions which, at that time, made an equally peremptory claim for a share in government. Christianity gave one definite direction, to the exclusion of every other possible direction. This may have been the essential reason why the possibility of salvation that Christianity offered was passed by Schiller in silence.

The pagan's near contact with Nature seemed to promise just that possibility which Christianity did not offer.

"Nature, in her physical creation, shows us the way which man has to travel in the moral world. Not until the battle of elemental forces is spent in the lower organizations, does she mount to the noble form of physical man. In the same way this elemental strife in the ethical man, this conflict of blind instincts, must first be assuaged; man must end the crude antagonism in himself before he can venture to unfold his own diversity. Upon the other hand, the independence of his character must be assured, and submissiveness to strange despotic forms have given place to a decent freedom before man may subject the diversity in himself to the unity of the ideal." (p. 32)

Thus it is not to be a detachment or redemption of the inferior function, but an acknowledgment of it, a coming to terms with it, as it were, which reconciles the opposites upon the natural way. But Schiller feels that the acceptance of the inferior function might lead to a "conflict of blind instincts", just as -- only vice versa -- the unity of the ideal might re-establish that priority of the superior over the inferior function, and thereby once again precipitate the original state. of affairs. The inferior functions are opposed to the superior, not so much in their essential nature but as a result of their actual momentary form. They were originally neglected and repressed, because they hindered civilized man in the attainment of his aims; but these correspond with one-sided interests, and are by no means synonymous with a consummation of human individuality. If this were the aim, these unacknowledged functions would be indispensable, and as a matter of fact their nature does not contradict such an end. . But, so long as the goal of culture does not coincide with the ideal of individuality, these functions are also subjected to a depreciation which means a decline into relative repression. The conscious acceptance of the repressed functions is synonymous with civil war, or with the unlocking of previously coupled antitheses, whereby "independence of character" is immediately abolished. This independence can be reached only by a settlement of this conflict, which appears to be impossible without despotic jurisdiction over the antagonizing forces; But thereby freedom is compromised, without which the constitution of a morally free personality is inconceivable. But if one preserves freedom, one is delivered over to the conflict of instincts.

"Upon the one hand, in his recoil from liberty, who in her first essays ever wears the semblance of an enemy, man will throw himself into the arms of a comfortable servitude, while upon the other, reduced to despair by a pedantic tutelage. he will escape into the wild unrestraint of the state of nature. Usurpation will evoke the weakness of human nature, while insurrection its dignity, until finally blind force, the great sovereign of all human affairs, will intervene, and like a common pugilist decide the ostensible battle of principles." (p. 33)

The contemporary revolution in France gave to this statement a living, albeit a bloody background; begun in the name of philosophy and reason, with loftily soaring idealism, it ended in a bloodthirsty chaos, from which arose the despotic genius of Napoleon. The goddess of reason proved herself powerless against the might of the unchained beast. Schiller feels the defeat of reason and truth and therefore has to postulate that truth itself shall become a force.

"If she has hitherto evinced so little of her conquering power, the fault lies not so much with the intellect that knew not how to unveil her, as with the heart that shut her out, and with the instinct that did not work for her. Then whence this still prevailing prejudice, this intellectual darkness, beside all the light enthroned by philosophy and experience? The age is enlightened, knowledge has been found and is publicly accessible; this should at least suffice to correct our practical principles. The spirit of free research has destroyed the illusions which so long barred the approach to truth; it has undermined the ground upon which fanaticism and fraud had built their thrones. Reason has purged herself of sense-delusion and false sophistries; even philosophy, which at first made us desert her, calls us with loud insistence back to the bosom of nature -- whence comes it then that we are still barbarians?" (p. 35)

In these words of Schiller we can feel the nearness of the French enlightenment and the phantastic intellectualism of the Revolution. "The age is enlightened" -- what a strange over-valuation of the intellect! "The spirit of free research has destroyed the illusions" -- what rationalism! One is vividly reminded of the words of the Proktophantasmists: "Vanish! we have enlightened!" [3] If, on the one hand, men of that time were too fain to over-estimate the importance and efficacy of reason, quite forgetting that if reason really possessed such a power, she had long had the amplest opportunity to manifest it; on the other hand, the fact must not be overlooked that not all the authoritative minds of that time held this view; consequently this soaring of a rationalistic intellectualism may well have sprung from an especially strong subjective development of this element in Schiller himself. In him we have to reckon with a predominance of the intellect, not at the expense of his poetic intuition, but at the cost of feeling. To Schiller himself it seemed as though there were a perpetual conflict between imagination and abstraction, i.e. between intuition and intellect. Thus he writes to Goethe (31st August 1794): "This it is which gave me, especially in early years, a certain awkwardness both in speculation and in the realm of poetry; as a rule the poet would overtake me when I would -be the philosopher, and the philosophic spirit hold me when I would be the poet. Even yet it happens often enough that imaginative power disturbs my abstraction, and cold reasoning my poetry." His extraordinary admiration of Goethe's mind, and his almost feminine appreciation of his friend's intuition, to which he so often gives expression in his Letters, rests upon a penetrating perception of this conflict, which must have seemed redoubled in himself in contrast to the almost completely synthetic nature of Goethe. This conflict was due to the psychological circumstance that the energy of feeling gave itself in equal measure both to the intellect and the creative imagination. Schiller seems to have appreciated this fact, for in the same letter to Goethe he makes the observation that no sooner has he begun "to know and to use" his moral forces, which should apportion reasonable limits to the rival claims of imagination and intellect, than a physical illness threatens to shatter them. For it is the characteristic (already frequently alluded to) of an imperfectly developed function, that it withdraws itself from conscious disposition and with its own impetus, i.e. with a certain autonomy, becomes unconsciously implicated with other functions. Whereby, without any sort of differentiated choice, it behaves as a purely dynamic factor; it might well be described as an impetus or reinforcement which lends the conscious differentiated function the character of being carried away or coerced. So that, in one case, the conscious function is seduced beyond the limits set by purpose and decision; in another, it is held up before the attainment of its goal and led away upon a by-path; while, in a third case, it is brought into conflict with the other conscious functions, a conflict which remains unresolved so long as the unconsciously implicated and disturbing instinctive force is not differentiated in its own right and subjected as such to a certain conscious disposition. Thus one is almost driven to assume that the cry: 'Whence comes it then that we are still barbarians?' is no mere reflexion of the spirit of that age, but also springs from Schiller's subjective psychology. Like other men of his time, he too sought the root of the evil in the wrong place, for at no time did barbarism consist in a state where reason or truth have an insufficient effect; it appears only when man expects such an effect from them, or, we might even say, it is because man provides reason with too much efficacy from a superstitious over-valuation of 'truth'. Barbarism is one-sidedness, lack of moderation -- bad proportion generally.

In the impressive example of the French Revolution, which had just then reached the culminating point of terror, Schiller could see to what extent the goddess of reason held sway in man, and how far the unreasoning beast was triumphant. It was doubtless these events of Schiller's epoch which urged the problem upon him with especial force, for it frequently happens that, when a problem that is at bottom personal, and therefore apparently subjective, impinges upon outer events which contain the same psychological elements as the personal conflict it is suddenly transformed into a general question that embraces the whole of society. In this way, the personal problem gains a dignity that was hitherto wanting; since a state of inner discord has an almost mortifying and degrading quality, so that one sinks into a humiliated con dition both without and within, like a State dishonoured by civil war. It is this that makes one shrink from displaying before a larger public a purely personal conflict, provided, of course, that one does not suffer from an over-daring self-esteem. But when it happens that the connection between the personal problem and the larger contemporary events is discerned and understood, a relativity is established that promises release from the isolation of the purely personal; in other words, the subjective problem is amplified to the dimensions of a general question of our society. This is no small gain as regards the possibility of a solution. For, whereas the rather meagre energy of conscious interest in one's own person was hitherto the only source available for the personal problem, there is now assembled the combined forces of collective instinct, which flow in and unite with the interests of the ego; thus a new situation is brought about which offers new possibilities of a solution. For what would never have been possible to personal will or courage is made possible by the force of collective instinct; it bears a man over obstacles which his own personal energy could never overcome.

We are therefore prompted to conjecture that it was largely the impressions of contemporary events that gave Schiller the courage to undertake this attempt to solve the conflict between the individual and the social function.

The same antagonism was also deeply sensed by Rousseau -- indeed it was the starting point of his work Emile, ou de l'education (1762). Several passages are to be found in it which have interest for our problem.

"L'homme civil n'est qu'une unite fractionnaire qui tient au denominateur, et dont la valeur est dans son rapport avec l'entier, qui est le corps social. Les bonnes institutions sociales sont celles qui savent le mieux denaturer l'homme, lui oter son existence absolue pour lui en donner une relative, et transporter le moi dans l'unite commune.

"Celui qui dans l'ordre civil veut conserver la primaute des sentiments de la nature ne sait ce qu'il veut. Toujours en contradiction avec lui-meme, toujours flottant entre ses penchants et ses devoirs, il ne sera jamais ni homme ni citoyen; il ne sera bon ni pour lui ni pour les autres." [4]

[Google translate: "The Civil man is only a fractional unit that holds the denominator, and whose value is in its relation to the whole, which is the social body. Good social institutions are those who know best denature man oter his absolute existence and give him a relative and carry me in the common unit.

"Whoever in the civil order wants to preserve the primacy of the sentiments of nature does know what he wants. Always in contradiction with himself, always floating between his inclinations and his duties, he will never be man or citizen; it will be good for him or for others". [4]

Rousseau opens his work with the famous sentence: "Tout est bien, sortant des mains de l'Auteur des choses; tout degenere entre les mains de l'homme." [5] This statement is characteristic not for Rousseau alone but for that whole epoch.

Schiller also turns back, not of course to Rousseau's natural man -- and here lies an essential difference -- but to the man who lived "under a Grecian heaven". But the retrospective orientation that is common to both is inextricably bound up with an idealization and over-valuation of the past. Schiller in the wonder of pagan art forgets the actual everyday Greek; Rousseau mounts to dizzy heights, losing himself in phrases such as: "l'homme naturel est tout pour lui; il est l'unite numerique, l'entier absolu." [6] Whereby he overlooks the fact that the natural man is wholly collective, i.e. just as much in others as in himself, and is everything else besides a mere unity. In another passage Rousseau says:

"Nous tenons a tout, nous nous accrochons a tout, les temps, les lieux, les hommes, les choses, tout ce qui est, tout ce qui sera, importe a chacun de nous, notre individu n'est plus que la moindre partie de nous-memes. Chacun s'etend, pour ainsi dire, sur la terre entiere, et devient sensible sur toute cette grande surface."

"Est-ce la nature qui porte ainsi les hommes si loin d'euxmemes?" [7]

[Google translate: "We want everything, we cling to everything, times, places, people, things, everything, everything that will be important to each of us, our self is only the smallest part of ourselves. Each extends, so to speak, on the entire earth, and becomes sensitive over this entire large area."

"Is it nature that thus carries men so far from themselves?"]

Rousseau deceives himself; he believes this state to be a recent development. But this is not so. Granted it has only recently become conscious to us, it none the less always existed, and it reveals itself all the more vividly the further we descend into the origins. For what Rousseau depicts is nothing but that primitive collective mentality which Levy-Bruhl has aptly termed" participation mystique "[8] This state of suppression of the individuality is no new acquisition, but a residue of that archaic time when there was no individuality whatsoever.

What we are dealing with is not, therefore, a recent suppression, but merely a new sense and awareness of the overwhelming power of the collective. One naturally projects this power into political and ecclesiastical institutions, as though there were not already ways and means enough for the evasion of even moral commands when occasion suited! In no way have these institutions that presumed omnipotence for which they are from time to time assailed by innovators of every sort; the suppressing power lies unconsciously in ourselves, namely in our own barbarian element with its primitive collective mentality. To the collective psyche every individual development is obnoxious which does not directly serve the ends of collectivity. Hence the differentiation of the one function mentioned above, although certainly a development of an individual value is still so largely conditioned by the view-point of collectivity, that the individual himself, as we have already seen, actually suffers from this development.

Both authors have to thank their imperfect acquaintance with earlier conditions of human psychology for their lapse into false judgments upon the values of the past. The result of this false judgment is a belief in the illusory picture of an earlier, more perfect type of man, who somehow fell from his high estate. Backward orientation is in itself a relic of pagan thinking, for it is a well-known characteristic of the whole classic and barbaric mentality that it imagined a paradisiacal age as a golden forerunner of the present evil time.

It was the great social and educational act of Christianity which first gave man a future hope, assuring him of a future possibility for the realization of his ideals [9]. The stronger note of this retro-orientation in the more recent intellectual movements may be connected with the appearance of that general regression towards the pagan which with the Renaissance made itself increasingly manifest.

It seems to me certain that this retrogressive orientation must also have a definite influence upon the means selected for human education. For a mind thus orientated is ever seeking support in some phantasmagoria in the past. We could make light of this, if the knowledge of the conflict between the types and the typical mechanisms were not also constantly urging us to seek for that which could re-establish their unity. As we may see in the following passages, this goal had also a profound interest for Schiller. His fundamental idea about it is expressed in the following words, which indeed actually sum up what has just been said:

"Let a benevolent deity snatch in time the suckling from his mother's breast, nourish him with the milk of a better age, and let him ripen to maturity under that far Grecian heaven. Then, when he is become a man, let him return, a strange figure, into his own century: but not that he may delight it with his appearance, but terrible, like Agamemnon's son, to purify it."

-- Erziehung d. Menschen, p. 39

The leaning towards the Grecian model could scarcely be more clearly expressed. But in this narrow formulation one can also glimpse a limitation, which in the following paragraph urges him to a very essential amplification, for he continues: "His material will he indeed take from the present, but his form he will borrow from an older age. Yea, from beyond all ages, from the absolute, unchangeable unity of his being." Schiller clearly felt that he must go back still further, into some primeval heroic age, where men were still half-divine. He therefore continues: "Here from the pure aether of his daemonic nature wells forth the source of beauty, untainted by the depravity of the generations and epochs, which whirl in troubled eddies far below." Here is ushered in the lovely phantom of a Golden Age, when men were still gods and were constantly refreshed with the vision of eternal beauty. But here, too, the poet has overtaken the thinker in Schiller. A few pages further on the thinker again gets the upper hand. "The fact", says Schiller (p. 47), "must cause one to reflect that in almost every epoch of history, when the arts blossomed and taste ruled, one finds that humanity declined; furthermore not one single example can be shown of a people where a high level and a wide universality of aesthetic culture went hand in hand with political freedom and civic virtue, or where beautiful manners went with good morals, or polished behaviour with truth."

According to this familiar and in every way undeniable experience, those heroes of olden days must have pursued a none too scrupulous conduct of life, which, moreover, no single myth, either Grecian or otherwise, maintains. Beauty could still delight in her existence, for as yet there was neither penal code nor guardian of public morals.

With the recognition of the psychological fact that living beauty unfolds her golden splendour only when soaring above a reality of gloom, torment, and squalor, Schiller's particular aim is undermined; for he had undertaken to prove that what was separated would be reconciled by the vision, enjoyment, and creation of the beautiful. Beauty was to be the mediator which should restore the primal unity of human nature. But, nevertheless, all experience goes to show that beauty needs her opposite as a necessary condition of her existence.

As before it was the poet, it is now the thinker that possesses Schiller; he mistrusts beauty, he even holds it possible, arguing from experience, that she may exercise an unfavourable influence: "Wherever we turn our eyes into the world of the past, we find taste and freedom .fleeing one another, and beauty establishing her sovereignty only upon the ruins of the heroic virtues." This insight, which is the product of experience, can hardly sustain the claim that Schiller makes for beauty. In the further pursuit of his theme he even reaches a point where he abstracts the reverse of beauty. with an all too enviable clarity: "Thus, if one's view about the effect of beauty is entirely influenced by what one learns from all bygone experience, one cannot be greatly encouraged in the work of educating feelings which prove to be so dangerous to the true culture of man; and, in spite of the danger of crudity and hardness, man is wiser to forego the softening power of beauty than, with every advantage of refinement, to be delivered over to her enervating influence."

The matter between the poet and the thinker would surely allow of adjustment if the thinker took the words of the poet not literally but symbolically, which is how the tongue of the poet desires to be understood. Can Schiller have misunderstood himself? It would almost seem so -- otherwise he could not argue thus against himself. The poet sings of a spring of unsullied beauty which flows beneath every age and generation, and is constantly swelling in every human heart. It is not the man of ancient Greece, the poet means, but the old pagan in ourselves; that piece of eternal, unspoiled nature and natural beauty which lies unconscious but living within us, whose reflected splendour transfigures the shapes of former days, and for whose sake we even embrace the error that those distant men actually possessed the beauty which we are seeking. It is the archaic man in ourselves, who, rejected by our collectively orientated consciousness, appears to us as hideous and inacceptable, but who is nevertheless the bearer of that beauty which we elsewhere unavailingly seek. This is the man the poet Schiller means, but the thinker Schiller mistakes him for his Grecian prototype. But what the thinker cannot logically deduce from all his massed material, and at which he labours in vain, the poet in symbolical language reveals to him as a promised land.

It is now sufficiently clear from all that has been said that every attempt at an adjustment of the one-sided differentiation of the human being of our times has to reckon with the serious acceptance of the inferior, because undifferentiated, functions. No attempt at mediation will succeed which does not understand how to release the energies of the inferior functions and to lead them over into differentiation. This process can take place only in accordance with the laws of energetics, i.e. a potential must be created which offers the latent energies a possibility of coming into play.

It would be a hopeless task -- which nevertheless has been often undertaken and as often foundered -- to transform an inferior function directly into a superior one. It would be as easy to make a perpetuum mobile. No inferior form of energy can be simply converted into a superior form unless at the same time a source of higher value lends its support, i.e. the conversion can be accomplished only at the expense of the superior function. But under no circumstances can the initial value of the superior energy-form be attained by the inferior function or resumed once more by the superior function; a leveling at some intermediate temperature must inevitably result. But for every individual who identifies himself with his one differentiated function, this entails a descent to a condition that is certainly balanced, but of a definitely lower value as compared with the apparent initial value. This conclusion is unavoidable. Every education of man' which aspires after the unity and harmony of his nature has to deal with this fact. After his own manner, Schiller also draws this conclusion, but he struggles against accepting his results, even to the point where he has to renounce beauty. But when the thinker has uttered his ruthless judgment, the poet speaks again: "But it may be that experience is no tribunal before which a question like this shall' be decided, and before we give weight to its testimony, let all doubt be set at rest that the beauty we speak of, and that against which these examples testify, is one and the same." (p. 50). One sees that Schiller here attempts to take his stand above experience; in other words he bestows upon beauty a quality which experience does not grant her. He believes that "Beauty must be proven a necessary condition of mankind", i.e. a necessary, compelling category. He even speaks of a purely intellectual concept of beauty, and a "transcendental way" which shall take us out of the "round of appearances and away from the living presence of things". "Who durst not go beyond reality will never vanquish truth." A subjective resistance to the experimental, inevitable, downward way prompts Schiller to suborn the logical intellect in the service of feeling, thus forcing it to construct a formula which would ultimately make possible the attainment of the original aim, notwithstanding the fact that its impossibility is already sufficiently exposed. A similar violence is committed by Rousseau in his assumption that, whereas dependence upon nature does not involve depravity, it does if one is dependent upon man; from which he arrives at the following conclusion:

"Si les lois des nations pouvaient avoir comme celles de la nature, une inflexibilite que jamais aucune force humaine ne put vaincre, la dependance des hommes redeviendrait alors celle des choses; on reunirait dans la republique tous les avantages de l'etat naturel a ceux de l'etat civil; on joindrait a la liberte qui maintient l'homme exempt de vice la moralite qui l'eleve ala vertu". [10]
[Google translate: "If the laws of nations could be like those of nature, an inflexibility that no human force could ever do win, then the dependence of men would again become one of things we meet in the republic all the benefits of those natural state the civil state; we join to freedom that keeps man free from defects morality that high ala virtue."]

Arising out of these reflections he gives the following advice:

"Maintenez l'enfant dans la seule dependance des choses, vous aurez suivi l'ordre de la nature dans le progres de son education ... Il ne faut point contraindre un enfant de rester quand il veut aller, ni d'aller quand il veut rester en place. Quand la volonte des enfants n'est point gatee par notre faute, ils ne veulent rien inutilement. [11]"
[Google translate: "Keep the child in the sole dependence of things, you will follow the order of nature in the progress of his education ... We must not force a child to stay when he wants to go or to go when it wants to stay in place. When the will of the child is not spoiled by our fault they want nothing uselessly.]

But the misfortune lies in this: that never, under any circumstances, do "les lois des nations" possess that admirable accord with the laws of nature which could enable the civilized to be at the same time a natural state. If such a settlement could be regarded as at all possible, it could be conceived only as a compromise wherein neither of the two conditions would attain its own ideal but both would remain far below it. Whoever wishes to, attain the ideal of either state will have to rest with the statement that Rousseau himself formulated: "Il faut opter entre faire un homme ou un citoyen: car on ne peut faire a la fois l'un et l'autre." ("One must choose whether to make a man or a citizen; for at the same time one cannot make both.")

Both these necessities exist in ourselves: Nature and culture. We cannot only be ourselves, we must also be related to others. Hence a way must be found that is not a mere rational compromise; it must also be a state or process that wholly corresponds with the living being, it must be a "semita et via sancta" as the prophet says, a "via directa ita ut stulti non errent per eam." ("A highway and the way of holiness." "A straight way so that fools shall not err therein.") (Isaiah, xxxv. 8). I am therefore disposed to give the poet in Schiller his just due, although in this case he has encroached somewhat outrageously upon the province of the thinker; since rational truths are not the last word, there are also irrational truths. In human affairs, what appears impossible upon the way of the intellect has very often become true upon the way of the irrational. Indeed, all the greatest changes that have ever affected mankind have come not by the way of intellectual calculation, but by ways which contemporary minds either ignored or rejected as absurd, and which only long afterwards became fully recognised through their intrinsic necessity. More often than not they are never perceived at all, for the all-important laws of mental development are still to us a seven-sealed book.

I am, however, little disposed to grant any considerable value to the philosophical demeanour of the poet, for the intellect is a deceptive instrument in his hands. What the intellect can achieve, it has in this case already done; for it disclosed the contradiction between desire and experience. To persist, then, in demanding a solution of this contradiction from philosophical thinking would be quite useless. And, even if a solution could finally be thought out, the real obstacle would still confront us, for the solution does not lie in the possibility of thinking it Dr in the discovery of a rational truth, but in the revealing of a way which real life can accept. Propositions and wise precepts have indeed never been wanting. If it were only a question of these, even in the remote days of Pythagoras, man had the finest opportunity of reaching the heights from every direction. Therefore what Schiller proposes must not be taken in a literal sense, but rather as a symbol, which, in harmony with Schiller's philosophical temperament, assumes the character of a philosophical concept. Similarly the "transcendental way" which Schiller sets out to tread must not be understood as a cognitional raisonnement, but symbolically as that way which a man always follows when he encounters an obstacle immediately inaccessible to his reason -- in a word, an insoluble task. But, before he is able to discover and follow this way, he must first abide a long time with the opposites into which his former way divided. The obstacle dams up the river of his life. Whenever such a damming up of libido occurs, the opposites, formerly united in the steady flow of life, fall apart and henceforth oppose one another like antagonists eager for battle. In a prolonged conflict, the upshot and duration of which cannot be foretold, the opposites become exhausted, and from the energy which goes out of them is that third element created which is the beginning of the new way.

In accordance with this law, Schiller now devotes himself to a profound research of the actual opposites at work. Whatever the nature of the obstacle we may strike -- provided only it be difficult -- the cleavage between our own purpose and. the contending object at once becomes a conflict in ourselves. For, inasmuch as I am striving to subordinate the contending object to my will, my whole being is gradually placed into relationship with it, corresponding, in fact, with the strong libido application, which as it were transveys a part of my being into the object. The result of this is a partial identification between certain portions of my personality and similar qualities in the nature of the object. As soon as this identification has taken place, the conflict is transferred into my own psyche. This 'introjection' into myself of the conflict with the object creates an inner discord, which gives rise to a certain impotence vis-a-vis the object, and also releases affects, which are always symptomatic of inner disharmony. But the affects prove that I am perceiving myself and am therefore in a situation -- if I am not blind -- to apply my observation upon myself, and to follow up the play of opposites in my own psyche.
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Postby admin » Tue Oct 06, 2015 9:28 pm

Part 2 of 3

'This is the way that Schiller takes. The division that he finds is not between the State and the individual, but, in the beginning of the eleventh Letter (p. 51), he conceives it as the duality of "person and condition", namely as the self or ego and its changing affectedness [12]. Whereas the ego has a relative constancy, its relatedness (or affectedness) is variable. Schiller thus intends to seize the discord at the root. Actually, the one side is also the conscious ego-function, while the other is the collective relationship. Both determinants belong to human' psychology. But the various types will respectively see these basic facts in quite a different light. For the introvert, the idea of the self is doubtless the abiding and dominant note of consciousness, and its antithesis for him is relatedness or affectedness. For the extravert, on the contrary, much more stress is laid upon the continuity of the relation with the object, and less upon the idea of the self. Hence for him the problem is differently situated. We must hold this point in view and consider it more fully as we follow Schiller's further reflections. When, for instance, he says the person reveals itself "in the eternally constant self and in this alone", this is viewed from the standpoint of the introvert. From the standpoint of the extravert, on the other hand, we should say that the person reveals itself simply and solely in its relationship, i.e. in the function of relation to the object. For only with the introvert is the" person" exclusively the ego; with the extravert the person lies in his affectedness and not in the affected self. His self is, as it were, of less importance than his affection, i.e. his relation. The extravert finds himself in the fluctuating and changeable, the introvert in the constant. The self is not "eternally constant", least of all with the extravert, for whom, as an object, it is a matter of small moment. To the introvert, on the other hand, it has too much importance: he therefore shrinks from every change that is at all liable to affect his ego. For him affectedness can mean something directly painful, while to the extravert it must on no account be missed. The following formulation immediately reveals the introvert: "In every change to remain himself constant, referring every perception to experience, i.e. to the unity of knowledge, and relating each of its varying aspects in his own time to the law of all times; this is the command given him by his reasoning nature" (p. 54). The abstracting, self-contained attitude is evident; it is even made a supreme rule of conduct. Every occurrence must at once be raised to the level of experience, and from the sum of experience a law for the future must also immediately emerge; whereas the other attitude, in which no experience shall be made from the occurrence lest laws might transpire which would hamper the future, is equally human.

It is altogether in keeping with this attitude that Schiller cannot think of God as becoming, but only as eternally being (p. 54); hence with unerring intuition he also recognizes the "God-likeness" of the introverted attitude towards the idea: "Man, presented in his perfection would be the constant unit, remaining eternally the same amid the floods of change." "Man carries the divine disposition incontestably within his personality" (p. 54).

This view of the nature of God agrees ill with His Christian incarnation and with those similar neo-Platonic views of the mother of the Gods and of her son, who descends into creation as Demiurgos. [13] But it is clear from this view to which function Schiller attributes the highest value, the divinity, viz. the constancy of the idea of the self. The self that is abstracted from affectedness is for him the most important thing, and hence, as is the case with every introvert, this is the idea which he has chiefly developed. His God, his highest value, is the abstraction and conservation of the self. To the extravert, on the contrary, God is the experience of the object, the fullest expansion into reality: hence a God who became human is to him more sympathetic than an eternal, immutable law-giver. Here I must observe in anticipation that these points-of-view should be regarded only as valid for the conscious psychology of the types. In the unconscious the relations are reversed. Schiller seems to have had an inkling, of this: although indeed his consciousness believes in an unchangingly existing God, yet the way to God-hood is revealed to him by the senses, hence in affectedness, in the changing and living process. But this is for him the function of secondary importance, and, to the extent that he identifies himself with his ego and abstracts it from the "changing" process, his conscious attitude also becomes quite abstracted; whereby the function of affectedness or relatedness to the object perforce relapses into the unconscious. From this state of affairs noteworthy consequences ensue:

I. From the conscious attitude of abstraction, which m pursuit of its ideal makes an experience from every occurrence, and from the sum of experience a law, a certain constriction and poverty results, which is indeed characteristic of the introvert. Schiller clearly feels this in his relationship with Goethe, for he sensed Goethe's more extraverted nature as something objectively opposed to himself [14]. Significantly Goethe says of himself: "As a contemplative man I am an arrant realist. I find that among all the things which confront me I am in the position of desiring nothing from them or added to them, and I make no sort of discrimination among objects beyond their interest for myself." [15] Concerning Schiller's effect upon him, Goethe very characteristically says: "If I have served you as the representative of many objects, you have led me from a too intense observation of outer things and their relationships back into myself. You have taught me to view the many-sidedness of the inner man with finer equity" etc. [16] Whereas in Goethe Schiller finds an oft-times accentuated complement or fulfilment of his own nature, at the same time sensing his difference, which he indicates in the following way:

"Expect of me no great material wealth of ideas, for that is what I find in you. My need and endeavour is to make much out of little, and, if ever you should realize my poverty in all that men call acquired knowledge, you will perhaps find that in many ways my aspiration has succeeded. Because my circle of ideas is smaller I traverse it more quickly and oftener. I may, therefore, even make a better u&e of what small ready cash I own, creating a diversity through form which the contents lack. You strive to simplify your great world of ideas, while I seek variety for my small possessions. You have a kingdom to rule, and I only a somewhat numerous family of ideas which I would fain expand to a small universe."

-- Letter to Goethe, Aug. 31st 1794.

If we subtract from this utterance a certain feeling of inferiority characteristic of the introvert, and add to it the fact that the extravert's "great world of ideas" is not so much under his rule as he himself is subject to it, then Schiller's presentation gives a striking picture of the poverty which tends to develop as a result of an essentially abstract attitude.

II. A further result of the abstracting, conscious attitude, and one whose significance will become more apparent in the further course of our investigation, is that the unconscious develops a compensating attitude. For the more the relation to the object is restricted by the abstraction of consciousness (because too many 'experiences' and 'laws' are made), all the more insistently does a craving for the object develop in the unconscious. This finally declares itself in consciousness as a compulsive sensuous hold upon the object, whereupon the sensuous tie takes the place of a feeling-relation to the object, which is lacking. or rather suppressed, through abstraction. Characteristically, therefore Schiller regards the senses, and not the feelings, as the way to God-hood. His ego lies with thinking, but his affectedness, his feelings, with sensation. Thus with him the schism is between spirituality as thinking, and sensuousness as affectedness or feeling. With the extravert, however, matters are reversed: his relation to the object is developed, but his world of ideas is sensational and concrete.

Sensuous feeling, or to put it better, the feeling that exists in the state of sensation, is collective, i.e. it begets a state of relation or affectedness, which at the same time always translates the individual into the condition of "participation .mystique", hence into a state of partial identity with the sensed object. This identity declares itself in a compulsory dependence upon the sensed object, and it is this which again prompts the introvert, after the manner of the circulus vitiosus, to an intensification of that abstraction which shall abolish both the burdensome relation and the compulsion it evokes. Schiller recognized this peculiarity of the sensuous feeling: "So long as he merely senses, craves, and works from desire, man is still nothing more than world" (p. 55). But since, in order to escape affectedness, the introvert cannot abstract indefinitely, he ultimately sees himself forced to shape the external world. "That he may not be merely world, he must impart form to matter" says Schiller (ibid.); "he shall externalize all within, and shape everything without." Both tasks, in their highest achievement, lead back to the idea of divinity from which I started out.

This connection is important. Let us suppose the sensuously felt object to be a man -- will he accept this prescription? Will he, in fact, permit himself to take shape as though the man to whom he is related were his creator? To play the god on a small scale is certainly man's vocation, but ultimately even inanimate things have a divine right to their own existence and the world long ago ceased to be chaos when the first man-apes began to sharpen stones. It would, indeed, be a serious business if every introvert wished to externalize his narrow world of ideas and to shape the external world accordingly. Such experiments happen daily, but the individual ego suffers, and very justly, from this "God-likeness".

For the extravert, this formula should run: "to internalize all that is without and shape everything within". This reaction, as we saw just now, Schiller evoked in Goethe. Goethe gives a telling parallel to this. He writes to Schiller: "In every sort of activity I, on the other hand, am -- one might almost say -- completely idealistic: I ask nothing at all from objects,. but instead I demand .that everything shall conform to my conceptions." (April 1798). This means that when the extravert thinks, things go just as autocratically as when the introvert operates externally [17]. This formula therefore can hold good only where an almost complete stage has already been reached; when in fact the introvert has attained a world of ideas so rich and flexible and capable of expression. that the object no longer forces him upon a Procrustean bed; and the -extravert such an ample knowledge of and consideration for the object that a caricature of it can no longer arise when he operates with it in his thinking. Thus we see that Schiller bases his formula upon the highest possible, and therefore makes an almost prohibitive demand upon the psychological development of the individual -- assuming also "that he is thoroughly clear in his own mind what his formula involves in every particular. Be that as it may, it is at least fairly clear that this formula: "To externalize all that is within and shape everything without" is the ideal of the conscious attitude of the introvert. It is based, on the one hand, upon the hypothesis of an ideal range of his inner world of concepts and formal 'principles, and, on the other, upon the possibility of an ideal application of the sensuous principle, which in that case no longer appears as affectedness, but rather as an active power. So long as man is "sensuous" he is "nothing but world"; that he may be "not merely world he must impart form to matter". Herein lies a reversal of the passive, enduring, sensuous principle. Yet how can such a reversal come to pass? That is the whole question. It can scarcely be assumed that a man can give to his world of ideas that extraordinary range which would be necessary in order to impose a congenial form upon the material world, and at the same time convert his affectedness, his sensuous nature, from a passive to an active condition, thus bringing it to the heights of his world of ideas. Somewhere or other man must be related, subjected as it were, else would he be really God-like. One is forced to conclude that Schiller would let it reach a point at which violence was done to the object. But in so doing he would concede to the archaic inferior function an unlimited right to existence, which as we know Nietzsche has actually done -- at least theoretically. This assumption, however, is by no means conclusive with regard to Schiller, since, so far as I am aware, he has nowhere consciously expressed himself to this effect. His formula has instead a thoroughly naive and idealistic character, a character withal quite consistent with the spirit of his time, which. was not yet infected by that deep mistrust of human nature and human truth which haunted the epoch of psychological criticism inaugurated by Nietzsche.

The Schiller formula could be carried out only by a power standpoint, applied without ruth or consideration: a standpoint with never a scruple about equity and reasonableness towards the object nor any conscientious examination of its own competence. Only under such conditions, which Schiller certainly never contemplated, could the inferior function also win to a share in life. In this way, archaic, naive, and unconscious elements, though decked out in a glamour of mighty words and lovely gestures, ever came crowding through, and assisted in the moulding of our present 'civilisation,' concerning the nature of which humanity is at this moment in some measure of disagreement. The archaic power instinct, which hitherto had hidden itself behind the gesture of culture, finally came to the surface in its true colours, and proved beyond question that we "are still barbarians." For it should not be forgotten that, in the same measure as the conscious attitude has a real claim to a certain God-likeness by reason of its lofty and absolute standpoint, an unconscious attitude also develops, whose Godlikeness is orientated downwards towards an archaic god whose nature is sensual and brutal. The enantiodromia of Heraclitus forebodes the time when this deus absconditus shall also rise to the surface and press the God of our ideals to the wall. It is as though men at the close of the eighteenth century had not really seen what that was which was taking place in Paris, but persisted in a certain aesthetical, enthusiastic, or trifling attitude, that they might perchance delude themselves concerning the real meaning of that glimpse into the abysses of human nature.

"But in that netherworld is terror,
And man tempteth not the gods,
Craving only that he may never, never see
What they in pity veil with night and horror."

-- Frau Schiller's Der Tauche.

When Schiller lived, the time for dealing with the underworld was not yet come. Neitzsche at heart was much nearer to it, for to him it was certain that we were approaching an epoch of great struggle. He it was, the only true pupil of Schopenhauer, who tore through the veil of naivete and in his Zarathustra conjured up from that lower region ideas that were destined to be the most vital content of the coming age.

(b) Concerning the basic instincts[/b]

In the twelfth Letter Schiller deals with the two basic instincts, to which at this point he devotes a somewhat fuller description. The "sensuous" instinct is that which is concerned with the "placing of man within the confines of time, and making him material." This instinct demands that "there be change, and that time should have a content. This state, which is merely filled time, is called sensation" (p. 56). "In this state man is nothing but a unit of magnitude, a filled moment of time or -- more correctly -- he is not even that, for his personality is dissolved so long as sensation rules him and time carries him along" (p. 57). "With unbreakable bonds this instinct chains the upward-striving mind to the world of sense, and calls abstraction from unfettered wandering in the infinite, back into the confines of the present."

It is entirely characteristic of Schiller's psychology that he should conceive the expression of this instinct as "sensation", and not as active, sensuous desire. This shows that for him sensuousness has the character of reaction, of affectedness, which is altogether characteristic of the introvert. An extravert would undoubtedly first lay stress upon the character of desire. There is further significance in the statement that' it is this instinct which demands change. The idea wants changelessness and eternity. Whoever lives under the supremacy of the idea, strives for permanence; hence everything that pushes towards change must be against it. In Schiller's case it is feeling and sensation that oppose the idea, since by natural law they are fused together as a result of their undeveloped state. Schiller did not even sufficiently discriminate in. thought between feeling and sensation, as the following passage demonstrates: "Feeling can only say: This is true for this subject at this moment; but another moment or another subject may come and revoke the statement of this present sensation" (p. 59). This passage clearly shows that, with Schiller, sensation and feeling are actually interchangeable terms, and its content reveals an inadequate valuation and differentiation of feeling as opposed to sensation. Differentiated feeling can also establish universal validity; it is not purely casuistical. But it is certainly true, that the "feeling-sensation" of the introverted thinking type is, by reason of its passive and reactive character, purely casuistical. For it can never mount above the individual case, by which it is alone stimulated, to an abstract comparison of all cases; because with the introverted thinking type this office is allotted not to feeling but to thinking. But matters are reversed with the introverted feeling type, whose feeling reaches an abstract and universal character and can establish permanent values.

From a further analysis of Schiller's description we find that "feeling-sensation" (by which term I mean the characteristic fusion of feeling and sensation in the introverted thinking type) is that function with which the ego is not definitely identified. It has the character of something inimical and foreign, that "destroys" the personality; it draws it away with it as it were, setting the man outside himself and alienating- him from himself. Hence Schiller likens it to the affect that sets a man "beside himself" [18]. When one has collected oneself, this is termed with equal justice" being oneself again, [19] i.e. returning once more to the self, restoring one's personality". The conclusion, therefore, is unmistakable that to Schiller it seems as though "feeling-sensation" does not really belong to the person, but is merely a more or less precarious accessory, to which on occasion "a robust will is victoriously opposed". But to the extravert it is just this side of him which seems to constitute his real nature; it is as if he were actually with himself only when he is affected by the object -- a circumstance we can well understand, when we consider that the relation to the object is his superior, differentiated function to which abstract thinking and feeling are just as much opposed as they are indispensable to the introvert. The thinking of the extraverted feeling type is just as prejudicially affected by the sensuous instinct as is the feeling of the introverted thinking type. For both it means extreme" limitation" to the material and casuistical. Living through the object has also its" unfettered wandering in the infinite", and not abstraction alone, as Schiller thinks.

By means of this exclusion of sensuousness from the idea and range of the 'person', Schiller is able to arrive at the view that the person is "absolute and indivisible unity, which can never be in contradiction with itself." This unity is a desideratum of the intellect, which would fain maintain its subject in the most ideal integrity; hence as the superior function it must exclude the sensuous or relatively inferior function. But the final result of this is that crippling of the human being which is the very motive and starting-point of Schiller's quest.

Since, for Schiller, feeling has the quality of "feeling-sensation" and is therefore merely casuistical, the supreme value, a really eternal value, is given to formative thought, the so-called "formative instinct" [20] as Schiller calls it: "But when thought has once affirmed This is, it is decided for all time, and the validity of its pronouncement is vouched for by the personality itself, which offers defiance to all change" (p. 59). But one cannot refrain from asking: Does the meaning and value of personality really reside only in what is constant and permanent? Can it not be that change, becoming and development, represent even higher values than sheer "defiance" against change? [21]

When the formative instinct becomes the guiding power and the pure object works in us, then is the supreme unfolding of being, then do all barriers dissolve, then, from a unit of magnitude, to which needy sense confined him, has man arisen to a unit of idea embracing the entire realm of phenomena. No longer are we individuals, but the race: through our mind is the judgment of all minds pronounced, and by our deed is the choice of every heart represented."

It is unquestionable that the thought of the introvert aspires towards this Hyperion; it is only a pity that the unit of idea is the ideal of such a very limited class of men. Thinking is merely a function which, when fully developed and exclusively obeying its own laws, naturally sets up a claim to general validity. Only one part of the world, therefore, can be comprehended through thinking, another part only through feeling, a third only through sensation, etc. There are, in fact, various psychic functions; for, biologically, the psychic system can be understood only as an adaptation system; eyes exist presumably because there is light. Thinking, therefore, under all circumstances commands only a third or a fourth of the total significance, although in its own sphere it possesses exclusive validity -- just as vision is the exclusively valid function for the reception of light-waves, and hearing for sound-waves. Hence a man who sets the unit of idea on a pinnacle, and senses "feeling-sensation" as something antithetic to his personality, can be compared with a man who has good eyes but is nevertheless quite deaf and anaesthetic.

"No longer are we individuals, but the race": certainly, if we exclusively identify ourselves with thinking, or with any one function whatsoever; for then are we collective and generally valid beings, although quite estranged from ourselves. Outside this quarter-psyche, the other three quarters are in the darkness of repression and inferiority. "Est-ce la nature, qui porte ainsi les hommes si loin d'eux-memes?" we might here ask with Rousseau -- is it indeed Nature, or is it not rather our own psychology, which so barbarously overprizes the one function and allows itself to be swept away by it? This impetus is of course a piece of Nature, namely that untamed, instinctive energy, before which the' differentiated type recoils if ever it should 'accidentally' reveal itself in an inferior and despised function, instead of in the ideal function, where it is prized and honoured as divine enthusiasm. Schiller truly says: "But thy individuality and thy present need change will bear away, and what to-day thou ardently craveth in days to come she will make the object of thy loathing." [Letter xii] Whether the untamed, extravagant, and disproportionate energy shows itself in sensuality -- in abjectissimo loco -- or in an overestimation and deification of the most highly developed function, it is at bottom the same, viz. barbarism. But naturally no insight of this state can be gained while one is still hypnotized by the object of action so that one ignores the How of the acting.

Identification with the one differentiated function means that one is in a collective state; not, of course, that one is identical with the collective as is the primitive, but collectively adapted, for "the judgment of all minds is expressed by our own", in so far as our thought and speech exactly conform to the general expectation of those whose thinking is similarly differentiated and adapted. Furthermore, "the choice of every heart is represented by our act," just in so far as we think and do, as all desire it to be thought and done. There is certainly a universal belief and desire that that value is the best and most worth while wherein an identity with the one differentiated function is as fully achieved as possible; for that brings the most obvious social advantages, albeit the greatest disadvantages to those minorities of our nature, which often constitute a great portion of the individuality.

"As soon as one affirms", says Schiller, "a primordial, therefore necessary, antagonism of the two instincts, there is of course no other means of preserving unity in man than for him unconditionally to subordinate the sensuous to the reasoning instinct. Mere uniformity can only result from this, not harmony, and man still remains eternally divided." (pp. 61 ff.).

"Because it costs much to remain true to one's principles through every fluctuation of feeling, one seizes upon the more comfortable expedient of consolidating the character through the blunting of feeling, for in sooth it is infinitely easier to obtain peace from a disarmed adversary than to command a daring and robust enemy. Very largely also this operation includes that' process which we call 'forming the man' and this in the best sense of the word, where it embraces the idea of an inner cultivation and not merely outer form. A man thus formed will indeed be safeguarded from being mere crude nature or from appearing as such; but he will also be armoured by principle against every sensation of nature, so that humanity will reach him as little from without as from within." (pp. 67 ff.)

Schiller was also aware ~hat the two functions, thinking and affectedness (feeling-sensation), can substitute one another (which happens, as we saw, when one function is preferred).

"He may shift the intensity which the active function demands upon the passive one (affectedness), he can substitute the formative instinct by the instinct for material, and convert the receiving into a determining function. He can assign to the active function (positive thinking) the extensity which belongs to the passive one, he can entrench upon the instinct for material to the benefit of the formative instinct and substitute the determining for the receiving function. In the first instance, never will he be himself; in the second, he will never be anything else." (pp. 64 ff.)

In this very remarkable passage much is contained which we have already discussed. When the energy belonging to positive thinking is bestowed upon "feeling-sensation", which would be equivalent to a reversal of the introverted type, the qualities of the undifferentiated. archaic "feeling-sensation" become paramount, i.e. the individual relapses into an extreme relatedness, or identification with the sensed object. This state corresponds with a so-called inferior extraversion, i.e. an extraversion which, as it were, detaches the individual entirely from his ego and dissolves him into archaic, collective ties and identifications. He is then no longer "himself", but a mere relatedness; he is identical with his object and consequently without a standpoint. Against this condition the introvert instinctively feels the greatest resistance, which, however, is no sort of guarantee against his repeated and unwitting lapse into it. Under no circumstances should this state be confused with the extraversion of an extraverted type, although the introvert is continually prone to make this mistake and to show towards the true extraversion that same contempt which, at bottom, he always feels for his own extraverted relation [22]. The second instance, on the other hand, corresponds with a pure presentation of the introverted thinking type, who through amputation of the inferior feeling-sensation condemns himself to sterility, i.e. he enters that state in which "humanity will reach him as little from without as from within".

Here also, it is obvious that Schiller continues to write purely from the standpoint of the introvert, because the extravert, who possesses his ego not in thinking, but rather in the feeling relation to the object, really finds himself through the object, while the introvert loses himself in it. But when the extravert, proceeds to introvert, he comes to his inferior relationship with collective ideas, i.e. to an identity with collective thinking of an archaic, concretistic quality, which one might describe as sensation-presentation. He loses himself in this inferior function just as much as the introvert in his inferior extraversion. Hence the extravert has the same repugnance, fear, or silent, scorn for introversion as the introvert for extraversion.

Schiller senses this opposition between the two mechanisms -- thus in his own case between sensation and thinking, or, as he also says, between "material and form", or again "passivity and activity" (affectedness and active thinking) [23] -- as unbridgable. "The distance between sensation and thinking" is "infinite" and "any sort of mediation is absolutely inconceivable". The two "conditions are opposed to each other, and can never be joined." [24] But both instincts are insistent, and as "energies" -- as Schiller himself in very modern fashion regards them [25] -- they need, and in fact, demand effective "discharge". "The demands of both the material and the formative instincts are a serious matter; for the one is related in cognition to the reality while the other to the necessity of things." [26] "But the discharge of energy of the sensuous instinct must, in no way, have the effect of a physical disability or a blunting of sensation, which only deserves universal contempt -- it must be an act of freedom, an activity of the person, tempering everything sensual by its moral intensity." [27] "Only to the mind may sense give place." It must follow, then, that the mind may give place only in favour of sense. Schiller, it is true, does not say this directly, but it is surely implied where he says:

"Just as little should this discharge of the formative instinct have the effect of a spiritual disablement and a loosening of the powers of thought and of will;. for this would mean a lowering of mankind. Abundance of sensations must be its honourable source; sensuousness itself must maintain her province with conquering power and resist the despotism which the mind with its encroaching activity would willingly inflict upon her."

In these words a recognition of the equal rights of "sensuousness" [28] and spirituality is expressed. Schiller therefore concedes to sensation the right to its own existence. But, at the same time, we can also see in this passage allusions to a still deeper thought, namely the idea of a "reciprocity" between the two instincts, a community of interest, or symbiosis, as we should perhaps prefer to call it, in which the waste-products of the one would be the food-supply of the other. Schiller himself says that" the reciprocity of the two instincts consists in this, that the effectiveness of the one both establishes and restricts the effectiveness of the other, and that each in its own separate sphere can reach its highest manifestation only through the activity of the other." Hence, if we follow out this idea, their opposition must in no way be conceived as something to be done away with, but must, on the contrary, be regarded as something useful and life-promoting, which should be preserved and strengthened. But this is a direct attack against the predominance of the one differentiated and socially valuable function, since it is the primary cause of the repression and absorption of the inferior functions. This would signify a slave-rebellion against the heroic ideal which compels us, for the sake of one, to sacrifice the remaining all.

If this principle, which as we know, was first especially developed by Christianity for the spiritualizing of man -- subsequently becoming equally effective in furthering his materialization -- were once finally broken, the inferior functions would find a natural release and would demand, rightly or wrongly, the same recognition as the differentiated function. The complete opposition between sensuousness and spirituality, or between the "feeling-sensation" and thinking of the introverted thinking type would therewith be openly revealed. This complete opposition, as Schiller also allows, entails a reciprocal limitation, equivalent psychologically to an abolition of the power principle i.e. to a renunciation of the claim to a generally valid standpoint on the strength of one differentiated and generally adapted, collective function.

The direct outcome of this renunciation is individualism, i.e. the necessity for a realization of individuality, a realization of man as he is. Let us hear how Schiller tries to approach the problem. "This reciprocity of the two instincts is indeed merely a problem of the reason; it is a task which man is able wholly to solve only through the perfecting of his being. It is the idea of his humanity in the truest meaning of the word; hence it is an absolute to which in the issue of time he can constantly approach without ever attaining." [29] It is a pity that Schiller is so conditioned by his type; if it were not so, it could never have occurred to him to look upon the co-operation of the two instincts as a "problem of the reason", since opposites are not to be united rationally: tertium non datur -- that is the very basis of their opposition. Then it must be that Schiller understands by reason something else than ratio, namely a higher and almost mystical faculty. Opposites can be reconciled practically only in the form of compromise, i.e. irrationally, wherein a novum arises between them, which, though different from both, has the power to take up their energies in equal measure as an expression of both and of neither. Such an expression cannot be contrived; it can only be created through living. As a matter of fact, Schiller also means this latter possibility, as we see in the following sentence:

"But should instances occur when he (man) proved at the same time this double experience, wherein he was not only conscious of his freedom but also sensed his own existence; when feeling himself to be matter, he, at the same time, knew himself to be spirit; in this unique state and in no other would he gain a complete vision of his humanity, and the object which evoked this vision would serve as the symbol of his accomplished destiny." [30]

Thus, if the individual were able to live both faculties or instincts at the same time, i.e. thinking by sensing and sensing by thinking, out of that experience (which Schiller calls the object) a symbol would arise which would express his accomplished destiny, i.e. his way upon which his Yea and his Nay are reconciled.

Before we take a nearer survey of this idea, it would be well for us to ascertain how Schiller conceives the nature and origin of the symbol: "The object of the sensuous instinct is Life in its widest meaning; a concept that signifies all material being, and all things directly present to the senses. The object of the formative instinct is Form, a concept that embraces all formal qualities of things and all relations of the same to the thinking function." [31] The object of the mediating function is, therefore, "living form" according to Schiller; for this would be precisely that symbol which unites the opposites: "a concept which serves to describe all aesthetic qualities of phenomena, which embraces in a single word the thing called beauty in its fullest significance". But the symbol also presupposes a function which creates symbols and, while creating them, is an indispensable agent for their apprehension. This function Schiller calls a third instinct, the play instinct; it has no similarity with the two opposing functions; it none the less stands between them and does justice to both natures, always provided (which Schiller does not mention) that sensation and thinking are recognised as serious functions. But there are many with whom neither sensation nor thinking is wholly serious; in which case seriousness must hold the middle place instead of play. Although in another place Schiller denies the existence of a third mediating instinct (p. 61), we will nevertheless assume, though his conclusion is somewhat at fault, his intuition to be all the more accurate. For, as a matter of fact, something does stand between the opposites, though it has become invisible in the differentiated type. In the introvert it lies in what I have termed "feeling-sensation". On account of its relative repression, the inferior function is only partly attached to consciousness; its other part is dependent upon the unconscious. The differentiated function is most fully adapted to outer reality; it is essentially the reality-function; hence it is as much as possible shut off from any admixture of phantastic elements. These elements, therefore, become linked up with the inferior functions, which are similarly repressed. For this reason 'the sensation of the introvert, which is usually sentimental, has a very strong tinge of unconscious phantasy. The third element, in which the opposites merge, is on the one hand creative, and on the other receptive, phantasy-activity. It is this function which Schiller terms the play-instinct, by which he means more than he actually says. He exclaims: "For, let us admit once and for all, man only plays when he is a man in the fullest meaning of the word, and he is only completely man when he is playing." [32] For him the object of the play instinct is beauty. "Man shall only play with beauty, and only with beauty shall he play."

Schiller was actually aware what it might mean to assign the chief position to the 'play-instinct'. The release of repression, as we have already seen, effects a recoil of the opposites upon each other plus a compensation, which necessarily results in a depreciation of the hitherto highest value. For culture, as we understand it to-day, it is certainly a catastrophe when the barbaric side of the European comes uppermost, for who can guarantee that such a man, when he begins to play, shall forthwith take the aesthetic motive and the enjoyment of pure beauty as his goal? That would be an entirely unjustifiable anticipation. As a result of the inevitable debasement of cultural achievement a very different result must first be expected. Therefore with justice Schiller observes: "The aesthetic play instinct will, therefore, in its first essays be scarcely recognizable, because the sensual instinct with its capricious temper and savage lusts ceaselessly intervenes. Thus we see crude taste avidly seizing upon the new and startling, the motley, adventurous, and bizarre, even upon the violent and savage, and fleeing nothing so eagerly as simplicity and calm." [33] From this passage' we must conclude that Schiller was aware of the danger of this conversion. It also follows that he cannot himself acquiesce in the solution found, but feels a compelling need to give man a more substantial foundation for his manhood than the somewhat insecure basis which an aesthetic-playful attitude can offer him. That must indeed be so. For the opposition between the two functions, or function-groups, is so great and so inveterate that play alone could hardly suffice to counterbalance all the difficulty and seriousness of this conflict -- similia similibus curantur: a third factor is needed, which at the least can equal the other two in seriousness. With the attitude of play all seriousness must vanish, whereby the possibility of an absolute determinability presents itself. At one time the instinct is pleased to be allured by sensation, at another by thinking; now it will play with objects, and now with ideas. But in any case it will not play exclusively with beauty, for in that case man would be no longer a barbarian but already aesthetically educated, whereas the actual question at issue is: How is he to emerge from the state of barbarism? Above all else, therefore, it must be definitely established where man actually stands' in his innermost being. A priori he is as much sensation as he is thinking; he is in opposition to himself -- hence must he stand somewhere in between. In his deepest essence, he must be a being who partakes of both instincts, yet may he also differentiate himself from them in such a way that, although he must suffer the instincts and in given cases submit to them, he can also apply them. But first he must differentiate himself from them, as from natural forces to which he is subject but with which he does not regard himself identical. Concerning this Schiller expresses himself as follows: "This inherency of the two root-instincts in no way contradicts the absolute unity of the mind, provided only that man distinguishes himself from both instincts. Both certainly exist and work in him, but in himself he is neither substance nor form, neither sensuousness nor reason." [34]

Here, it seems to me, Schiller refers to something very important, viz. the separability of an individual nucleus, which can be at one time the subject and at another the object of the opposing functions, though ever remaining distinguishable from them. This discrimination is itself as much an intellectual as a moral judgment. In the one case it happens through thinking, in the other through feeling. If the separation does not succeed, or if it is not even attempted, a dissolution of the individuality into the pairs of opposites inevitably follows, since it becomes identical with them. The further consequence is an estrangement with oneself, or an arbitrary decision in favour of one or the other side, together with a violent suppression of its opposite. This train of thought belongs to a very ancient argument, which, so far as my knowledge goes, received its most interesting formulation, psychologically, at the hands of Synesius, the Christian bishop of Ptolemais and pupil of Hypatia. In his book De Somniis [35] be assigns to the "spiritus phantasticus" practically the same psychological role as Schiller to the play-instinct, . and I to creative phantasy; only his mode of expression is metaphysical rather than psychological, which, being an ancient form of speech, is hardly suitable for our purpose. Synesius speaks of it thus: "Spiritus phantasticus inter aeterna et temporalia medius est, quo et plurimum vivimus." ("The phantastic spirit comes between the eternal and the temporal, in which [spirit] are we also most alive".) The "spiritus phantasticus" combines the opposites in itself; hence it also participates in instinctive nature upon the animal plane, where it becomes instinct and incites to dsemoniac desires:

"Vendicat enim sibi spiritus hiv aliquid velut proprium, tanquam ex vivinis quibusdam ab extremis utrisque, et quae tam longe disjuneta sunt, ovvurrunt in una natura. Atqui essentiae phantastivae latitudinem natura per multas rerum sortes extendit, descendit utique usque ad animalia, quibus non adest ulterius intellectus. .. Atque est animalis ipsius ratio, multaque per phantasticam hanc essentiam sapit animal, &c. .. Tota genera daemonum ex ejusmodi vita suam sortiunter essentiam. Illa enim ex toto suo esse imaginaria sunt, et iis quae fiunt intus, imaginata." [36]
[Google translate: "For to him, but now claims for his ground that it is proper to it, is from the ends of the as from a vivina for both, and the things that are, so far away disjuneta, ovvurrunt in the nature. And yet, many of the concrete by means of the nature of the essence of the breadth of the lots phantastivae stretched it out, of course, came down as far as the animals to whom he is not present longer any understanding of ... and it is the animal of the same system, the essence of many things in this wise, a fantastic animal, & c. .. the whole of his sortiunter kinds of demons from the essence of such a life. For those things of the imagination with all its own being, and they are things that take place inside, I imagine."]

Psychologically, demons are interferences from the unconscious, i.e. spontaneous irruptions into the continuity of the conscious process on the part of unconscious complexes. Complexes are comparable to demons which fitfully harass our thoughts and actions, hence antiquity and the Middle Ages conceived acute neurotic disturbances as possession. When, therefore, the individual stands consistently upon one side, the unconscious ranges itself squarely upon the other, and rebels -- which in all probability was what must have befallen the neo-Platonic or Christian philosophers, in so far as they represented the standpoint of exclusive spirituality. Particularly valuable is the allusion to the phantastic nature of the demons It is, as I have previously discussed, precisely the phantastic element which becomes associated in the unconscious with the repressed functions. Hence, if the individuality (a term which more briefly expresses the individual nucleus) is not differentiated from the opposites, it becomes identified with them, and is thereby inwardly rent, i.e. a tormenting disunion takes place. Synesius expressed this as follows: "Proinde spiritus hic animalis, quem beati spiritualem quoque animam vocaverunt, fit deus et daemon omniformis et idolum. In hoc etiam anima poenas exhibet." ("This spiritual essence, which devout men have also called the vital flame, is both God and idol and demon of every shape. Herein also doth the soul receive her chastisement.") Through participation in the instinctive forces the spirit becomes "a God and a demon of many shapes". This strange idea becomes immediately intelligible when we recollect that in themselves sensation and thinking are collective functions, in which through non-differentiation the individuality (the spirit, according to Schiller) has become dispersed. Thus the individuality becomes a collective being, i.e. god-like, since God is a collective idea of an all-pervading nature. "In this state", says Synesius, "the soul suffereth torment". But deliverance is won through differentiation; because the spirit, when it has become" humidus et crassus" ("wet and fat") sinks into the depths, i.e. becomes entangled in the object; but when purged through pain it becomes dry and hot and again ascends; for it is just this fiery quality which distinguishes it from the humid nature of its subterranean abode. Here the question naturally arises, by virtue of what power can the indivisible, i.e. the individuality, maintain itself against the separative instincts? That it can do so upon the line of the play-instinct even Schiller, at this point, no longer believes; for here we are dealing with something serious, some considerable power which can effectively detach the individuality from the opposites. From the one side comes the call, of the highest value, the highest ideal; while from the other comes the enchantment of the strongest desire: "Each of these two root-instincts", says Schiller," as soon as it reaches a state of development, must of necessity strive towards the satisfaction of its own nature; but, because both are necessary and since both must pursue antagonistic objects, this two-fold urgency is mutually suspended, and between the two the will asserts a complete freedom. Thus it is the will which behaves as a power towards both instincts, but neither of the two can, of itself, behave as a power towards the other. There is in man no other power but his will, and only that which abolishes man, death and every destroyer of consciousness, can abolish this inner freedom." [37]

That the opposites must cancel each other is logically correct, but practically it is not so, for the instincts stand in mutual and active opposition, causing, temporarily, insoluble conflicts. The will could indeed decide, but only if we anticipate that condition which must first be reached. But the problem how man may emerge out of barbarism is not yet solved; neither is that condition established which alone could lend the will such efficacy as would reconcile the two root-instincts. It is in fact the sign of the barbarous state that the will has a one-sided determination through one function; yet the will must none the less have a content, an aim. And how is this aim to be reached? How else than through a preliminary psychic process by which either an intellectual or an emotional judgment, or a sensuous desire, shall provide the will with its content and its goal? I f we allow sensuous desire as a motive of will, we act in harmony with the one instinct against our rational judgment. Yet, if we transfer the adjustment of the dispute to the rational judgment, then even the fairest and most considerate allotment must always be based upon rational grounds, whereby the rational instinct is conceded a prerogative over the sensuous.

The will, in any case, is determined more from this side or from that, just so long as it is dependent for its content upon one side or the other. But, to be really able to decide the matter, it must be grounded on a mediate state or process, which shall give it a content that is neither too near nor too remote from either side. According to Schiller's definition, this must be a symbolical content, since the intermediate position between the opposites can be reached only by the symbol. The reality presupposed by the one instinct differs from the reality of the other. To the other it would be quite unreal or apparent and vice versa. But this dual character of real and unreal is inherent in the symbol. If only real, it would not be a symbol, since it would then be a real phenomenon and therefore removed from the nature of the symbol. Only that can be symbolical which embraces both. If altogether unreal, it would be mere empty imagining, which, being related to nothing real, would be no symbol.

The rational functions are, by their nature, incapable of creating symbols, since they produce only a rational product necessarily restricted to a single meaning, which forbids it from also embracing its opposite. The sensuous functions are equally unfitted to create symbols, because, from the very nature of the object, they are also confined to single meanings which comprehend only themselves and neglect the other. To discover, therefore, that impartial basis for the will, we must appeal to another element, where the opposites are not yet definitely divorced but still preserve their original unity. Manifestly this is not the case with consciousness, since the whole nature of consciousness is discrimination, distinguishing ego from non-ego, subject from object, yes from no, and so forth. The separation into pairs of opposites is entirely due to conscious differentiation; only consciousness can recognize the suitable and distinguish it from the unsuitable and worthless. It alone can declare one function valuable and another worthless, thus favouring one with the power of the will while suppressing the claims of the other. But, where no consciousness exists, where the still unconscious instinctive process prevails, there is no reflection, no pro et contra, no disunion, but simple happening, regulated instinctiveness, proportion of life. (Provided, of course, that instinct does not encounter situations to which it is still unadapted. In which case damming up, affect, confusion, and panic arise).

It would therefore, be unavailing to appeal to consciousness for a decision of the conflict between the instincts. A conscious decree would be quite arbitrary, and could never give the will that symbolic content which alone can create an irrational settlement of a logical antithesis. For this we must go deeper; we must descend into those foundations of consciousness which have still preserved their primordial instinctiveness; namely into the unconscious, where all psychic functions are indistinguishably merged in the original and fundamental activity of the psyche. The lack of differentiation in the unconscious arises in the first place from the almost direct association of the brain centres among themselves, and in the second from the relatively weak energic value of unconscious elements [38], It may be concluded that they possess relatively little energy from the fact that an unconscious element at once ceases to remain subliminal as soon as it receives a stronger accent of value; this enables it to rise above the threshold of consciousness, which it can achieve only by virtue of a specific informing energy. Therewith it becomes an "irruption", a "spontaneously arising presentation" (Herbart). The strong energic value of the conscious contents has an effect like intensive illumination, whereby distinctions become clearly perceptible and mistakes eliminated. In the unconscious, on the contrary, the most heterogeneous elements, in so far as they possess only a vague analogy, may become mutually substituted for each other, just by virtue of their relative obscurity and frail energic value. Even heterogeneous sense-impressions coalesce, as we see in the "photisms" (Bleuler) of "audition coloriee". Language also contains not a few of these unconscious blendings, as I have shown for example with sound, light, and emotional states. [39]

The unconscious, therefore, might be that neutral region of the psyche where everything that is divided and antagonistic in consciousness flows together into groupings and formations. These, when examined in the light of consciousness, reveal a nature that exhibits the constituents of the one side as much as the other; they nevertheless belong to neither side, but occupy an independent middle station. This mediate position, constitutes for consciousness both their value and their worthlessness; worthless in so far as nothing clearly distinguishable emerges instantaneously from their formation, thus leaving consciousness embarrassed as to its purpose; but valuable in so far as their undifferentiated state gives them that symbolic character which is essential to the content of a mediatory will.
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Part 3 of 3

Besides the will, which is entirely dependent upon its content, man gains a further resource, then, in the unconscious, that maternal womb of creative phantasy, which is constantly potent to fashion symbols in the natural process of elemental psychic activity, symbols which can serve in the determination of the mediating will. I say "can" advisedly, because the symbol does not eo ipso step into the breach, but remains in the unconscious just so long as the energic value of the conscious content exceeds the value of the unconscious symbol. Under normal conditions this is, moreover, always the case; while under abnormal conditions a reversal of value takes place, whereby the unconscious receives a higher value than the conscious. In such a case the symbol penetrates the surface of consciousness, without however being taken up by the conscious will and the executive conscious functions, since these, on account of the reversal of values, have now become subliminal. The unconscious has become superliminal, and an abnormal mental state, a mental disorder, has declared itself.

Under normal conditions, therefore, energy must be artificially added to the unconscious symbol, in order to increase its value and thus bring it to consciousness. This occurs (and here we return again to the idea of differentiation provoked by Schiller) through a differentiation of the Self from the opposites. This differentiation is equivalent to a detachment of the libido from both sides, in such measure as the libido is disposable. For the libido invested in the instinct is only to a certain degree disposable, just so far in fact as the power of the will extends. This is represented by that quantity of energy which is under the "free" disposition of the ego. In such a case the will has the Self as a possible aim. In such measure as further development is arrested by the conflict is this goal the more possible. In this case, the will does not decide between the opposites, but merely for the Self, i.e. the disposable energy is withdrawn into the Self -- in other words it is introverted. This introversion simply means that the libido is held with the Self and is prevented from participation in the conflicting opposites. Since the outward way is barred to it, it turns naturally towards thought, whereby it is again in danger of becoming entangled in the conflict. The act of differentiation and introversion involves the detachment of disposable libido, not merely from the outer object alone but also from the inner object, namely ideas. It becomes wholly objectless; it is no longer related to anything that could be a conscious content; it therefore sinks into the unconscious, where it automatically takes possession of the waiting phantasy material, which it activates and urges towards consciousness.

Schiller's expression for the symbol, viz. "living form" is happily chosen, because the phantasy material thus animated contains images of the psychological development of the individuality in its successive states, thus providing a sort of model or representation of the further way between the opposites. Although it may frequently happen that the discriminating conscious activity cannot find much in these images that can be immediately understood, such intuitions nevertheless contain a living power, which may have a determining effect upon the will. For the content of the will receives determinants from both sides; as a result the opposites after a certain time recuperate. But the resumed conflict again demands the same process, whereby a further stage is continually made possible. This function of mediation between the opposites I have termed the transcendent function, by which I mean nothing mysterious, but merely a combined function of conscious and unconscious elements, or, as in mathematics, a common function of real and imaginary factors [40].

Besides the will -- whose importance must not be thereby denied -- we have also creative phantasy, an irrational, instinctive function, which alone has the power of yielding the will a content of such a character as can unite the opposites. It is this function which Schiller intuitively apprehended as the source of symbols; but he termed it 'play-instinct', and therefore could make no further use of it for the motivation of the will. In order to obtain this content of the will he went back to the intellect and in doing so allied himself to one side. But he is surprisingly near to our problem when he says:

"The power of sensation must, therefore, be destroyed before law (i.e. rational will) can be established. It is not forthwith accomplished when something has a beginning which before had none. Man cannot immediately pass from sensation to thinking; he must take a step backwards, since only when one determinant is abolished can its opposite take its place. He must be momentarily free from every determinant and pass through a condition of pure determinability. Accordingly he must in some way return to that negative state of pure non-determination which he enjoyed before ever any sort of impression was made upon his senses. But that was a state entirely empty of content, whereas now our chief concern is to harmonize an equal non-determination and an unlimited determinability with the greatest possible fullness; because forthwith from this condition must something positive result. The determination, which he receives through sensation, must therefore be maintained, since he must not lose reality; but at the same time, in so far as it is a restriction, it should be abolished, because an unlimited determinability must be permitted." -- Letter XX, p. 104.

With the help of what has been said above, this difficult passage can easily be understood, if only we bear in mind the fact that Schiller has a constant inclination to seek the solution with the rational will. This factor must be allowed for. What he says is then perfectly clear. The step backwards is the differentiation from the antagonistic instincts, the detachment and withdrawal of the libido both from the inner and outer object. Here, of course, above all, Schiller has the sensuous object in mind, since, as already explained, his constant aim is to reach over towards the side of rational thinking; for to him this seems quite indispensable for the determination of the contents of the will. But, in spite of this, the necessity to abolish every determinant still urges itself upon him. In this necessity the detachment from the inner object, the idea, is implied; otherwise it would be impossible to achieve a complete absence of content and determinant together with that original state of unconsciousness, where a discriminating consciousness has not yet distinguished subject from object. It is obvious that Schiller had in mind that same process which I have described as introversion into the unconscious.

"Unlimited determinability" clearly means something very like the unconscious, a state in which everything can have effect upon everything else without distinction. This empty state of consciousness must correspond with the "greatest possible fullness". This fullness, as the counterpart of conscious emptiness, can only be the content of the unconscious, since no other content is given. In this way Schiller expresses the union of the unconscious with the conscious, and "from this state something positive" must result. This "positive" something is for us the symbolic determinant of the will. For Schiller it is a mediate condition, through which the reconciliation of sensation and thinking is brought about. He calls it a "middle disposition", in which sensuousness and reason are equally active; but for this very reason their determining power is mutually cancelled; their opposion effects a negation.

This suspension of the opposites produces an emptiness, which we call the unconscious. Because it is not determined by the opposites this condition is susceptible, to every determinant. Schiller calls it an "aesthetic" condition [Letter XX., p. 105]. It is worth noting that he thereby overlooks the fact that sensuousness and reason cannot both be "active" in this condition, since, as Schiller himself says, they are already suspended through mutual negation. But, since something must be active and Schiller has no other function at his disposal, the pairs of opposites must, according to him, again become active. Their activity naturally persists, but since consciousness is "empty" they must necessarily be in the unconscious [41]. But this concept Schiller lacks-accordingly he becomes contradictory at this point. His mediating aesthetic function would thus be equivalent to our symbol-forming activity (creative phantasy), Schiller defines the "aesthetic disposition" as the relation of a thing "to the totality of our various faculties (mental functions), without its being a definite object for anyone individual faculty". He would here perhaps have done better, instead of this vague definition, to return to his earlier concept of the symbol, since the symbol has this quality, that it is related to all the psychic functions without being a definite object of any single one. Having now reached this mediating disposition, Schiller perceives that" it is henceforth possible for man, in the way of nature, to make what he will of himself -- that the freedom to be what he ought to be is wholly restored to him."

Because by preference Schiller proceeds intellectually and rationally he falls a victim to his own conclusion. This is already revealed in his choice of the expression aesthetic". If he had been acquainted with Indian literature, he would have seen that the primordial image which floated before his inner mind had a very different .meaning from the "aesthetic" one. His intuition found the unconscious model which from oldest times has exercized its living force in our unwitting minds. Yet he interprets it as "aesthetic", although he himself had previously emphasized its symbolic character. The primordial image to which I refer is revealed in that growth of oriental thought which centres around the Brahman-Atman teaching in India, and in China found its philosophical representative in Lao-Tze.

The Indian conception teaches liberation from the opposites, by which every sort of affective state and emotional hold to the object is understood. The liberation succeeds a detachment of the libido from all contents, whereby a state of complete introversion results. This psychological process is characteristically called tapas, a ,term which can best be rendered as self-brooding. This expression clearly pictures the state of meditation without content in which the libido is supplied to the Self some~ what in the manner of incubating heat. As a result of the complete detachment of every function from the object, there necessarily arises in the inner man (the Self) an equivalent of objective reality, a state of complete identity of inner and outer which may be technically described as the tat twam asi (that art thou). Through the fusion of the Self with the relations to the object there proceeds the identity of the Self (Atman) [42] with the essence of the world (i.e. with the relations of the subject to the object,) so that the identity of the inner with the outer Atman becomes recognized. The concept of Brahman differs only slightly from the concept of Atman, since in Brahman the idea of the Self is not explicitly given: it is, as it were, a more general, almost indefinable, state of identity between the inner and the outer.

Parallel, in a certain sense, with tapas IS the concept yoga; by which, not so much a state of meditation as a conscious technique for the attainment of the tapas state, is to be' understood. Yoga is a method by which the libido is systematically 'drawn in' and thereby released from the bondage of the opposites. The aim of tapas and yoga is the establishing of a mediate condition from which the creative and redeeming element emerges, For the individual, the psychological result is the attainment of Brahman, the "supreme light," or "ananda" (bliss). This is the final aim of the redeeming practice. But at the same time this process is also interpreted in terms of cosmogony, since from Brahman-Atman as the foundation of the world all creation proceeds. The cosmogonic myth, like every myth, is a projection of unconscious processes. The existence of this myth proves, therefore, that in the unconscious of the tapas practitioner creative processes take place, which can be interpreted as new adjustments towards the object. Schiller says: "So soon as it is light in man, it is no longer night without. So soon as it is still in him, lulled is the storm in the universe: the contending forces of nature find rest within lasting bounds. Little wonder then that the immemorial poems speak of this great event in the inner man as of a revolution in the outer world, etc." [Letter XXV, p. 135].

Through yoga the relations to the object become introverted, i.e. through a deprivation of energic value they sink into the unconscious, where, as described above, they can engage in new associations with other unconscious contents, and, thus transformed, they rise again, when the tapas practice is completed, towards the object. Through the transformation of the relation to the object, the object now acquires a new aspect. It is as though newly-created; hence the cosmogonic myth is a speaking symbol for the final result of the tapas exercise. In the almost exclusively introverted direction of the Indian religious exercise the new adaptation to the object has, of course, no significance, but it persists as unconsciously projected cosmogonic myth doctrine, without achieving any practical reorganization of life. In this respect the Indian religious attitude stands, as it were, diametrically opposed to the Christian attitude of Western lands; since the Christian principle of love is extraverted and absolutely demands the outer object. The former principle gains the riches of knowledge, the latter the fullness of works.

In the concept of Brahman there is also contained the concept of Rita (right course), the regulated order of the world. In Brahman, as the creative essence and foundation of the world, things come upon the right way, since in It they are eternally dissolved and recreated; out of Brahman proceeds all development upon the ordered way. The concept of Rita leads us on to that of Tao in Lao-Tze. Tao is the right way, law-abiding ordinance, a middle road between the opposites, freed from them and yet uniting them in itself. The purpose of life is to travel this middle path and never to deviate towards the opposites.

The ecstatic factor is entirely absent with Lao-Tze; it is replaced by a superior philosophic clarity, an intellectual and intuitive wisdom obscured by no mystical haze; a wisdom which presents what is simply the highest attainable to spiritual superiority, and therefore also lacks the chaotic element in so far as the air it breathes is distant as the stars from the disorder of this actual world. It tames all that is wild, without purifying and transforming it into something higher.

One could easily object that the analogy between Schiller's train of thought and these apparently remote ideas is rather far-fetched. But it must not be forgotten that not so long after Schiller's time, these very ideas found a powerful utterance in the genius of Schopenhauer ,and became so intimately wedded to the Western Germanic mind that they have persisted and thriven even to the present day. In my view it is of small importance that the Latin translation of the Upanishads by Anquetil du Perron (1802) was accessible to Schopenhauer, whilst Schiller with the very sparing information of his time had at least no conscious connection with these sources [43]. I have seen enough in my own practical experience to become convinced that direct communication is not essential in the formation of such relationships. Indeed, something very similar is to be seen in the fundamental 'ideas of Meister Eckehart, as also in a measure in the thought of Kant, where we find a quite astonishing similarity with the ideas of the Upanishads, without the faintest trace of influence either direct or indirect. It is the same here as with myths and symbols, which can arise autochthonously in every corner of the earth and are none the less identical, just because they are fashioned out of the same world-wide human unconscious, whose contents are infinitely less variable than are races and individuals.

There is another reason urging me to draw a parallel between Schiller's ideas and those of the East; and this is, that the thoughts of Schiller might be rescued from the too narrow cloak of aesthetism [44]. AEsthetism is not fitted to solve the exceedingly serious and difficult problem of the education of man; for it always presupposes the very thing it should create, namely the capacity for the love of beauty. It actually prevents a deeper searching of the problem, since it always looks away from the evil, the ugly, and the difficult, and aims at enjoyment, even though it be of a noble kind. AEsthetism, therefore, lacks all moral motive power, because au fond it is still only refined hedonism. Schiller is indeed at some pains to introduce an unconditional moral motive, but without any' convincing success; since, just because of his aesthetic attitude, it is impossible for him to perceive the kind of consequences which' a recognition of the other side of human nature would entail. For the conflict which thereby arises involves such a confusion and suffering for the individual, that, although in the most favourable cases his vision of the beautiful may enable hi m persistently to repress its opposite, he does not thereby escape from it; so that, even at the best, the old condition is once more established. in order to help a man out of this conflict, an attitude other than the aesthetic is needed. This is revealed nowhere more clearly than in this parallel with the ideas of the East. The Indian religious philosophy has apprehended this problem to its very depth and has demonstrated what category of remedies is needed to render a solution of the conflict possible. For its achievement the highest moral effort, the greatest self-denial and sacrifice, the most intense religious earnestness and saintliness, are needed.

Schopenhauer, with every regard for the aesthetic, has most definitely brought out just this aspect of the problem. We must not, however, imagine that the words 'aesthetic,' 'beauty,' etc., called up the same associations for Schiller as they do for us. Indeed, I .am not putting it too strongly when I affirm that for Schiller 'beauty' was a religious ideal: Beauty was his religion. His "aesthetic disposition" might equally well be rendered "religious devotion." Without definitely expressing anything of the sort, and without explicitly describing his central problem as a religious one. Schiller's intuition none the less arrived at the religious problem; it was, however, the religious problem of the primitive, which he even discusses at some length in his investigation, without ever pressing along this line to the end.

It is worth noting that in the further pursuit of his ideas the question of the 'play-instinct' fell quite into the background in favour of the idea of the asthetic disposition, which apparently reached an almost mystical valuation. This, I believe, is not accidental, but has a quite definite foundation. Oftentimes it is just the best and most profound ideas in a work which most stubbornly resist a clear apprehension and formulation, even though they are suggested in various places and presumably, therefore, should be sufficiently ripe for a lucid and characteristic synthesis. It seems to me that here there is a difficulty of this sort. Into the concept of the "aesthetic disposition" as a mediatory creative state, Schiller himself instils ideas which at once reveal the depth and the seriousness of this concept. And yet, quite as clearly, he discerned the "play-instinct" as that long-sought mediating activity. Now one cannot deny that these two conceptions stand in a certain opposition to each other, for play and seriousness are scarcely compatibles. Seriousness comes through deep inner necessity, but play is its more external expression, that aspect of it which is turned toward consciousness. It is not a question, of course, of a will to play, but of having to play, a playful manifestation of phantasy through inner necessity, without the compulsion of circumstances, without even the compulsion of will. It is a serious play [45]. And yet it is certainly play in its outer aspect, seen from the view-point of consciousness, i.e. from the standpoint of collective judgment. But it is play from inner necessity. That is the ambiguous quality which clings to everything creative.

If the play expires in itself without creating anything durable and living, it is only play; but in the alternative event it is called creative work. Out of a playful movement of elements, whose associations are not immediately established, there arise groupings which an observant and critical intellect can only subsequently appraise. The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect, but by the play-instinct from inner. necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves.

Hence one can easily regard every creative activity whose potentialities remain hidden from the many as play. There are, indeed, very few creative men at whom the reproach of playing has not been cast. For the man of genius, and Schiller certainly was this, one is inclined to approve of this point of view. But he himself wished to go beyond the exceptional man and his kind, and to reach the common man, that he too might share that help and deliverance which the creator from sternest inner necessity cannot in any case avoid. The possibility of extending such a point of view to the education of man in general is not, however, guaranteed as a matter of course; at least it would seem not to be.

For a decision of this question we must appeal, as in all such cases, to the testimony of the history of human thought. But before doing so we should again realize from what basis we are attacking the question. We have seen how Schiller demands a release from the opposites even to the point of a complete emptying of consciousness, in which neither sensations, feelings, ideas, nor purposes play any sort of role. The condition thus striven for is a state of undifferentiated consciousness, or a conscious state, where, from a depotentiation of energic values, all contents have forfeited their distinctiveness. But a real consciousness is possible only where values effect a dis: crimination of contents. Where discrimination is wanting, no real consciousness can exist. Accordingly, such a state might be called "unconscious", although the possibility of consciousness is at all times present. It is a question therefore of an "abaissement du niveau mental". (Janet) of an artificial nature; hence also a certain resemblance to yoga and to states of hypnotic "engourdissement".

So far as I know, Schiller has nowhere expressed himself as to his actual view concerning the technique -- if one may use the word -- for the induction of the aesthetic mood. The example of Juno Ludovisi that he mentions incidentally in his letters [p. 81] shows us a state of "aesthetic devotion" whose character consists in a complete surrender to and "feeling-into" the object of contemplation. But such a state of devotion lacks the essential characteristic of being without content and determinant. Nevertheless, in conjunction with other passages, this example shows that the idea of" devotion" was constantly present in Schiller's mind [46]. Which brings us once more to the province of the religious phenomenon; but at the same time we are permitted a glimpse of the actual possibility of extending such a view-point to the common man. The state of religious devotion is a collective phenomenon, which does not depend upon individual endowment.

There are, however, yet other possibilities. We have seen that the empty state of consciousness, i.e. the unconscious condition, is brought about by a submersion of the libido into the unconscious. Dormant in the unconscious there lie relatively accentuated contents, namely reminiscence-complexes of the individual past; above all the parent-complex, which is identical with the childhood complex in general. Through devotion, i.e. through the sinking of the libido into the unconscious, the childhood-complex is reactivated, whereby the reminiscences of childhood, especially the relations to the parents, are again infused with life. From the phantasies proceeding out of this reactivation there dawns the birth of the Father and Mother divinities, and there awakens the religious child-like relations to God with the corresponding childlike feeling. Characteristically, it is the symbols of the parents that become conscious and by no means always the images of the actual parents; a fact which Freud explains as the repression of the parent imago through resistance to incest. I am of the same mind upon this interpretation, and yet I believe it is not exhaustive, since it overlooks the extraordinary significance of this symbolical replacement. Symbolization in the shape of the God-image means an immense step forward from the concretism, the sensuousness, of reminiscence; inasmuch as the regression to the parent, through the acceptance of the "symbol" as a real symbol, is straight-way transformed into a progression; it would remain a regression if the so-called symbol were to be finally interpreted merely as a sign of the actual parents and were thus robbed of its independent character [47].

Humanity came to its gods through accepting the reality of the symbol, i.e. it came to the reality of the idea, which alone has made man lord of the earth. Devotion, as Schiller correctly conceived it, is a regressive movement of the libido towards the primordial, a diving down into the source of first beginnings. Emerging as an image of the commencing progressive movement there rises the symbol, which represents a comprehensive resultant of all the unconscious factors. It is "living form", as Schiller calls the symbol, a God-image as history unfolds it. It is not, therefore, an accident that our author has straightway chosen a divine image, the Juno Ludovisi, as a paradigm. Goethe makes the divine images of Paris and Helen float up from the tripod of the mothers -- on the one hand the rejuvenated pair, but on the other the symbol of a process of inner union which is precisely what Faust passionately craves for himself as the supreme inner atonement. This is clearly shown in the subsequent scene, and it is equal1y manifest in the further course of the Second Part. As we can see in this very example of Faust, the vision of the symbol is a significant indication as to the further .course of . life, an al1uring of the libido towards a still' distant aim, but which henceforth operates unquenchably within him, so that his life, kindled like a flame, moves steadily onwards to the far goal. This is the specific life-promoting significance of the symbol. This is the value and meaning of the religious symbol. I am speaking, of course, not of symbols that are dead and stiffened by dogma, but of living symbols that rise from the creative unconscious of living man.

The immense significance of such symbols can be denied only by the man whose history of the world begins at the present day. It ought to be superfluous to speak of the significance of symbols, but unfortunately this is not so, for the spirit of our time believes itself superior to its own psychology. The moral and hygienic standpoint of our day must always know whether such and such a thing is harmful or useful, right or wrong. A real psychology cannot concern itself with such queries: to recognize how things are in themselves is enough.

The forming of symbols arising out of the state of devotion is, again, one of those collective religious phenomena which are not bound up with individual endowment. Hence, also in this respect the possibility of extending the view-point, mentioned above, to the ordinary man may be assumed. I think I have now sufficiently demonstrated at least the theoretical possibility of Schiller's point-of-view for general human psychology. For the sake of completeness and clarity I might add here that the question of the relation of the symbol to consciousness and the conscious conduct of life has long engaged my mind. I have reached the conclusion that, in view of its great significance as a representative of the unconscious, too slight a value should not be given to the symbol. We know from daily experience in the treatment of nervous subjects what an eminently practical significance unconscious interventions possess. The greater the dissociation, i.e. the more the conscious attitude becomes aloof from the individual and collective contents of the unconscious, the more powerful are the harmful and even dangerous inhibitions or reinforcements of conscious contents from the side of the unconscious. From practical considerations, therefore, the symbol must be conceded a not inconsiderable value. But if we grant the symbol a value, whether great or small, the symbol thereby obtains conscious motive power, i.e. it is perceived, and its unconscious libido-charge is therewith given opportunity for development in the conscious conduct of life. Herein -- according to my view -- a not inessential practical advantage is gained: namely, the co-operation of the unconscious, its participation in the conscious psychic activities and therewith the elimination of disturbing influences from the unconscious.

This common function, the relation to the symbol, I have termed the transcendent function. I cannot undertake, at this stage, to elucidate this problem at all ade quately. To do so, it would be absolutely necessary to produce all the material that comes up as the result of unconscious activity. The phantasies hitherto described in the special literature give no conception of the symbolic creations we are here dealing with. There exist, however, not a few examples of these phantasies in the literature of belles-lettres; but these of course are not "purely" observed and presented -- they have undergone an intensive "aesthetic" elaboration. Among all these examples I would single out two works of Meyrink for special attention, viz. Der Golem and Das grune Gesicht. But the treatment of this side of the problem I must reserve for a later investigation.

Although these conclusions concerning the mediatory state were, so to speak evoked by Schiller, we have already gone far beyond his conceptions. In spite of the fact that he discerned the opposites in human nature with keenness and depth, he remained stuck at an early stage in his attempt at solution. For this failure his terminus "aesthetic disposition" is in my opinion, not without blame. For Schiller makes the "aesthetic disposition" practically identical with the beautiful, thus transveying the feeling into the mood [48]. Therewith not only does he take cause and effect together, but he also gives to the state of indeterminability, quite against his own definition, a single-meaning definiteness, since he makes it equivalent with the beautiful. Moreover, from the very outset the edge is taken off the mediating function, since beauty immediately prevails over ugliness, whereas it is equally a question of ugliness. Schiller defines as the" aesthetic quality" of a thing that it should be related "to the totality of our various faculties". Consequently "beautiful" cannot coincide with "aesthetic", since our different faculties also vary aesthetically: some are ugly, some beautiful, and only an incorrigible idealist and optimist could conceive the "totality" of human nature as simply "beautiful". To be quite accurate, human nature is just real; it has its light and its dark sides. The sum of all colours is grey -- light upon a dark background or dark upon light.

From this conceptual immaturity and inadequacy we may also explain the circumstance that it is not at all dear how this mediatory state shall be established. There are numerous passages containing the unequivocal meaning that in the "enjoyment of pure beauty", the mediatory state is brought about. Thus Schiller says:

"Whatever flatters our senses with immediate sensation opens our yielding and shifting emotion to every impression, while it also makes us in equal measure less fitted for effort. Whatever strains our power of thought and invites us to abstract ideas strengthens our mind to every sort of resistance, but it also hardens it and robs us of susceptibility in the same degree as it helps us to a greater spontaneity. For this reason the one just as much as the other leads necessarily, in the last resort, to exhaustion .... If, on the contrary, we have surrendered ourselves to the enjoyment of pure beauty, we are, in such a moment, master of our passive and active faculties in equal measure and we can apply ourselves to seriousness and to play, to rest and to motion, to yielding and to resistance, to abstract thought and to perception with the same ease."

This presentation stands in abrupt opposition to the provisions of the "aesthetic state" previously laid down, where the man was to be "naught", undetermined, whilst here he is in the highest degree determined by beauty ("surrendered to it"). It would not repay us to pursue this question further with Schiller. Here he meets a boundary common both to himself and his time, which it was impossible for him to overstep, for everywhere he encounters the invisible "ugliest man", whose unveiling was reserved for our age in the person of Nietzsche.

Schiller was intent on making the sensuous into a rational being, because from the outset he makes man aesthetic. He himself says [Letter xiii, p. 118]: "We must change the nature of the sensuous man" (p. 120); again he says: "Man must submit the physical life to form", he must "carry out his physical destiny according to the laws of beauty" (p. 121), "upon the indifferent plane of the physical life man must begin his moral being" (p. 123), he must "though still confined within his sensuous bounds, begin his rational freedom", "upon his inclinations he must impose the law of his will", "he must learn to desire nobly" (p. 124).

That "must" of which our author speaks is the familiar 'ought', which is always invoked when one can see no other way. Here again we meet inevitable barriers. It would be unjust to expect one individual mind, were he never so great, to vanquish this gigantic problem, a problem which only times and peoples can resolve; and even so by no conscious purpose, but as only fate can solve it.

The greatness of Schiller's thought lies in his psychological observation, and his intuitive apprehension of the things observed. There is yet another of his trains of thought I would like to mention, which abundantly deserves consideration. We have seen above that the middle state is characterized by effecting a "positive" something, viz. the symbol. The symbol combines antithetic elements within its nature; hence it also reconciles the real-unreal antithesis, because on the one hand it is certainly a psychological reality (on account of its effectiveness), while on the other it corresponds with no physical reality. It is a fact and yet a semblance. This circumstance is brought out clearly by Schiller, in order to append to it an apologia for semblance [49] which in every respect is significant.

"The greatest stupidity and the highest understanding have herein a certain affinity with each other, that they both seek the real and are both quite insensitive to mere semblance. Only by the immediate presence of an object in sensation is the former torn from its apathy, and only through the relating of its ideas to the facts of experience is the latter brought to rest; in a word, foolishness cannot soar above reality and intelligence cannot remain below truth. Inasmuch, then, as need for reality and devotion to the real are merely the products of a human defect, indifference to reality and interest in semblance represent a true progress for humanity and a decisive step towards culture." [50]

When speaking just now about an appraisement of the symbol's value, I showed the practical advantage that an appreciation of the unconscious possesses: namely, we exclude the unconscious disturbance of conscious functions when, from the first, we have taken the unconscious into account through a consideration of the symbol. It is familiar that the unconscious, when not realized, is ever at work casting a false glamour over everything: it appears to us always upon objects, because everything unconscious is projected. Hence, when we are able to understand the unconscious as such, we strip away the false appearance from objects, and this can only promote truth. Schiller says:

"This human right to rule man exercises in the mastery of semblance, and the more rigidly he severs mine from thine, the more scrupulously he separates form from essence, and the more independence he learns to give to the same, the more does he not merely enlarge the kingdom of beauty -- he is actually establishing the boundaries of truth, for he cannot cleanse away appearance from the face of reality without at the same time delivering reality from semblance." -- Letter xxvi, p. 146.

"The effort to achieve this independence of semblance demands a greater power of abstraction, a greater freedom of heart and more energy of will than is required of man in the effort to confine himself in reality, and already must he have left this behind him if he would achieve that."-- ibid., p. 151.

2. A Discussion on Naive and Sentimental Poetry

For a longtime it seemed to me as though Schiller's division of poets into naive and sentimental [51] were a classification that harmonized with the points of view here expounded. After mature reflection, however, I have come to the conclusion that this is not so. Schiller's definition is very simple: "the naive poet is Nature, the sentimental poet seeks her". This easy formula is enticing, since it affirms two different kinds of relation to the object. It might also be put like this: He who seeks or desires Nature as an object does not possess her; such a man would be the introvert, and, vice versa, he who already is Nature herself, standing therefore in the most intimate relation with the object, would be the extravert. But a rather arbitrary interpretation such as this would have little in common with Schiller's point of view. His division into naive and sentimental is one which, in contrast to our type-division, is not merely concerned with the individual mentality of the poet, but rather with the character of his creative activity, that is, with its product. The same poet can be sentimental in one poem, naive in another. Homer certainly is naive throughout, but how many of the moderns are not, for the most part, sentimental? Evidently Schiller feels this difficulty, and therefore asserts that the poet is conditioned by his time, not as an individual but as a poet. Thus he says: "All poets, who are really such, will respectively belong to the naive or sentimental to the degree in which the quality of the age in which they flower, or mere accidental circumstances exert an influence upon their general make-up and upon their passing emotional mood". Consequently it is not a question of fundamental types for Schiller, but rather of certain characteristics or qualities of the individual product. Hence it is at once obvious that an introverted poet, on occasion, can be just as naive as he is sentimental. It therefore follows that to identify respectively naive and sentimental with extravert and introvert would be quite beside the point, in so far as the problem of types is concerned. Not so, however, in so far as it is a question of typical mechanisms.

(a) The naive attitude

I will first present the definitions which Schiller gives of this attitude. It has already been mentioned that the naive poet is "Nature". He simply "follows Nature and sensation and confines himself to the mere copying of reality" (l.c., p. 248). "With naive representations we delight in the living presence of objects in our imagination" (p. 250). "Naive poetry is a boon of Nature. It is a happy throw, needing no bettering when it succeeds, but fit for nothing when it has failed" (p. 303). "The naive genius must do everything through his nature: he can do little through his freedom; he will accomplish his idea, only when Nature works in him as an inner necessity" (p. 304). Naive poetry "is the child of life and unto life it returns" (p. 303). The naive genius depends wholly upon" experience", upon the world, with which he is in "direct touch". He "needs succour from without" (p. 305). To the naive poet the "common nature" of his surroundings can "become dangerous", since "sensibility is always more or less dependent upon the external impression, and only a constant activity of the productive faculty, which is not to be expected of human nature, would be able to prevent mere material from committing him, at times, to a blind receptivity. But whenever this is the case, the poetic feeling will be commonplace" (pp. 307 ff.). "The naive genius allows Nature unlimited sway in him" (p. 314). From this definition the dependence of the naive poet upon the object is especially clear. His relation to the object has a compelling character, because he introjects the object, i.e. unconsciously identifies himself with it, or has, as it were, a priori identity with it. Levy-Bruhl describes this relation to the object as "participation mystique" [52] This identity is always derived from an analogy between the object and an unconscious content. One could also say that the identity comes about through the projection of an unconscious analogy-association upon the object. An identity of this nature has always a compelling character, because it is concerned with a certain libido-sum, which, like every libido-discharge working from the unconscious, has a compelling character in relation to the conscious, i.e. it is not disposable to consciousness. The naive attitude is, therefore, in a high degree conditioned by the object; the object operates independently in him, as it were; it fulfils itself in him because he himself is identical with it. To a certain extent, therefore, he gives his function of expression to the object, and presents it in a certain way, not in the least actively or intentionally, but because it is represented in him. He is himself Nature: Nature creates in him the product. He allows Nature to hold absolute sway in him. Supremacy is given to the object. To this extent is the naive attitude extraverted.

(b) The sentimental attitude

We mentioned above that the sentimental poet seeks Nature. He" reflects upon the impression objects make upon him, and upon that reflection alone is the emotion based with which he himself is exalted, and which likewise affects us. Here the object is related to an idea, and from this relation alone his poetic power is derived" (l.c., p. 249). He "is always involved with two opposing presentations and sensations, with reality as a finite boundary, and with his idea as an infinite: the mixed feeling that he provokes' will always bear witness to this dual origin" (p. 250). "The sentimental mood is the result of the effort to reproduce the naive sensation, in accordance with its content, under the conditions of reflection" (p. 301). "Sentimental poetry is the product of abstraction" (p. 303). "As a result of his effort to remove every limitation from human nature the sentimental genius is exposed to the danger of abolishing human nature altogether; not merely mounting, as he must and should, above every sort of defined and restricted reality to the farthest possibility -- to idealize in short -- but even transcending possibility itself; in other words, to become phantastical." "The sentimental genius forsakes reality, in order to rise to the world of ideas and command his material with greater freedom" (p. 314).

It is easy to see that the sentimental poet, in contrast with the naive, is characterized by a reflective and abstract attitude towards the object. He "reflects" about the object, because he is abstracted from it. Thus he is, as it were, severed from the object a priori as soon as his production begins; it is not the object that works in him, but he himself is operative. He does not, however, work inwardly into himself, but outwardly beyond the object. He is distinct from the object, not identical with it; he seeks to establish his relation to it, "to command his material." Proceeding from this, his separateness from the object, there comes that impression of duality which Schiller refers to; for the sentimental poet creates from two sources, namely from the object or from his perception of it, and from himself. The external impression of the object is, for him, not something unconditioned but material which he handles in accordance with his own contents. Hence he stands above the object, and yet has a relation to it; it is not, however, the relation of impressionability, but of his own free choice he bestows a value or quality upon the object. His is therefore an introverted attitude.

With the designation of these two attitudes as introverted and extraverted we have not, however, exhausted Schiller's idea. Our two mechanisms are basic phenomena of a rather general nature, which only vaguely outline the specific. For the understanding of the naive and sentimental types we must call two further principles to our aid, namely the elements sensation and intuition. I shall discuss these functions in greater detail at a later stage. I only wish to say at this point that the naive is characterized by a preponderance of the sensational element, the sentimental by the intuitive. Sensation fastens to the object, it even draws the subject into the object; hence for the naive type the "danger" consists in his subjection to the object. Intuition, being a perception of one's own unconscious processes, withdraws from the object; it mounts above it, ever seeking to command its material, and to shape it, even violently, in accordance with the subjective view-point, though without awareness of the fact. The danger for the sentimental type, therefore, is a complete severance from reality, and a going-under into the fluid phantasy world of the unconscious.

(c) The Idealist and the Realist

In the same essay Schiller's reflections lead him to a conception of two psychological human types. He says:

"This brings me to a very remarkable psychological antagonism among men in an age of progressive civilization, an antagonism which, because it is radical and rooted in the innate emotional constitution, is the cause of a sharper cleavage among men than the accidental quarrel of interests could ever bring about; an antagonism which robs the poet and artist of all hope of making a universal appeal -- although this is his task; which makes it impossible for the philosopher, in spite of every effort, to be universally convincing; yet, none the less, this is involved in the very idea of a philosophy -- and which, finally, will never permit a man in practical life to see his mode of action universally applauded: in short, an opposition which is responsible for the fact that no work of the mind and no deed of the heart can make a decisive success with one class, without thereby drawing upon it a condemnation from the other. This opposition is, without doubt, as old as the beginning of culture, and to the end it can hardly be otherwise, save in rare individual subjects, such as have always existed and, it is to be hoped, will always exist. But although this lies in the very nature of its operation, that it frustrates every attempt at an adjustment, because no section can be brought to see either a deficiency upon its own side, or a reality upon the other; it is nevertheless always a sufficient gain to follow up such an important division to its final source, and thus, at least, to bring the actual point at issue to a simpler formulation."

It follows conclusively from this passage that through the observation of antagonistic mechanisms Schiller arrived at the conception of two psychological types, which claim the same significance in his presentation as I ascribe to the introvert and extravert. With regard to the mutual relation between the two types established by myself, I can endorse almost word for word what Schiller says of his. Schiller, in harmony with what I pointed out earlier, reaches the type from the mechanism, since he "severs ,alike from the naive and sentimental character a poetic quality that is common to both". If we carry out this operation we shall have to subtract the' gifted, creative character; then to the naive poet there remains the hold to the object and its autonomy in the subject, while to the sentimental there remains the superiority over the object, which is expressed in a more or less arbitrary judgment or treatment of the object. Schiller says:

"After this there remains of the former (the naive) nothing else, theoretically, but a dispassionate spirit of observation and a solid dependence upon the equable testimony of the senses; and, practically, a resigned submission to the necessity of Nature. ... Of the sentimental character there remains nothing but a restless spirit of speculation which insists upon the unconditioned in all cognitions; and, in practice, a moral severity which insists upon the absolute in every act of will. Whoever counts himself among the former class can be called a realist, and whoever numbers himself with the latter an idealist."

Schiller's further elaborations concerning his two types refer almost exclusively to the familiar phenomena of the realistic and idealistic attitudes, and are therefore without interest for our investigation.



1. Cotta'sche Ausgabe, 1826, Bd. xviii. The English translation is in many ways unsatisfactory and even incorrect: the references therefore are to the German edition.

2. The italics in the text are mine.

3. Faust, Part I: Walpurgis-Nacht.

4. Emile, livre i: "Man as a citizen is only a fractional unity dependent upon a denominator, and his value lies in his relation with the whole, which is society. Those institutions are good which best understand how to change the nature of man, how to take from him his absolute existence unto himself and give him a relative one, how, in short, to translate the ego into a common unity.

"He who wishes to preserve in his life as a citizen the supremacy of natural feelings knows not what he wants. Ever in contradiction with himself, ever hovering between his inclinations and his duties, he will become neither man nor citizen; he will be useless both to himself and others."

5. "Everything as it leaves the hands of the Author of things is good; everything degenerates under the hands of man."

6. Emile, livre ii: "Natural man is wholly himself; he is an integral unity, an absolute whole."

7. "We cling to everything, we clutch on to all times, places, men, things; all that is, and all that will be, matters to each of us; our individual self is only the least part of ourselves. Each extends, as. it were, over the whole earth, and becomes sensitive to this whole vast surface.

"Is it nature which thus bears men so far from themselves?"

8. Levy-Bruhl, Les Fonctions mentales dans les societes inferieures.

9. Indications of this are already to be found in the Grecian mysteries.

10. "If the laws of nations, like those of nature, could have an inflexibility that no human force could ever vanquish, the dependence of men would become once more like that of things; one could combine in the republic all the advantages of the natural state with those of citizenship; one could add to the liberty which exempts man from vice the morality which raises him to virtue."

11. Emile, livre ii: "Keep the child dependent solely upon things, you will have followed the order of nature in the progress of his education ... Do not force a child to stay when it wants to go, or to go when it wants to stay quiet. When the will of our children is not spoiled by our own fault, they desire nothing that is useless."

12. Affectedness is used to denote the state of being affected.

13. Cf. the discourse of Julian upon the mother of the Gods.

14. Letter to Goethe, January 5th 1798.

15. Letter to Schiller, April 1798.

16. Letter to Schiller, January 6th 1798.

17. I wish it to be clearly understood that all my observations upon the extravert and introvert in this chapter hold valid only for the special types here dealt with, viz. the intuitive, feeling extravert represented by Goethe, and the intuitive, thinking introvert represented by Schiller.

18. i.e. extraverted.

19. i.e. introverted.

20. "Formative instinct" is equivalent to "thinking faculty" for Schiller.

21. Schiller himself criticizes this point later.

22. To avoid misconception, I would here like to observe that this contempt does not concern the object, not at least as a rule, but merely the relation to it.

23. In contrast to the reactive thinking previously referred to.

24. Letter XXIII, pp. 90 ff.

25. XIII, p. 68.

26. XV, p. 76.

27. XIII, pp. 68 ff.

28. "Sensuousness" unfortunately does not carry "the ambivalence that is contained in the German Sinnlichkeit, which has equally the meaning of sensuality. It is, therefore, important to point out that in all these latter quotations from Schiller the ambivalent significance is definitely intended. [Translator]

29. Letter XIV, p. 69.

30. Letter XIV, p. 70.

31. 1 Letter XV, p. 73.

32. Letter XV, p. 79.

33. Letter XXVII, p. 156.

34. Letter XIX, p. 99.

35. I quote from the Latin translation of Marsilius Ficinus, 1497.

36. ("For this spirit borrows of both extremes and makes of them something of its own, so that they which formerly lay far apart, now appear in one nature. In many parts of the existing order has Nature extended the realm of the power of phantasy. It even descends to the creatures who do not yet possess reason ... In truth, it represents the intelligence of the creature, and the creature understands much by means of this power of phantasy ... All sorts of demons derive their essence from this kind of life. For they are in their whole nature imaginary and in their origin are inwardly fashioned.")

37. Letter XIX, pp. 99, 100.

38. Cf. H. Nunberg's work: On the Physical Accompaniments of Association Processes (in Jung's Studies in Word-Association, p. 531)

39. Psychology of the Unconscious, pp. 179 ff.

40. I must emphasize the point that I am here presenting only this function in principle. Further contributions to this very complex problem, for which, in particular, the manner of accepting unconscious material into consciousness has a fundamental importance, will be found in my work; La structure de l'inconscient (Archives de Psychologie, Dec. 1916): also in my paper: The Psychology of Unconscious Processes (Collected Papers, ch. xiv)

41. As Schiller rightly says, in the aesthetic state man is nothing. Letter XX, p. 108.

42. Atman has been defined as the soul of Self-hood -- the highest principle of life in the universe -- the Divine germ in man. [Translator]

43. Schiller died in 1805.

44. I employ the word 'aesthetism' as an abbreviated expression for 'aesthetic world-philosophy', Hence, I do not mean that aesthetism with the evil accompaniment of aesthetic action and sentimentality which might perhaps be described as aestheticism.

45. Compare what Schiller says: On the Necessary Limitations in the Use of Beautiful Form [Essays, p. 241]. "For since, in the man of aesthetic refinement, the imaginative faculty, even in its free play, is directed according to laws, and sense approves of enjoyment only with the consent of reason, the reciprocal favour is easily required of reason, that it shall be directed, in the earnestness of its law-giving, in accordance with the interests of the imagination and not command the will, without the concurrence of the sensuous instincts."

46. "Whereas the feminine God demands our adoration, the god-like woman also kindles our love." -- l.c., p. 81.

47. I have discussed this point at length in my book Psychology of the Unconscious.

48. Letter XXIII, p. 108.

49. Letter XXVI, p. III.

50. Letter XXVI, p. 142.

51. Schiller, Ueber naive und sentimentalische Dichtung.

52. Les fonctions mentales dans les societes inferieures.
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THE problem discerned, and indeed partially worked out, by Schiller was resumed in a fresh and original way by Nietzsche in his work: Die Geburt der Tragodie, dating from 1871. This early work is more nearly related to Schopenhauer and Goethe than to Schiller. But it at least appears to share aesthetism and Hellenism with Schiller, pessimism and the motive of deliverance with Schopenhauer, and unlimited points of contact with Goethe's Faust. Among these connections, those with Schiller are naturally the most significant for our purpose. Yet we cannot leave Schopenhauer without paying tribute to the way in which he achieved reality for those dawning rays of Eastern knowledge which in Schiller only emerge as insubstantial wraiths. If we disregard the pessimism that springs from a contrast with the Christian joy in faith, and certainty of redemption, Schopenhauer's doctrine of deliverance is seen to be essentially Buddhistic. He was captured by the East. This step was undoubtedly a contrast reaction to our occidental atmosphere. It is, as we know, a reaction that still persists to a very considerable extent in various movements more or less completely orientated towards India. This pull towards the East caused Nietzsche to halt in Greece. He, too, felt Greece to be the middle point between East and West. To this extent he is in touch with Schiller -- but how utterly different is his conception of the Grecian character! He sees the dark foil upon which the serene and golden world of Olympus is painted. "In order to make life possible, the Greeks from sheer necessity had to make these Gods". "The Greek knew and felt the terror and awfulness. of existence: to be able to live at all he had to interpose the shining, dream-borne Olympian world between himself and that dread. That monstrous mistrust of the titanic powers of Nature, the Moira pitilessly enthroned above all knowledge, the vulture of Prometheus the great lover of man, the awful fate of the wise Oedipus, the family curse of the Atridce which drove Orestes to matricide -- this dread was ever being conquered anew through that artist's middle world of Olympus, or was at least veiled and withdrawn from sight." [1] The Greek "serenity," that smiling Heaven of Hellas, seen as a glamourous illusion hiding a forbidding background -- this discernment was reserved for the moderns; a weighty argument against moral aesthetism!

Nietzsche here takes up a standpoint differing significantly from Schiller's. What one might have guessed in Schiller, namely that his letters on aesthetic education were also an attempt to deal with his own problems, becomes a complete certainty in this work of Nietzsche: it is a "profoundly personal" book. Whereas Schiller, almost timidly and with faint colours, begins to paint light and shade, apprehending the opposition in his own psyche as "naive" versus "sentimental," while excluding everything that belongs to the background and abysmal profundities of human nature, Nietzsche's apprehension takes a deeper grasp and spans an opposition, whose one aspect yields in nothing to the dazzling beauty of the Schiller vision; while its other side reveals infinitely darker tones, which certainly enhance the effect of the light, but allow still blacker depths to be divined.

Nietzsche calls his fundamental pair of opposites: the Apollonian-Dionysian. We must first try to picture to ourselves the nature of this opposite pair. To this end I shall select a group of citations by means of which the reader -- even though unacquainted with Nietzsche's work -- will be in a position to form his own judgment about it, and at the same time to criticize mine.

1. "We shall have gained much for the science of aesthetics, when the view is once finally reached -- not merely the logical insight, but the immediate certainty -- that the continuous development of art is bound up with the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian: in much the same way as generation depends upon the duality of the sexes, involving perpetual conflicts with only periodically intervening reconciliation." (p. 21)

2. "From their two art-deities, Apollo and Dionysos, we derive our knowledge that an immense opposition existed in the Grecian world, both as to origin and aim, between the art of the shaper, the Apollonian, and the Dionysian non- plastic art of music. These two so different tendencies run side by side, for the most part in open conflict with each other, ever mutually rousing the other to new and mightier births in which to perpetuate the warring antagonism that is only seemingly bridged by their common term 'art'; until, finally, by a metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic 'will', they appear paired one with the other and in this mating the equally Dionysian and Apollonian creation of Attic tragedy is at last brought to birth." (p. 22)

For the purpose of fuller characterization Nietzsche compares the two "tendencies" by means of the peculiar psychological states they give rise to, namely dreaming and frenzy. The Apollonian impulse produces a state that may be compared with the dream, while the Dionysian creates a condition that is akin to frenzy. By dreaming, as Nietzsche himself explains, he essentially understands the "inner vision", the "lovely semblance of the dream world". Apollo "governs the beauteous illusion of the inner world of phantasy"; he is "the god of all shaping faculties". He is measure, number, limitation, the mastery of everything savage and untamed. "One might almost describe Apollo as the splendid divine image of the principii individuationis." (p. 26).

The Dionysian, on the contrary, is the freeing of unmeasured instinct, the breaking loose of the unbridled dynamis of the animal and the divine nature; hence in the Dionysian choir man appears as satyr, god above and goat below. It represents horror at the annihilation of the principle of individuation, and at the same time "rapturous delight" at its destruction. The Dionysian is, therefore, comparable to frenzy, which dissolves the individual into collective instincts and contents, a disruption of the secluded ego by the world. In the Dionysian, therefore, man again finds man; "estranged, hostile, subjugated Nature celebrates once more her feast of reconciliation with her lost son, man." (p. 26). Every man feels himself" one" with his neighbour (" not merely united, reconciled, and merged"). His individuality must therefore, be entirely suspended. "Man is no longer the artist-he has become the work of art". "All the artistry of Nature here reveals itself in the ecstasies of frenzy". (p. 27.) Which means that the creative dynamis, the libido in instinctive form, takes possession of the individual as an object and uses him as a tool, or expression of itself. If one might conceive the natural being as a "product of art", then of course a man in the Dionysian state has become a natural work of art; but, inasmuch as the natural being is also emphatically not a work of art in the ordinary meaning of the word, he is nothing but sheer Nature, unbridled, a raging torrent, not even an animal that is restricted to itself and its own laws. I must emphasize this point both in the interests of clarity and of subsequent discussion, since, for some reason Nietzsche has omitted to make this clear, and has thereby shed over the problem a deceptive aesthetic veiling, which at certain places he himself has instinctively to draw aside. Thus, for instance, where he speaks of the Dionysian orgies; "In almost every case, the essence of these festivals lay in an exuberant sexual licence, whose waves inundated every family hearth with its venerable traditions; the most savage beasts of nature were here unchained, even to the point of that disgusting alloy of lust and cruelty", etc. (p. 30).

Nietzsche considers the reconciliation of the Delphic Apollo with Dionysos as a symbol of the reconciliation of this antagonism within the breast of the civilized Greek. But here he forgets his own compensatory formula, according to which the Gods of Olympus owe their splendour to the darkness of the Grecian soul. The reconciliation of Apollo with Dionysos would, according to this, be a "beauteous illusion", a desideratum, evoked by the need of the civilized half of the Greek in the war with his barbaric side, that very element which broke out unchecked in the Dionysian state.

Between the religion of a people and its actual mode of life there always exists a compensatory relation; if this were not so, religion would have no practical significance at all. Beginning with the sublime moral religion of the Persians co-existing with the notorious dubiousness -- even in antiquity -- of the Persian manner of life, right down to our Christian' epoch, where the religion of love assisted in the greatest butchery of the world's history: wherever we turn we find evidence of this rule. We may, therefore, conclude from this very symbol of the Delphic reconciliation an especially violent cleavage in the Grecian character. This would also explain that craving for deliverance which gave the mysteries their immense meaning for the social life of Greece, and which, moreover, was completely overlooked by earlier admirers of the Grecian world. They contented themselves with naively attributing to the Greeks what they themselves lacked.

Thus in the Dionysian state the Greek was anything but a 'work of art'; on the contrary, he was gripped by his own barbaric nature, robbed of his individuality, dissolved into all his collective constituents, made one with the collective unconscious (through the surrender of his individual goal), identified with "the genius of the race, even with Nature herself". To the Apollonian side which had already achieved a substantial domestication of Nature, this frenzied state that made a man forget both himself and his manhood and turned him into a mere creature of instinct, must have been altogether despicable; for this reason a violent conflict between the two instincts was inevitable. Supposing the instincts of civilized man were let loose! The culture-enthusiast imagines that only beauty would stream forth. Such a notion proceeds from a profound lack of psychological knowledge. The dammed-up instinct-forces in civilized man are immensely more destructive, and hence more dangerous, than the instincts of the primitive, who in a modest degree is constantly living his negative instincts. Consequently no war of the historical past can rival a war between civilized nations in its colossal scale of horror. It will not have been otherwise with the Greeks. It was precisely from a living sense of the gruesome that the Dionysian-Apollonian reconciliation gradually came to them -- "through a metaphysical miracle", as Nietzsche says at the beginning. This utterance, as well as that other where he says that the opposition in question "is only seemingly bridged by their common term 'art'" must be kept clearly in mind. It is well to remember this sentence in particular, because Nietzsche, like Schiller, has a pronounced inclination to ascribe to art the mediating and redeeming role. The result is that the problem remains stuck in the aesthetic -- the ugly is also "beautiful"; even the evil and atrocious may wear a desirable brilliance in the false glamour of the aesthetically beautiful. Both in Schiller and in Nietzsche, the artist nature, with its specific faculty for creation and expression is claiming the redeeming significance for itself. And so Nietzsche quite forgets that in this battle between Apollo and Dionysos, and in their ultimate reconciliation, the problem for the Greeks was never an aesthetic but a religious question. The Dionysian satyr-feasts, according to every analogy, were a sort of totem-feast with an identification backward to a mythical ancestry or directly to the totem animal. The cult of Dionysos had in many ways a mystical and speculative tendency, and in any case exercised a very strong religious influence. The fact that Greek tragedy arose out of the original religious ceremony is at least as significant as the connection of our modern theatre with the medieval passion-play with its exclusively religious roots; such a consideration, therefore, scarcely permits the problem to be judged on its purely aesthetic aspect. Aesthetism is a modern glass, through which the psychological mysteries of the cult of Dionysos are seen in a light in which they were certainly never seen or experienced by the ancients. With Nietzsche, as with Schiller, the religious point-of-view is entirely overlooked, and its place is taken by the aesthetic. These things have their obvious aesthetic side, which one cannot neglect.[2] Yet if one gives medieval Christianity a purely aesthetic appreciation, its true character is debased and falsified, just as much, indeed, as if it were viewed exclusively from the historical standpoint. A true understanding can emerge only when equal weight is given to all sides; no one would wish to maintain that the nature of a railway-bridge is adequately comprehended from a purely aesthetic angle. In adopting the view, therefore, that the conflict between Apollo and Dionysos is purely a question of antagonistic art-tendencies, the problem is shifted onto aesthetic grounds in a way that is both historically and materially unjustifiable; whereby it is submitted to a partial consideration which can never do justice to its real content.

This shifting of the problem must doubtless have its psychological cause and purpose. One need not seek far for the advantages of this procedure: the aesthetic estimation immediately converts the problem into a picture which the spectator considers at his ease, admiring both its beauty and its ugliness, merely reflecting the passion of the picture, and safely removed from any actual participation in its feeling and life. The aesthetic attitude shields one from being really concerned, from being personally implicated, which the religious understanding of the problem would entail. The same advantage is ensured to the historical manner of approach, which Nietzsche himself criticizes in a series of unique passages [3].

The possibility of taking such a prodigious problem "a problem with horns," as he calls it, merely aesthetically is of course very tempting, since its religious understanding, which in this case is the only adequate one, presupposes an experience either now or in the past to which the modern man can indeed rarely pretend. Dionysos, however, seems to have taken vengeance upon Nietzsche. Let us compare his Attempt at a Self-criticism, which bears the date 1886 and prefaces The Birth of Tragedy: "What indeed is Dionysian? In this book there lies the answer, a 'knowing one' speaks there, the initiate and disciple of his God". But that was not the Nietzsche who wrote The Birth of Tragedy; at that time he was moved aesthetically, while he became Dionysian only at the time of writing Zarathustra, not forgetting that memorable passage with which he concludes his Attempt at a Self-criticism; "Lift up your hearts, my brother, high, higher! And neither forget the legs! Lift up also your legs, ye good dancers, and better still: let ye also stand on your heads!"

In spite of his aesthetic self-protection, the singular depth with which Nietzsche grasped the problem was already so close to the reality that his later Dionysian experience seems an almost inevitable consequence. His attack upon Socrates in The Birth of Tragedy is aimed at the rationalist, who proves himself impervious to Dionysian orgiastics. This reaction corresponds with the analogous error into which the aesthetic standpoint always falls, i.e. it holds itself aloof from the problem. But even at that time, in spite of the aesthetic viewpoint, Nietzsche had an intuition of the real solution of the problem; as, for instance, when he wrote that the antagonism was not bridged by art, but by a "metaphysical miracle of the Hellenic 'will'''. He writes" will" in inverted commas, which, considering how strongly he was at that time influenced by Schopenhauer, we might well interpret as referring to the concept of the metaphysical will. "Metaphysical" has for us the psychological significance of "unconscious". If, then, we replace" metaphysical" in Nietzsche's formula by "unconscious", the desired key to this problem would be an unconscious "miracle". A "miracle" is irrational; the act itself therefore is an unconscious irrational happening, a shaping out of itself without the intervention of reason and conscious purpose; it just happens, it grows, like a phenomenon of creative Nature, and not as a result of the deep probing of human wits; it is the fruit of yearning expectation, faith and hope.

At this point I will leave this problem for the time being, as we shall have occasion to discuss it in fuller detail in the further course of our inquiry. Let us proceed instead to a closer examination of the Apollonian and Dionysian conceptions with regard to their psychological attributes. First we will consider the Dionysian. The presentation of Nietzsche at once reveals it as an unfolding, a streaming upward and outward, a "diastole", as Goethe called it; it is a motion embracing the world, as Schiller also presents it in his ode An die Freude:

"Seid umschlungen, Millionen.
Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt." [4]
[Google translate: "Be embraced, millions.
This kiss for the whole world."]

and further:

"Freude trinken aIle Wesen
An den Brusten der Natur;
Alle Guten, alle Bosen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Kusse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund geprift im Tod;
Wollust war dem Wurm gegeben Und der Cherub steht vor Gott." [5]
[Google translate: Drink" joy -aIle beings
At the breasts of nature;
All good, all Bosen
Her gift.
Kiss she gave us, and wine,
A friend geprift in death;
Lust was given to the worm And the cherub stands before God."

That is Dionysian expansion. It is a flood of mightiest universal feeling, which bursts forth irresistibly, intoxicating the senses like strong wine. It is a drunkenness in the highest sense.

In this state the psychological element sensation, whether it be sensation of sense or of affect, participates in the highest degree. It is a question, therefore, of an extraversion of those feelings which are inextricably bound up with the element of sensation; for this reason we define it as feeling-sensation. What breaks forth in this state has more the character of pure affect, something instinctive and blindly compelling, finding specific expression in an affection of the bodily sphere.

In contrast to this, the Apollonian is a perception of the inner image of beauty, of measure, of controlled and proportioned feelings. The comparison with the dream clearly indicates the character of the Apollonian attitude: it is a state of introspection, of inner contemplation towards the dream world of eternal ideas: it is therefore a state of introversion.

So far the analogy with our mechanisms is indeed unarguable. But, if we were to content ourselves with the analogy, we should acquiesce in a limitation of outlook that does violence to Nietzsche's ideas; we should have laid them in a Procrustean bed.

We shall in the course of our investigation see that the state of introversion, in so far as it becomes habitual, always involves a differentiated relation to the world of ideas, while habitual extraversion entails a similar relation to the object. We see nothing of this differentiation in Nietzsche's ideas. The Dionysian feeling has the thoroughly archaic character of affective sensation. It is not therefore pure feeling, abstracted and differentiated from the instinctive into that mobile element, which in the extraverted type is obedient to the commands of reason, lending itself as her willing instrument. Similarly Nietzsche's conception of introversion is not concerned with that pure, differentiated relation to ideas which is abstracted from perception -- whether sensuously determined or creatively achieved -- into abstract and pure form. The Apollonian is an inner perception, an intuition of the world of ideas. The-parallel with the dream clearly shows that Nietzsche regarded this state as a merely perceptive condition on the one hand and as a merely pictorial one on the other.

These characteristics are individual peculiarities, which we must not include in our concept of the introverted or extraverted attitude. In a man whose prevailing attitude is reflective this Apollonian state of perception of inner images produces an elaboration of the material perceived in accordance with the character of the individual thought. Hence proceed ideas. In a man of a predominantly feeling attitude a similar process results: a searching feeling into the images and an elaboration of a feeling-idea which may essentially correspond with the idea produced by thinking. Ideas, therefore, are just as much feeling as thought: for example, the idea of the fatherland, of freedom, of God, of immortality, etc. In both elaborations the principle is rational and logical. But there is also a quite different standpoint, from which the logical-rational elaboration is not valid. This other standpoint is the aesthetic. In introversion it stays with the perception of ideas, it develops intuition, the inner perception; in extraversion it stays with sensation and develops the senses, instinct, affectedness. Thinking, for such a standpoint, is in no case the principle of inner perception of ideas, and feeling just as little; instead, thinking and feeling are mere derivatives of inner perception or outer sensation.

Nietzsche's ideas, therefore, lead us on to the principles of a third and a fourth psychological type, which one might term the aesthetic, as opposed to the rational types (thinking and feeling). These are the intuitive and the sensation types. Both these types have the mechanisms of introversion and extraversion in common with the rational types, but they do not -- like the thinking type on the one hand -- differentiate the perception and contemplation of the inner images into thought, nor -- like the feeling type on the other -- differentiate the affective experience of instinct and sensation into feeling. On the contrary, the intuitive raises unconscious perception to the level of a differentiated function, by which he, also becomes adapted to the world. He adapts himself by means of unconscious indications, which he receives through an especially fine and sharpened perception and interpretation of faintly conscious stimuli. How such a function appears is naturally hard to describe, on account of its irrational, and, so to speak, unconscious character. In a sense one might compare it with the daemon of Socrates: with this qualification, however, that the strongly rationalistic attitude of Socrates repressed the intuitive function to the fullest limit; it had then to become effective in concrete hallucination, since it had no direct psychological access to consciousness. But with the intuitive type this latter is precisely the case.

The sensation-type is in all respects a converse of the intuitive. He bases himself almost exclusively upon the element of external sensation. His psychology is orientated in respect to instinct and sensation. Hence he is wholly dependent upon actual stimulation.

The fact that it is just the psychological functions of intuition on the one hand, and of sensation and instinct on the other, that Nietzsche brings into relief, must be characteristic of his own personal psychology. He must surely be reckoned as an intuitive type with an inclination towards the side of introversion. As evidence of the former we have his pre-eminently intuitive, artistic manner of production, of which this very work The Birth of Tragedy is highly characteristic, while his master work Thus Spake Zarathustra is even more so. His aphoristic writings are expressive of his introverted intellectual side. These, in spite of a strong admixture of feeling, exhibit a pronounced critical intellectualism in the manner of the French intellectuals of the eighteenth century. His lack of rational moderation and conciseness argues for the intuitive type in general. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that in his initial work he unwittingly sets the facts of his own personal psychology in the foreground. This is all quite in harmony with the intuitive attitude, which characteristically perceives the outer through the medium of the inner, sometimes even at the expense of reality. By means of this attitude he also gained deep insight into the Dionysian qualities of his unconscious, the crude forms of which, so far as we know, reached the surface of consciousness only at the outbreak of. his illness, although they had already revealed their presence in various erotic allusions. It is therefore extremely regrettable, from the standpoint of psychology, that the fragments -- so significant in this respect -- which were found in Turin after the onset of his malady, should have met with destruction at the hands of moral and aesthetic scruples.



1. Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, transl. by W. H. Haussmann, p. 35 (Edinburgh 1909).

2. Aesthetism can, of course, replace the religious function. But how many things are there which could not do the same? What have we not all come across at one time or another as a surrogate for a lacking religion? Even though aesthetism may be a very noble surrogate, it is none the less only a compensatory structure in place of the real thing that is wanting. Moreover, Nietzsche's later "conversion" to Dionysos shows very clearly that the aesthetic surrogate did not stand the test of time.

3. Nietzsche, On the Utility and Advantage of History for Life, Part ii: Occasional Papers.

4. ("Be embraced, oh ye millions. Be this kiss for all the world.")

5. ("Joy doth every creature drink, At Nature's flowing bosom; Neither good nor evil shrink, To tread her path of blossom. Kisses and the wine she gave, A friend when Death commandeth. Lust was for the worm to have, 'Fore God the Cherub standeth.")
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