Libido (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be nothing but sexuality — or eunuchs, whose libidinal interest is cut off, would all go schizophrenic, and plumbers joining male and female pipes would be blessed with potent affluxes.

Libido (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠has become unconscious always appears in theriomorphic symbols — bull, horse, half-pig half-crocodile; a womanizer can be damaging his instinct precisely by his lack of repression.

Libido (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a power transcending consciousness is daemonic by nature: both God and devil — destroy evil utterly and you amputate part of the Deity.

Libido (n.) passes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠through a pre-sexual stage — roughly the first to fourth year, when sucking turns into rubbing, boring and rhythm — comparable to the chrysalis of a butterfly.

The Hero (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the superman we seek in human form: the visible God was never loved for being a mere man, for if the pious want to love humanity they need only turn to their neighbours or their enemies.

A Hero (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a hero because he reads every hardship as resistance to the forbidden goal and fights it with a whole-hearted longing for the treasure — the very longing that cripples and kills ordinary men.

A Hero (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a solar myth but the self-representation of the unconscious longing for the light of consciousness — while consciousness, a will o' the wisp, longs back for the deep wells of being.

The Hero (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠step, in divine form, into the shoes of a handsome officer with no conscious choice by the dreamer — who finds, against her will, a god where a lover was.

A Myth (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what is believed always, everywhere, by everybody — so the man who thinks he can live without one is an uprooted exception, sunk in a private mania he takes for newly discovered truth.

A Myth (n.) told ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the bewildered man what his unconscious was doing: this is not you, it is the gods — you will never reach them, so go back to your human work and hold them in awe.

A Myth (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠order your whole life without your knowledge: Jung, asking “What is the myth you are living?”, found he could not answer.

A Myth (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not an infantile phantasm but the most mature product of young humanity — just as our gill-slitted fishy ancestors were not embryos but fully developed creatures.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠nature, which never deceives: only we deceive ourselves.

The Unconscious (n.) dismisses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠our logic and morals with hair-raising irrationalism and shocking tactlessness — if it obeyed the laws of consciousness, it could not compensate it.

The Unconscious (n.) always ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠blurts out the most intimate things once people let it speak.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the insignificant-looking tool in Faust's hand — a dark creative power that reveals itself to those who follow its dictates and can work miracles.

Sacrifice (n.) made ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠unwillingly is catastrophe — the daemon throws us down and makes us traitors to the selves we thought we were; made voluntarily, it is not overthrow but transformation and conservation.

Sacrifice (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the very reverse of regression — libido successfully channelled into the symbolic equivalent of the mother, and so spiritualized.

Sacrifice (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠at bottom an unconscious transformation of energy, of which the ego becomes aware the way sailors feel a volcanic upheaval under the sea.

Sacrifice (n.) gives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠up the cherished object of desire so that the libido may be regained in new form — through it man ransoms himself from the fear of death and makes peace with Hades.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the primitive mind banished into the night — as the bows and arrows abandoned by grown men turn up again in the nursery.

A Dream (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠repeats the real situation too emphatically is suspect — it is borrowing conscious contents as a means of expression.

A Dream (n.) told ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to another always carries not just an intimate problem but the one most painful at that moment.

A Dream (n.) carries ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠us back through the whole thought of earlier humanity: as we reason in sleep, mankind reasoned awake for thousands of years — taking the first cause that occurred to it for the truth.

A Symbol (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the crossing easy — the alchemists said the passage is easy for those who have the symbol.

A Symbol (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an indefinite expression with many meanings, pointing to something not fully known; a sign has a fixed meaning because it abbreviates something known.

A Symbol (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a transformer converting libido from a lower to a higher form; it works by suggestion, carrying conviction and expressing its content in one stroke.

A Symbol (n.) grows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠clearer the more variants it has: dwarfs toiling in secret, the phallus begetting in darkness, the key unlocking the forbidden door all draw the same hidden process.

Love (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠so strong it drew God down from heaven: it wounded the invulnerable, bound the invincible, and made the Eternal mortal.

Love (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the power of fate par excellence — whether base concupiscence or the most spiritual affection; it belongs to man when he masters it and to the daemon when he is its victim.

Love (n.) demands ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠full consciousness and responsibility — it is a choice for life, and death waits at life's end; love and death have a good deal to do with each other.

Love (n.) arose ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠first from the One hidden in the shell, born of fiery torment — the seed of knowledge; and the wise found the root of being in not-being.

Fantasy (n.) secures ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠permission in advance: the Abbé Oegger who prayed for proof that Judas was saved was preparing to become Judas himself — he soon left the Church.

Fantasy (n.) acts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠out what the subject ought to, could, or would like to do but doesn't — every unlived possibility of conscious life turns up in projection.

Fantasy (n.) runs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in typical cycles of compensation: the stammerer fancies himself an orator, the poor man a millionaire, the oppressed wage victorious war on the oppressor.

Fantasy (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be a euphemism for an invasion from the unconscious — dangerous when the mind cannot understand and integrate what has burst in.

Incest (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠desired not for cohabitation but for rebirth — the strange wish to become a child again by entering the mother.

Incest (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a hazardous mask over a more dangerous passion — the inertia that wants to sink back, met in the guise of the Terrible Mother.

Incest (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠when it shows up as the mother's or anima's desire, only the unconscious wanting to be noticed — reject it and Chryse becomes a venomous serpent.

Incest (n.) need ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never be committed to wreck a life: the unconscious passion for the mother, too weak to compel the act, is strong enough to complicate everything.