The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠timeless: everything in it has already happened and is yet unhappened, already dead and yet unborn — it is the mother who gave birth to her own mother, whose son was her father.

The Unconscious (n.) harbours ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no explosives unless an overweening or cowardly conscious attitude has secretly stored them there.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the real and authentic psyche: it is older, continuously present, and outlives every interruption, while ego-consciousness is a temporary epiphenomenon broken nightly by sleep.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠best left alone so long as it does not obtrude itself: analysing it is like surgery, to be resorted to only when other methods have failed.

Neurosis (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be worse than psychosis: the psychotic is isolated and so rendered harmless, while the neurotic goes on damaging everyone around him — an amputated foot is preferable.

Neurosis (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a cramped island fortress — happy neurosis island, one patient called it — where too much life has been left outside, so a monster wakes in the sea that could supply everything the island lacks.

Neurosis (n.) so ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠often hides all the natural, necessary suffering the patient refused to bear — hysterical pains fade as the avoided psychic pain is finally felt.

Neurosis (n.) comes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠upon the over-ambitious as a warning: driven up into air too thin for him, he should have rested content with his achievements.

Transference (n.) grows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠more intense, and more sexual, the less doctor and patient understand one another: sexuality steps in to consolidate a relationship that understanding could not achieve.

Transference (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a symptom produced by the cure itself: the father-image is transferred to the doctor, who, like it or not, plays father and turns the patient into a child.

Transference (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the alpha and omega of the analytical method — Freud's answer, at their first meeting: Then you have grasped the main thing.

Transference (n.) divides ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠quite as much as it connects, so far as it is projection and nothing more.

Anima (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never more dangerous than when we identify with them: we fondly feel most ourselves and are in fact most estranged from ourselves and most like the average Homo sapiens.

The Anima (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠man's natural bride — mother, sister, daughter or wife from the beginning — the companion the endogamous longing vainly seeks, and has had to sacrifice since the grey dawn of history.

The Anima (n.) left ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠unconscious is a creature without relationships, an autoerotic being bent on total possession — and the man she possesses grows moody, womanish in the worst sense, his very intellect corrupted.

The Anima (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the unknown woman of a man's dreams — fair guide and dark servant, fairy, nymph, prostitute and spiritual guide — who corresponds to no normal woman because she personifies his unconscious.

A Dream (n.) not ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠understood remains a mere occurrence; understood, it becomes a living experience.

A Dream (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠undo the day's work: what we have woven by day, the night may unravel.

A Dream (n.) often ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠appears senseless — but it is obviously we who lack the sense to read the message from the nocturnal realm of the psyche.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a frame from an unbroken film: a long series shows the unconscious as a continuous pictorial flood, a fugue-like sequence of images.

The Self (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the realization This is what I am — no longer the ego of make-believes, but a string of hard facts that make up the cross we carry or the fate we are.

The Self (n.) once ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠discovered shifts the centre of gravity of the personality — as though the earth suddenly found that the sun was the centre of its own orbit.

The Self (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the almighty taskmaster that drives the artist: it wants to be made manifest in the work, so every opus is a becoming of the self.

The Self (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠called by the alchemists the incorruptible, a One and Indivisible that is at the same time a Universal — filius macrocosmi.

Incest (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be a genuine instinct — for a thing that is not liked and desired generally requires no prohibition.

Incest (n.) symbolizes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠union with one's own being — individuation, becoming a self — which is why it exerts an unholy fascination, and why the first gods were believed to propagate incestuously.

The Incest (n.) element ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠(n.) is the hiding place for all the most secret, shamefaced, grotesque and at the same time most sacred feelings that give human relationships their power — twining round parents and children like an octopus's tentacles.

Incest (n.) expresses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠kinship libido, an instinct that like a sheep-dog keeps the family group intact — held in check by the pull toward strangers; the best compromise is a first cousin.

Wholeness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not so much perfection as completeness: assimilating the shadow gives a man body.

Wholeness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a combination of I and You: the unrelated human being lacks it, because the soul cannot exist without its other side, always found in a You.

Wholeness (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be described only in antinomies; whether the self is real or not is irrelevant — its psychological reality is enough, and the intellect's Pilate-like questions are meaningless.

Wholeness (n.) disguises ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its drive as incest when it first appears: unless a man seeks his feminine counterpart in himself, the nearest one is his mother, sister or daughter.

The Shadow (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠less individual than consciousness, because people differ from one another more in their virtues than in their faults.

The Shadow (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the essential thing — the body that casts it is; Freud's minute inventory of man's dark side is the best antidote to idealism, but a biased portrait.

The Shadow (n.) once ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠recognized as the enemy in one's own heart splits the self-assured "I want, I think" into two, then many; as long as the parents can be blamed, a semblance of unity survives.

The Shadow (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the black sun everyone carries: the weakness that comes with every strength, the night after every day, the evil within the good.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠both the patient and the doctor, object and subject, not only a function of the brain but the precondition of consciousness itself.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠so contrapuntal that one can scarcely make any general statement about it without immediately having to state its opposite.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠at cross purposes with itself; carrying the cross is an apt symbol both for wholeness and for passion.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a new and uninhabited continent: no landmarks, no names, no highways — and every pioneer comes back with a different story.