Alchemy (n.) housed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the planetary gods in its seven metals until science deposed them only in the last hundred and fifty years — for Paracelsus they were still enthroned in the prima materia "to their own undoing and ours."

Alchemy (n.) stops ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠short before the Consecration in Melchior's paraphrase of the Mass: an indirect sign of a conscience torn between a rite acting from without and an experience acting from within.

Alchemy (n.) sows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its gold like a grain of wheat in a black earth — "black blacker than black" — the magically fecund soil Adam took from Paradise.

Alchemy (n.) shifted ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠from four colours to three for no outward cause — the process never worked — so the change must have inner, psychological reasons.

The Soul (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠void when the supreme value and the supreme negation — Christ and sin — are both placed outside: its highest and lowest are missing.

The Soul (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠been turned into a Nazareth from which nothing good can come — so we fetch wisdom from the four corners of the earth, the more far-fetched the better.

The Soul (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a sink of iniquity would make creation a Home for Idiot Children where no one can put a spoon into his own mouth — ethically convenient, since God then bears all responsibility.

The Soul (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠avoided at any cost: people will practise yoga, diet strictly, learn theosophy by heart — anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always the fly in the ointment, the skeleton in perfection's cupboard, the painful lie given to every idealistic speech.

The Unconscious (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be trained like a parrot, as consciousness can — which is why Augustine thanked God for not holding him responsible for his dreams.

The Unconscious (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠"behind": we have no eyes behind us, so the region of the unseen is the unconscious.

The Unconscious (n.) wears ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no fixed mask: it mirrors the face we turn to it — hostility makes it menacing, friendliness softens it.

Projection (n.) fills ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠everything unknown and empty: the investigator's own psychic background is mirrored in the darkness, and what he sees in matter is chiefly his own unconscious.

Projection (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never made; it happens and is simply there — in the darkness of something outside me I meet, unrecognized, an inner life of my own.

Projection (n.) cuts ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an unconscious content off from consciousness by placing it on an outward image, so it stays unchanged — for nothing changes in the unconscious — and even regresses.

Projection (n.) works ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only so long as it stays unconscious — and for the projector the identity of psyche and matter is not a theory but the very bridge itself: 'what is within is also without.'

The Self (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a name definite enough to convey human wholeness and indefinite enough to express its indescribable nature — Christ and the Buddha are each symbols of it.

The Self (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a pure borderline concept like Kant's thing-in-itself: it grows clearer with experience without losing anything of its transcendence, and we can set it no bounds.

The Self (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the only thing toward which our attitude has no definable aim and no visible purpose.

The Self (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠for psychology, what religious figures point to; for theology, the self points to its own central figure — an irritating but inevitable opposition.

The Psyche (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠layers below consciousness, as few dispute; but to suggest it has layers above consciousness borders on a crime against the majesty of man.

The Psyche (n.) once ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠acknowledged as real and made a co-determining ethical factor offends the convention that for centuries has regulated psychic life from outside.

The Psyche (n.) hardly ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠changes over the centuries, unlike consciousness: there a truth two thousand years old is still alive and active today.

The Psyche (n.) merely ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠reactive or reflex is a materialistic myth: it overlooks the creative capacity of the psyche, before which all so-called causes become mere occasions.

Wholeness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the very thing we most fear: we theorize about it glibly, and in actual life give it the widest possible berth.

Wholeness (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not perfection is the call of a life that would round itself out — and for that the thorn in the flesh is needed.

Wholeness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠cause for anxiety, for man as a whole being casts a shadow: the fourth was not banished to the everlasting fire for nothing.

Wholeness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠realized for a moment only — the moment Faust was seeking all his life; only time and space here and now make reality.

An Alchemist (n.) sought ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not his own salvation through God's grace but the liberation of God from the darkness of matter — benefiting only incidentally from the work.

The Alchemist (n.) kept ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠secrets not out of consideration for mankind: whenever anything real is discovered it is announced with a flourish of trumpets — they had nothing chemical to divulge.

An Alchemist (n.) who ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠once descended like Hercules into Acheron became, after Paracelsus, a laboratory worker seeking a tonic to 'keep body and soul together,' leaving mystical experience to the Church.

An Alchemist (n.) preferred ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to seek through knowledge rather than find through faith — much in the position of modern man, who has immediate experience forced on him in place of tradition.

Mercurius (n.) was ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠labelled the servus fugitivus, the runaway, as the alchemists projected their own urge to flee: they never saw they were chasing a projection — today the running away is plainly the dreamer's, and so a moral question.

Mercurius (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a planet stands nearest the sun and so is kin to gold; as quicksilver, he dissolves the gold and extinguishes its sunlike brilliance.

Mercurius (n.) holds ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a substance that never dies — a fascination that never entirely disappeared, even wrapped in the fool's garb of goldmaking.

Mercurius (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠metallic yet liquid, matter yet spirit, cold yet fiery, poison yet healing draught — a symbol uniting all opposites, at the beginning and end of the work.

Truth (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠jealous as nothing else is.

Truth (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not exist unless there are people to understand it: for millions the sun did revolve round the earth until the nineteenth century.

Truth (n.) becomes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠binding on everyone not by judgment but by the irrational fact of possession, which works far better.

Truth (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠spells salvation to one person spells damnation to another, because mankind's psychic structures span at least ten thousand years; every universalism gets stuck here.