A Dream (n.) forces ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the truth: the 'normal' gentleman who came to discuss theory dreamt a cross-eyed nurse made him drink fermented milk in a hospital, and Dr Jung had no time for him — he had to swallow the bitter drink of his neurosis first.

A Dream (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a theatre where the dreamer is the stage, the actor, the prompter, the director, the author, the audience and the critic.

A Dream (n.) knew ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what the fiancé refused to: his 'good-family' bride kept appearing in scandalous guise; inquiries confirmed it, and the shock cured him of his neurosis — and of his bride.

A Dream (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be a warning the dreamer laughs at: the climber who dreamt of stepping off a summit into space did exactly that a few months later, and was killed.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the world's pivot and a disturber of the natural laws of the cosmos: the condition for there being a world at all, and an intervention in it whose end no one can foresee.

The Psyche (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠essentially conflict between blind instinct and will — and there is no willing without knowing of a goal other than the function's own.

The Psyche (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be loosed from the brain if synchronicity is real: think instead of the meaningful, intelligent behaviour of lower organisms that have no brain at all.

The Psyche (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠matter are probably two aspects of one thing — like two cones whose apices meet in a point without extension, touching and not touching.

The Unconscious (n.) needs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no special measures to come up: those least aware of their unconscious side are the most influenced by it — they just never know what is going on.

The Unconscious (n.) functions ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠satisfactorily only when the conscious mind does its tasks to the very limit; leave your decisions to dreams and they grow ever more trivial.

The Unconscious (n.) perceives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what consciousness cannot: the hysterically deaf patient followed the doctor's piano into a new key, and the man blind at the edges convulsed at a match held where he could not see.

The Unconscious (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in its underlying reality, at once absolute subjectivity and universal truth; the caprice and haziness people ascribe to the psyche belong only to consciousness.

An Archetype (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠psychic probability — the laws of chance seen from inside as an image; its 'transgressivity' means it appears not only in the psyche but in outer events that match it.

Archetype (n.) shine: ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠if the alchemists' sparks are archetypes, then numinosity entails luminosity — a quasi-consciousness of their own.

An Archetype (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠numinous when it appears — healing or destructive but never indifferent — and it mobilizes religious convictions in the very people who thought themselves miles above such fits of weakness.

Archetype (n.) survive ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠even in exact science, beneath indispensable concepts like energy, ether and the atom; Bergson's durée créatrice is Heraclitus revived.

Complex (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠unteachable, like the two elves the clergyman taught the Lord's Prayer: they tried their hardest, and still said “Our Father, who art not in heaven.”

A Complex (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠have us — less known, and far more important, than the fact that people have complexes.

Complex (n.) behave ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠like Descartes' devils: they slip the wrong word into your mouth, make you forget the name you are introducing, tickle your throat at the softest passage of the concert, and bid you congratulate the mourners.

The Complex (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the dream is the via regia to the unconscious, the architect of dreams and symptoms — and it is hardly royal: a rough, devious footpath that loses itself in undergrowth and usually leads past the heart of the unconscious.

Consciousness (n.) comes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠in degrees: between “I do this” and “I know I am doing this” lies a whole world, sometimes a flat contradiction.

Consciousness (n.) plays ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the common soldier who thinks the army retreated simply because it was attacked — never seeing the general plan, the commander's psychology, or the dark politics behind headquarters.

Consciousness (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠change from within, at home; to inculcate it from outside is as simple-minded as outlawing war — like the bishop who excommunicated the cockchafers for proliferating.

Consciousness (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a late-born descendant of the unconscious; to explain the unconscious from consciousness is as perverse as explaining the lives of our ancestors by their descendants.

Synchronicity (n.) draws ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the observer in, by hook or by crook, and makes him an accessory to the deed: every calculating error in Jung's study happened to exaggerate the result in astrology's favour.

Synchronicity (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠partly unconscious arrangements and partly unconscious, arbitrary interpretations.

Synchronicity (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠thinkable as pure chance — but the more they multiply and the more exact they are, the less probable chance becomes, until they must be thought of as meaningful arrangements.

Synchronicity (n.) seem ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to rest on an archetypal foundation — the scarab is a classic rebirth symbol, and in Babylon and Egypt the soul was a bird.

Instinct (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠never amorphous: it always fulfils an image — the leaf-cutting ant's instinct needs ant, tree, leaf, cutting, transport and fungus-garden, and fails if one is missing; the image is the meaning of the instinct.

Instinct (n.) and ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠apprehension cannot be put in order: we cannot say whether grasping the situation or the impulse to act comes first — they are two faces of one vital activity.

Instinct (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠has undergone too much psychization takes its revenge as an autonomous complex — one of the chief causes of neurosis.

Instinct (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠all be learned habit: the yucca moth kneads a pellet of pollen, cuts open the pistil of a flower open one night only, lays its eggs and stuffs the pellet in — once in its life.

Spirit (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠Geist or gāst is kin to raging, to being beside oneself, to "aghast": when we are beside ourselves with rage we are no longer identical with ourselves but possessed by a daemon.

Spirit (n.) began ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠as the bewildering discovery that the breath leaving a dying man in his last death-rattle meant more than air in motion — hence ruach, ruch, roho, spiritus.

Spirit (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠two-faced and paradoxical, as great a help as it is a danger — and man seems meant to settle which, by the consciousness that once flared like a light in the primal murk.

Spirit (n.) are ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠complexes of the collective unconscious that appear when a person loses touch with reality or when a whole people's attitude needs replacing — so they are either pathological fantasies or new, as yet unknown ideas.

A Symbol (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠is religious is not thought up — the head is a particularly inadequate organ for that — but grows plant-like from deep in the psyche, springing up like a flower of a strange species while consciousness stands by perplexed.

A Symbol (n.) always ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠expresses something we do not know; when we know what a symptom refers to, it is only a sign — Freud's 'symbols' are mostly semiotic.

A Symbol (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not define or explain; it points beyond itself to a meaning darkly divined — spirit that fits a concept yields no more than we put into it, spirit that needs a symbol holds incalculable possibilities.

A Symbol (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠redirect libido only where it offers a steeper gradient than nature; most of our energy is never ours to divert.