A Type (n.) is hardest to see in oneself: about one's own personality judgment is, as a rule, extraordinarily clouded.
A Type (n.) is a heartbeat that got stuck: everyone has both the diastole of reaching out and the systole of drawing back, and a type is only one rhythm become chronic.
A Type (n.) is only a Galtonesque family portrait — common features stressed out of proportion, individual ones effaced.
Type (n.) are mutually complementary: neither is more valuable, and their difference generates the tension that individual and society both need to stay alive.
A Type (n.) can be reversed for a moment by circumstance: give an introvert a congenial, harmonious milieu and he relaxes into extraversion; put an extravert in a dark silent room where his repressed complexes gnaw at him and he jumps at the slightest stimulus.
A Type (n.) is a bias one has adopted like a vocation — and what it shuts out stays archaic yet keeps its energy: put a man who lives by sight in a silent world and he would soon hear hallucinations.
A Type (n.) is no drawer to file people in; asked whether someone was a thinking type, Jung replied he had never thought about it — the types are for explaining a wife to a husband.