Vision (n.) is clear only once one can look into one's own heart. Who looks outside, dreams... who looks inside, awakes.
Vision (n.) draws from a source found in the souls of many people — its symbols are far too typical to belong to any one individual.
Vision (n.) becomes a moral problem the moment one asks “What does this mean for me?” — it is no longer an object to look at but something that wants to participate in one's life.
Vision (n.) like St. Paul's presupposes that, unconsciously, he was already a Christian, though the fact had escaped his conscious insight.
Vision (n.) can drown a man: the jilted youth went down not in the river but in an eternal image, and its beauty died with him.
Vision (n.) can be too psychological for its age: Ignatius Loyola saw a bright serpent full of shining eyes that were yet no eyes, was comforted by its beauty, then judged it an evil spirit.
Vision (n.) bursts in hardest where the conscious idea of God least matches the unconscious one — so Brother Klaus, an unlettered peasant, saw God as both father and mother.
Vision (n.) is likeliest to visit the people who ask themselves nothing, when the world is split and no one knows where help will come from.
Vision (n.) is only a potential change until integrated: Brother Klaus spent long years of study before he could recognize his terrifying vision as the Holy Trinity.
Vision (n.) is unusual but quite natural, like the dream — pathological only when its morbid nature has been proved.
A Vision (n.) can be grotesque: Swedenborg recognized God in a man in a purple coat who wanted to stop him overeating.
A Vision (n.) is in the last resort a dream that has broken through into the waking state.
A Vision (n.) is psychic raw nature — banal, grotesque, squalid, horrifying and profound as nature herself — while a rite like the Mass is a spiritual artifact, which is why one is gruesome and the other beautiful.
A Vision (n.) is not automatically a hallucination; equating the two is the sigh of relief of an educated public embarrassed by its own philosophy.
Vision (n.) does not conceal the love-episode in Hermas, Dante and Faust — it subordinates it: the vision is a deeper experience than human passion.
A Vision (n.) that panicked a professor into thinking himself mad was answered with a four-hundred-year-old woodcut: "They knew all about your vision four hundred years ago."
The Vision (n.) is treated by science as a hallucination, and Jung read St Paul's blindness after Damascus, lifting at the psychological moment, alongside the blindness of hysterics.