Again, quoting from The Portable Jung, “The Phenomenology of the Self…” (In case you can’t tell I like this book) Jung’s essay on the shadow… here’s a quote from pg 147. He has just talked about a patient’s projections. But it’s becoming clear that it involves more than merely a projection, or even the shadow:

This assumption becomes untenable after a certain point, because the symbols that then appear no longer refer to the same but to the opposite sex, in a man’s case to a woman and vice versa. The source of projections is no longer the shadow — which is always of the same sex as the subject — but a contrasexual figure. Here we meet the animus of a woman and the anima of a man, two corresponding archetypes whose autonomy and unconsciousness explain the stubbornness of their projections.

In my book, Animus, the main character has left law-enforcement to become a Jungian therapist. Then someone starts kidnapping his patients.

What he finds as he begins to investigate is a contrasexual figure — so much so — that he’s not sure if the kidnapper is a man or woman.

Again, quoting from The Portable Jung, “The Phenomenology of the Self…” his essay on the shadow: here is one of my favorite quotes:

Projections change the world into a replica of one’s own unknown face.

Pithy. Scary as hell. And so true. That’s the beauty of the shadow. When all the things we’re unconscious of — make a sudden appearance — it’s jarring. So, the easiest thing to do is project them onto someone else. That’s when we get into trouble.

Today I spent an hour and a half in the hospital with a friend who has been given less than a month to live.

Mostly I listened to her talk. She told me amazing stories about deep disappointments she had with her doctors, her ex-husband, her daughters, even her parents. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she described the deep hurts she had experienced.

Today I also started listening to “Archetypal Experiences Surrounding Death,” a talk given many years ago by Marie-Louise von Franz, one of Jung’s closest associates. She told this story. (I’m paraphrasing) “In a BBC interview Jung was asked a question about death, and he said that the unconscious psyche seems simply to ignore it. And that dreams behave as if life would go on as before…”

In other words, with some exceptions, even to the end, our dreams are trying to cause us to grow and progress.

Now I didn’t want my friend to die, and I was trying to get her to practice a certain spiritual tool that I hoped might prolong her life.

Was I wrong to even try? Who am I to mess with the natural order of her death?

What do you think?

First, let me start this blog off by saying, to quote screenwriter, William Goldman, “Nobody knows anything.”

That would certainly apply to me when it comes to Jungian thought. The subject is so vast, the knowledge and education needed to engage the subject so far beyond what I’ve acquired, that it’s just silly. Clearly, I don’t know anything. But who cares? I want to play and, in the process, learn. My education in the subject consists of personal readings, individual workshops, one course, “Experiencing Jung” at the Jung Institute in Los Angeles, and two weekend conferences, Myths of L.A. with John Beebe (among other speakers) and In Defense of Jung with James Hillman, who wrote The Soul’s Code, and many other titles.Even though my knowledge of Jung’s writings is limited, my curiosity isn’t. So, join me in playing with the Jungian concepts here. Just because we can’t throw a fast ball a 100 miles-
-an-hour doesn’t mean we can’t pitch.

I hope respected Jungian analysts as well as mystery lovers and anyone drawn to this fascinating subject matter will post to this blog.

Well, here goes: let me throw you a change-up.

It’s Out of Your Hands

I’ll begin this blog with a few quotes from C.G. Jung’s book, Aspects of the Feminine, translated by R.F.C. Hull, page 78, from the chapter, Anima and Animus.

A man counts it a virtue to repress his feminine traits as much as possible, just as a woman, at least until recently, considered it unbecoming to be “mannish.” The repression of feminine traits and inclinations naturally causes these contrasexual demands to accumulate in the unconscious. No less naturally, the imago of woman (the soul image) becomes a receptacle for these demands, which is why a man, in his love-choice, is strongly tempted to win the woman who best corresponds to his own unconscious femininity—a woman, in short, who can unhesitatingly receive the projection of his soul.

Jung goes on to say that it might turn out that “The man has married his own worst weakness.” I looked up imago in the dictionary, couldn’t find it, but under image, it gave imago as a Latin root, related to imitari, IMITATE. The first definition: a reproduction of the appearance of someone or something. Jung says that someone, in a man, is his mother. In a woman, her father.

The next quote is anecdotal and comes from that (albeit dated) purveyor of homogenized cultural knowledge, Werner Erhard, founder of the est Training:

It’s already happened.

That was the piece of information I was supposed to say “I got it” to after I’d spent two weekends in 1980, forbidden to piss, and spending $300. In other words, your career choices, your choice of mate, creative art—in fact, everything—has already been decided.

As far as your mate goes, I often look back and wonder how in the world I chose a woman who is as angry as I am. In fact, my wife and I are so alike in our vulnerabilities and negative character traits that it’s hard not to feel strongly when either of us is hurt—especially by the other. The saving grace is that we have different positive traits, perspectives, strengths and interests that help us bridge that forceful, electric soul similarity, that sparking wire that connects us at the anima and animus.

How does this apply to the mystery novel, particularly, my novel, Animus? Well, my main character, Gar Moody, is haunted by the suicide of a lover and tormented by a kidnapper who he can’t decide is a man or woman. He begins to believe he’s tracking the animus of a woman—since the energy is aggressive and forceful. Not until the end does he realize it’s a dance between his own anima and something very different.

Why would this be a compelling plot point in a mystery novel? Just think of it: if you look at Jung’s quote above, he’s saying that repressing our contrasexual characteristics makes them accumulate in the unconscious. He also says in other writings that, in affect, the shadow—that which is denied and unseen in our own consciousness—can take on a personality of its own. Can you think of anything more frightening? Think of the hosts bursting out of the abdomens of the inhabitants of the ship in Alien. Except you don’t have to be in space; they burst out around the water cooler, across the dinner table, in the bedroom.

What could be more mysterious? And where would a Jungian detective start?