8 S

28. IX. 15

Dear Friend,

It is not in the character of the extravert to be distrustful. As long as he still considers his thinking infallible, he will be distrustful toward the thoughts of the other in his thinking. But in most cases the extravert has still to learn how to be distrustful in his feelings.

You read a mistrust into my last letter that wasn’t there, and you speak, therefore, of mutual mistrust. I did grant you the a priori trust you postulated in your letter, and thus my first reaction when reading it was being greatly astounded that you took a large part of my remarks personally, and adopt an attitude toward them like someone who defends himself against someone distrustful.

In the first part of my letter, in which I wrote only about the psychology of the extravert, I tried to set forth my views on the latter’s problems, and to stress particularly those points in which my views do not agree with yours. I was far from wanting to lecture you, let alone to reform you. I simply felt the need to explain what I see as my truth. I admit that there were times when I believed that the introvert would have to take the same way as the extravert to realize his feelings. I have long since reached the conclusion, however, that such processes—if he has to go through them at all—are of much less importance to the introvert for the realization of his feelings, much as the classical languages are less important to a doctor than to a philologist. For the extravert these processes are indispensable for the development of his personality; for the introvert they are indispensable only insofar as he also wants to develop his feeling side,182 and¹⁸³ I am far from claiming that this development will necessarily follow exactly the same course as in the extravert.

In the second part of my letter, in the discussion on self-knowledge, I tried to emphasize the dark sides of a self-knowledge that is based exclusively on intellectual knowledge, and I had inferior introverts—as you call them—in mind. I would never have believed that you felt that this concerned you. In my last sentence I expressly thought of an introverted poet whom I am treating at the moment, a true Tantalus,184 who is still so much of an idealist that he cannot let go of his suffering, but who has lost any viable faith in his ideal in the process. Thus I was far from amiably intending that “hell” for you. For the time being, I do not want to enter into the discussion of the value of the genius; it seems to me that we, or at least I, still lack the psychological basis for discussing such an extraordinarily difficult problem. As far as I can see, I must say, however, that I am not convinced by your arguments.

I offered my schema of the analyst’s attitudes only as an illustration of my views that “violates nature,” and I ask you to believe me that I don’t abuse it as a brute of a coachman does his horses. I, too, do not want to play a role in analysis. As I pointed out, it was by intuition, not by wanting to represent anything, that I came to make the appropriate corrections concerning my attitude, which is peculiar to my type only. I, too, do not know in advance the task a patient is confronted with, but I often feel intuitively that a dream is rather suggesting such and such a task to be solved, and—without representing anything—I adopt an attitude according to this feeling.

I am not surprised that my concept of self-knowledge seems like a caricature to you. For my feeling, though not for my thinking, your concept of self-knowledge is just as much of a caricature. In my opinion, it was against this caricature of self-knowledge, as I understand it, that the words of “father” Goethe, quoted in the last but one letter, were directed.¹⁸⁵ I dispute that my conception of self-knowledge is inferior, as such, as you say. I know it has to be inferior to you, just as yours is to me. I can understand, however, that for you your concept is the only correct and valuable one.

I think we have given a fine example of talking and understanding at cross-purposes in the last two letters regarding the concepts of value and usefulness. I concede that the few words with which I described the value of analysis were perhaps clumsy, and in any case did not adequately express what I wanted to say. But I am amazed that you can state,186 just on the basis of this single sentence, that analysis is only a psychological technique to me, a dressing and a motor oil.¹⁸⁷ If you are able to get at least a vague idea of my life over the past years, you will have to realize that analysis had to be more to me than a technique, or even the best of psychic motor oils. As an extravert, when I speak about the value of something, I do not mean its usefulness. You yourself once put one important difference between the two types roughly as follows: for the introvert, the value of a thing lies only in its usefulness at the moment; for the extravert, the value of the thing lies in itself. You are right, therefore, in trusting me not to think that the highest value of analysis lies in its usefulness. For when I write, for instance, that analysis allows the healthy person to achieve a much deeper union with the unconscious than would be possible without it, I am having things in mind that are no longer reconcilable with the principle of utilitarianism at all, and which are quite different from what you call “some help in coping with conflicts,” or even the “shortening of some conflicts.” I find it “business-like”¹⁸⁸ and an outright devaluation to speak of the usefulness of, for example, religion, art, or love. I’d rather like to inquire into the values these three manifestations of life have for life.

When I speak of the highest value of analysis, I am thinking of values such as those of the Louvre, which are debased when its halls are used only for “physical exercise.”189 For me value does not mean usefulness; utility can be measured, whereas a value can only be estimated. The highest value, therefore, is something immensurable [sic]¹⁹⁰ to me. In my opinion, analysis has such an immensurable [sic] value. I think it is a manifestation of life, a life principle, which can perhaps be seen as a parallel to the principles mentioned above (religion, art, love), and which, like all life principles, consequently has an immanent,¹⁹¹ and hence (because it cannot be quantitatively compared) incommensurable [sic], value. But in calling something a life principle, I am referring to the highest possible value I can imagine.

This brings us to a further difference in our views: while you speak of the usefulness of analysis for life, I would like to speak of its value for life. For me, life and every life principle have an immanent¹⁹² value, beyond usefulness and knowledge, which I can only estimate with the help of my feeling, and which, as I feel it, cannot be known through any form of knowledge, be it as deep as it may, because this value is on a higher level than knowledge. I believe, by the way, that your opinion on that is not that much different, because you, too, acknowledge that there are things to which one cannot do full justice with abstract thinking (which knowledge surely is).¹⁹³ For me, analysis is also such a thing. The highest value of a religion, of a work of art, or of love, can never be perceived through knowledge (in general? or perhaps only through my knowledge?).¹⁹⁴ The experiences of all theoretical studies of art and religion, which as we know deprive these principles of all life, lead me to assume that the value of analysis can never be grasped by a science at all. I can understand very well that for you the value of analysis lies in being “a living knowledge in and by itself,” because for you thinking is life, as you write. For me thinking is something dead, even something deadly for life; for me feeling is life, and life can also be a realization of feeling.195 When I do that “extra piece of work,” however, as Schiller once so aptly stated in Goethe’s case (letter to Goethe, 23 August 1794),¹⁹⁶ when I take a thinking and intellectual stance toward the world, I can very well imagine that thinking, too, can be life. I know, however, that I am not following my true nature with this attitude. For me the highest value of analysis does not lie in knowledge—in which there lies a potentially deadly danger in my opinion—but for me its highest value lies in the life principle contained in it, which can be measured only by way of feeling.¹⁹⁷ It follows that, despite your statement to the contrary, I must maintain that life can be a substitute for analysis, and this without doing “grave injustice to the spirit of analysis.” On the contrary, this is the highest valuation of a work I can give.

Similarly, I must uphold another statement made in my last letter. I wrote that, although the extravert’s realization of feelings is a kind of introversion, it is not an act of thinking or an intellectual process, like the introversion of the introvert, but purely a matter of feeling.¹⁹⁸ You counter this statement with the opposite one: “The realization of feelings is a thinking process.” If we continue in this vein, simply countering statements by stating the opposite, without dealing with the other’s arguments in more detail, we will finally end up in an unpleasant dispute about authority. Should it really come to this I would have to stress that despite my shorter analytical experience, when talking about the extravert, I as an extravert am more competent than you as an introvert to judge the nature of psychological processes in the extravert. Naturally, you are entitled to prove to me that I am erring about myself and the psychology of the extravert in general, and that I do not yet understand the processes in my own psyche. Your letter has not convinced me of this, however, although you know very well from experience that I have always been quite ready to be disabused of false views of myself.

Let me assume that in my last letter I did not succeed in expressing myself clearly enough, and let me try once again to explain my standpoint, even if repetitions cannot be avoided.

First of all, we should probably come to an agreement concerning the concept of realization, because I believe we have a completely different view of it. According to your letter, you seem to equate “realization” with “getting to know,” or with “achieving knowledge,” because in order to realize something you must put it outside yourself, objectify it, and can then achieve knowledge about it. I have used “realization” roughly in the sense the word is used, for instance, in the world of finance. To realize stocks means something like trying to find out how much value they represent, but not to sell them, convert them into money, quasi-objectify them.199 So when I speak about the realization of a feeling, it means something like finding out about, or estimating, the value of this feeling. Here again value must not be mistaken for usefulness. In my experience, however, the value of a feeling cannot be experienced or estimated by thinking this feeling—as you claim—or even by “juxtaposing the feeling as an object, differentiating oneself from it,” but, on the contrary, only by giving oneself completely over to a feeling, by surrendering to it, so that one is and feels “indistinguishable from the process.” By thinking and objectifying the feeling, it gets instantly killed (the wind drops, as I wrote in my last letter). Its vitality, which is the essence of every feeling’s value, turns into a lifeless phantom by being put outside oneself as a kind of self-subsisting entelechy.200 One can certainly go on thinking about it, and thus perhaps recognize its usefulness, but one can never sense its real value in that way. Realizing feelings means really feeling, and not thinking, them. Perhaps the extravert must also have the courage at some point to be “an incurably extraverted dud”²⁰¹ in order to reach down into his own depths, and to realize and purify his feelings (assuming the eyes are a symbol of the intellect).

If I understand this correctly, a “compensated extravert” is for you somebody who has assimilated his thinking and his sensation, and has thus compensated his original, purely feeling type. Now what I wrote about the extravert in my last letter is exactly what does not apply to this compensated type. The latter has realized his thinking and sensation, and therefore has not needed to realize his feeling. My own understanding of the ideally oriented person corresponds completely to your explanation, but I differentiate between two kinds of the ideally oriented, those who are so in an archaic way, that is, whose feelings are unrefined, are undeveloped, coarse, and in an archaic state, and those equally ideally oriented ones who have refined and realized their feelings. But since this process of refinement and realization does not take the way of compensation, I cannot call these latter compensated. I think that we could equally differentiate between two kinds of ideally oriented introverts, those who think archaically and have not yet refined their thinking, and those who have in fact refined it.202 A person who has installed a motor in his boat is not someone whom we would call a good sailor, and a person who has affixed a sail to his boat, a motorboat expert. I distinguish between bad and good yachtsmen, between ideally oriented extraverts who are archaic and those who are not. Compensated extraverts are sailors with a built-in motor.

As I had the impression that, when speaking of introverts, you did not have those in mind who think in an archaic way, I took as a counterpart those extraverts who, although ideally oriented, no longer feel in an archaic way. What I tried to make very clear in my last letter, however, is that the refinement and realization of the extravert’s feelings is not brought about by compensation. Therefore I must object to your statement that the realization of the extravert’s feelings “proceeds from compensation, but not according to the principle of his type.” The extravert refines his feelings solely according to the principle of his type; any attempt at compensation (i.e., at thinking and sensation) makes the realization of feelings impossible.

Let me try to juxtapose the solution you propose for the problem of the extravert with the same solution for the introvert.²⁰³ If the extravert can purify his feelings only by achieving knowledge of them through thinking, the introvert would be able to purify his thinking only by an evaluation of his thoughts through feeling. You yourself write in your first letter, however, that you want to purify your thinking “of all pleasure and unpleasure caused by personal feeling.”

I think, therefore, that the parallel process in both types is roughly the following: It is not by thinking about his feelings that the extravert realizes them—because thinking is a process heterogeneous to his nature that prevents a deepening [of his personality]—but, in following the view on the objective plane, by giving himself completely over to his feelings, to the point when he feels that he is violating both the object and also himself with his feelings.204 Then comes the moment when he unites with his unconscious opposite (thinking and sensation)²⁰⁵ in a natural way, not forced²⁰⁶ by the object or its thinking, even if he has to “feel himself through” until he reaches the problem of double suicide, the occide moriturus.²⁰⁷ Then he will also have to acknowledge that life is not the highest of goods. The parallel in the introvert I conceive as follows: it is not by feeling and evaluating his thoughts through feeling that the introvert realizes and refines his thinking—because feeling is a process heterogeneous to his nature that prevents the deepening of his personality—but, in following the view on the subjective plane, by giving himself completely over to his thoughts, to the point when he knows that he wants to force the object to come to him,²⁰⁸ in order to satisfy his lust with it. Then comes the moment when he unites with his unconscious opposite (feeling and representation)²⁰⁹ in a natural way, not forced by the feelings of the object, and when he would have to carry his thinking to the limit of madness. Then he will also see that knowledge is not the highest of goods. (I do not want to “lecture”²¹⁰ you on something with this sentence. I just imagine that you have repeatedly experienced something of the sort yourself, and know it better than I do, so that I am mentioning this only as a parallel.)²¹¹

So I agree with you when you write that “the required exaggeration of the feeling makes the subject’s lack of thinking and sensing activity felt.” This is only the end result the extravert reaches, however. But we do not agree on how the extravert comes to this result. I know that I am referring to the dynamic aspect of the process with this, but I clearly emphasized in my last letter that we have different views about the way that leads to the purification of feeling. Insofar as this end result is not something that has to be achieved only once, having finally come to the end of the way, but must be achieved again and again, it seems to me that precisely the dynamic aspect—the progress in the development of the feelings, and the way toward it—is of the greatest importance.

With your statement that the extravert goes outward to the object, and not inward into the subject, you prove that I was right in my last letter to put forward the following proposition as the leitmotif of the introvert’s misunderstandings of the extravert: it is inconceivable to the introvert that the extravert can find his own inner reality via feeling himself into the object, just as inconceivable as it is to the extravert that the introvert can adapt to the object via abstraction.

I have submitted to that famous extravert, as you call him, the remarks you made about him, and you might perhaps be interested in hearing what he had to say about them. He is grateful to the introvert de pur sang212 for having allowed him complete freedom in his development, and for not having forced him, for example, to remain sitting in the saddle on which he had put him. He acknowledges that this effort is particularly deserving of thanks. He denies, however, that he was sitting in the saddle on which the introvert had put him when he galloped away to those adventures, as you put it. He maintains that he was not able to advance even one single step toward the realization of his feelings²¹³ so long as he remained sitting in this saddle, and felt compelled to abandon some, then more, and, finally, practically all views about relations with the object he had taken over from the introvert de pur sang, particularly the view on the subjective plane, which was an obstacle to the realization of his feelings. Only after he had discarded everything that had been between him and the horse was he able to “gallop away,” and only then could he start to find a saddle that fitted his own and the horse’s nature.

I would like to use the example of this same extravert to repeat a third assertion I made in the letter, which you oppose with a counterclaim. I claimed I was speaking of the extravert as he is, and not as he ought to be. You claim that after all I am indeed speaking of the extravert as he ought to be. Well, here I have to emphasize once again that, being an extravert myself, I surely should know how the extravert really is, and must therefore discuss a few more of your views on the extravert that in my experience do not correspond to reality.

Thus you write, among other things: “When the extravert finally understands the real nature of the object, he cools off considerably.” As you know very well, one of the first tasks that this extravert had to solve was to see an object as it really is, or, as I usually call it, to separate the object from the ideal. Now I myself was surprised to see that the feelings of this extravert for the object in question did not cool off in the least through this process; they are as strong today as they were then when he galloped away on a bare horse.214 (Although it is true that soon after solving this task that extravert had to change his attitude toward the object, this was because certain reactions of the object forced him to do so, but not because his feelings had cooled off by solving the above task.)²¹⁵

I have since seen in other extraverts, too, that the feelings of a reasonably aesthetically receptive, sensitive extravert never cool off by his separating the ideal from the real object. As to why this is so, I would like to say only the following, although this question is of great importance for the psychology of the extravert: although the ideal that the extravert loves in the object does not correspond to the object as it is in reality or in the present, it more or less corresponds to the state toward which the object can, or could, develop out of the present stage. The extravert feels prospectively, as you yourself write, and in this prospective aspect lies perhaps one of the greatest life values of his feelings—but then, also the greatest danger. Separating the ideal from the person is not identical with the insight that the extravert loves an imago in the object, a symbolical value of one of his own tendencies. It is true that the feelings of the extravert cool off enormously during this procedure, which arises from the view on the subjective plane. They do not cool off, however, because the extravert realizes how the object really is, and that he also loved an ideal in the object. By the procedure of recognizing the imago, it can be demonstrated to an archaically feeling extravert that part of his feelings is egoistic (he loves only himself, his own tendencies, in the object). If this procedure is carried too far, however, every extravert will fight against this, and justifiably so, because love for the ideal in particular is not mere egoism. Admittedly, when the ideal and the object are separated, the ideal will correspond not only to the stage toward which the object develops. Part of the libido, which was originally directed also toward the object, will be used for the further development of an ideal, that is, if I may say so, for metapsychological processes. But these, too, will cause rather the opposite effect of a cooling-down.

Only an extravert who is ideally oriented in a completely archaic manner is “convinced from the outset that he has the other’s best interest in mind, and that everything he does is beneficial for the other’s well-being.” The extravert easily makes this impression on the introvert, but he believes this as little as he believes that “his object is naturally delighted by getting his love.” If he develops his capacity to feel himself into the other to only a minimal degree, he will feel that he can also do great harm to the other with his feelings, and, therefore, he will instinctively use his “virtue” with care. My experience teaches me that when the extravert locks up his feelings for another person who is either extraverted by constitution or in a phase of extraversion (e.g., in love with the extravert), in the crucible of abstraction, this other person will not experience this procedure as a violation, but will be stimulated by it to likewise bring his own still-undeveloped feelings to a boil in the crucible and thus realize his feelings.

I think the following parallel holds true for the introvert: in his relation with another introvert, the introvert will hardly have to fear that he causes harm with his abstract thinking, and thus will hardly have to care about using his “virtue” cautiously. Isn’t the opposite true? The more the introvert makes his abstract thinking available to another introvert, the more the latter will be induced to purify his own thinking and to deepen his personality. I maintain that even in the following case it is worthwhile to take the object into consideration (here I am coming back to an example mentioned in the last letter): an extravert, “A,” is loved by another extravert, “B.” Now, when A assumes a compensated attitude toward B, that is, when he objectifies his feelings, and sees only a symbolical value in B, etc., I allege that B will feel outright violated by A’s compensated attitude, albeit it in a passive216 way. What B wants to get from A are not thoughts, but feelings, and the more abstract those are, the less he will feel violated. There also exists passive violation between people, and this passive violation is perhaps even harder to bear than an active one.

I believe, therefore, that only the respective opposite type will feel the abstraction process as a violation, since he is the only one for whom this “distillation runs counter to his nature.” When an extravert believes he could find the deepening of his personality through a relation to an introvert de pur sang, he is like the man in your example who harnesses a horse to a railway train. It is only toward the introverted object that the extravert’s feeling-into is not sufficient; in order really to see this object, he must realize also sensation and thinking. In other words, two different types, who are no longer preoccupied with the bare struggle for life, will understand each other only to the extent that they react to each other as compensated types and not as ideally oriented ones.

The extravert, too, does not imagine that he deepens the personality of the introvert by defending his standpoint of feeling. In assuming that the extravert wants, in his relation to the introvert, to “indoctrinate” and “better” the latter, you impute an intention to him, which he does not have even in the archaic, infantile state. The extravert does what he does not in order to achieve anything; he acts because he must act. Above all, he does not want to produce a particular effect, as you seem to believe. The view on the objective plane does not mean “wanting to better the other.” It is not in the nature of the extravert to do something on purpose;217 only if that were true would he really be violating the other. Whereas you accuse the extravert of wanting to dictate to the introvert how he would have to react to him, and allege that this is useless, since that’s how the introvert is and that’s how he has to react so as not to be devoured by the extravert, I believe I can with equal right accuse you of wanting to dictate to the extravert how he would have to react, and I must emphasize for my part that the extravert reacts just in the way I said. This happens and this is. The extravert is not a missionary but an instrument so designed by nature who must react as he does toward noncompensated introverts—not because of a missionary attitude, but simply because otherwise he would lose his wind in his relation toward the ideally oriented introvert.

Apparently, as your letters to me show, the introvert must also act in the same way in his relation to an extravert who defends the “ideal” attitude—namely, as an instrument, so to speak, although more passively, according to his nature.²¹⁸ What you call mutual violation I consider an extremely ingenious arrangement of nature, only instead of the term “violation” I would use that of “interaction.” After all, one cannot say that plants play the role of the missionary for the animal world because they produce the oxygen needed by the latter. These views notwithstanding, I am far from being a friend of eternal peace. When a people all too much develops what is its very own, however, its neighbor will wage war on it and will in turn develop its respective “own” in the process. Only by turning peace into war, and then establishing peace again, is development possible.

In many years of living together with an introvert, I have learned to adhere to the following maxim of a “Father,” which you will probably allow me to quote, despite your reluctance to make use of such “arguments.”219 Lao Tzu ends his chapter 80 with the words:

And when communities are so close to each other

That the crowing of cocks and barking of dogs

Can clearly be heard:

One should live, grow old, and die, but not unite.²²⁰

For the communities to be able to live so close together without destroying each other, however, one thing seems to be necessary to me. Lao Tzu names it in the sixty-seventh chapter, as the first of the three treasures that he preserves and honors: the feeling of reciprocity. It “brings victory in war, and strength in peace.”221

With best regards,
your Hans Schmid

P.S. I have the impression that I succeeded only very inadequately in describing what I feel to be my truth.²²² I hope your further reactions will allow me to give an ever-clearer picture of these problems, which are very difficult to grasp intellectually.

¹⁸² Here again, the feeling side of the introvert is assumed by Schmid (following Jung’s original equation of feeling and extraversion) to be extraverted—even if mostly undeveloped, because in the unconscious.

¹⁸³ Rest of sentence beginning with “and” inserted later.

¹⁸⁴ See 6 S, note 147.

¹⁸⁵ Cf. the discussion on Goethe’s authority in 6 S and 7 J.

¹⁸⁶ Corrected from: can accuse me.

¹⁸⁷ Here one sentence is heavily struck out.

¹⁸⁸ This expression in English in the original—alluding to Jung’s use of it in 1 J.

¹⁸⁹ This expression in English in the original, again alluding to Jung (7 J).

¹⁹⁰ Original: etwas immensurables—a nonexistent word, which Jung promptly corrected to incommensurables (“incommensurable”) in the margin.

¹⁹¹ Struck out by Jung, and replaced by “transcendent” in the margin.

¹⁹² As above.

¹⁹³ Here Jung made a big question mark in the margin.

¹⁹⁴ Jung highlighted the following two sentences and wrote “gnosis” in the margin.

¹⁹⁵ The following two sentences were added on separate sheet of paper.

¹⁹⁶ In context, the quote reads as follows: Aber diese logische Richtung, welche der Geist bei der Reflexion zu nehmen genötigt ist, verträgt sich nicht wohl mit der ästhetischen…. Sie hatten also eine Arbeit mehr: denn so wie Sie von der Anschauung zur Abstraktion übergingen, so mußten Sie nun rückwärts Begriffe wieder in Intuitionen umsetzen und Gedanken in Gefühle verwandeln, weil nur durch diese das Genie hervorbringen kann. (But this logical direction, which the intellect is forced to take in reflection, cannot easily be reconciled with the aesthetic one.… So you had to do an extra piece of work: for just as you went from perception to abstraction, you now, reversely, had to make concepts into intuitions, and change thoughts into feelings, because it is only through the latter that the genius can create.) (Schiller & Goethe, 1905).

¹⁹⁷ Here Jung wrote in the margin: substitute for life.

¹⁹⁸ Schmid is reasserting here his view that there is an introverted dimension to feeling (see 6 S, notes 132 and 135).

¹⁹⁹ Schmid is mistaken, however, because the German expression realisieren, like the English “to realize,” means exactly that in this context: in Geld umwandeln = to turn into cash (Duden, Band 1, 21st ed., 1996).

²⁰⁰ “In Aristotle’s use: The realization or complete expression of some function; the condition in which a potentiality has become an actuality” (The Oxford English Dictionary, 1933 ed.). From Greek enteles (complete), telos (end, completion), and echein (to have).

²⁰¹ See 7 J.

²⁰² The rest of the passage, from here to the end of the paragraph, was written in the margin.

²⁰³ Here a sentence is heavily struck out.

²⁰⁴ Here Jung made a big question mark in the margin.

²⁰⁵ “opposite (thinking and sensation)” added later.

²⁰⁶ Jung noted in the margin: why not forced?

²⁰⁷ Latin for “kill and be slain,” a reference to the love scene in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, or The Golden Ass (chap. 17), also quoted by Jung in 1911/12, § 610 (original p. 365), where it is linked to the notion of the eventual sacrifice of the libido, consuming both itself and its object.

²⁰⁸ The rest of the sentence is added in the margin, instead of the struck out words: “and perhaps even finds pleasure himself in the process.”

²⁰⁹ Again representation is being seen as the fourth function beyond feeling, thinking, and sensation. Intuition had not yet been conceived as the name for this function (see 5 J and note 117, and introduction).

²¹⁰ Corrected from: “better.”

²¹¹ The following two paragraphs were written on a separate sheet of paper.

²¹² Schmid is of course talking about himself and Jung. See 7 J and note 154.

²¹³ “Toward the realization of his feelings” inserted later.

²¹⁴ Jung remarked in the margin: the object gets to feel it.

²¹⁵ The preceding sentence in parentheses was added at the bottom of the page.

²¹⁶ Corrected from: negative.

²¹⁷ Jung noted in the margin: ucs.

²¹⁸ The following sentence was added on a separate sheet of paper.

²¹⁹ Cf. 7 J: “The words of the Fathers are a fine thing—so long as we do not use them as arguments.”

²²⁰ Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, “The Ideal Community (A Taoist Utopia)”; here translated directly from Schmid’s German. Published translations into English offer a different meaning, for example: “The next place might be so near at hand that one could hear the cocks crowing in it, the dogs barking; but the people would grow old and die without ever having been there” (Waley, 1958, pp. 241–42). Gia-fu Feng and Jane English translate: “Though they live within sight of their neighbors, And crowing cocks and barking dogs are heard across the way, Yet they leave each other in peace while they grow old and die” (http://www.wussu.com/laotzu/laotzu80.html; 18 March 2011).

²²¹ Moss Roberts translates the Chinese word ci, for which Schmid offers “feeling of reciprocity,” as “a mother’s heart,” because it “refers only to the love of a parent and a child—usually from the parental side” (Laozi, 2001, p. 166). In Red Pine, it is “compassion” (Lao-Tzu, 2009, p. 134). In Waley it is “pity,” which “cannot fight without conquering or guard without saving” (1958, p. 225). In Gia-fu Feng and Jane English: “Mercy brings victory in battle and strength in defense. It is the means by which heaven saves and guards” (http://www.wussu.com/laotzu/laotzu80.html; 18 March 2011).

²²² Referring to Jung’s statement that there are “two kinds of truth” (1 J).