March 29, 2003
In an earlier issue of Phlit (12/1/02), I mentioned Fors Clavigera, Ruskin’s one-man periodical. I now learn that the Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset also wrote a one-man periodical. From 1916 to 1934, Ortega published a periodical called The Spectator. In the first issue, he said his goal was “to raise a fortress against politics for both myself and those that share my affection for pure vision and theory.” And the Italian philosopher Benedetto Croce had “his own bimonthly literary magazine, La Critica,” where he published his writings for 40 years. In publishing Phlit, I thought I was doing something new, but now I realize that Phlit has ancestors.
Our book discussion group recently read Beowulf, the classic Old English narrative poem, as part of our study of mythology. We read the popular new translation by Seamus Heaney, in the Norton Critical Edition. I recommend it: there’s energy in every line, the story is entertaining, and it has the atmosphere of an authentic ancient work.
Beowulf is a warrior from one of the Norse societies of what is now Denmark. When the Norse people came to England in the Early Middle Ages, they brought the Beowulf legend with them; doubtless it was recited before many audiences, and it was finally written down in Old English. The king is often referred to as the “ring-giver”, the lord of the rings; Beowulf inspired Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Tolkien was an Old English scholar, and one of the commentaries in this volume is by Tolkien.
Beowulf slays a monster, Grendel, and brings his head to the king, Hrothgar:
I love the naive tone, which one often finds in ancient works, but rarely, if ever, in modern works.
Notice the phrase, “his glory was secure”. The quest for glory is everywhere in Beowulf. Thus, Beowulf reminds us of Greco-Roman society, which was inspired by the ethics of glory. In his Funeral Oration, Pericles said, “Famous men have the whole earth as their memorial: it is not only the inscriptions on their graves in their own country that mark them out; no, in foreign lands also, not in any visible form but in people’s hearts, their memory abides and grows.”1 Tacitus, the Roman historian, believed that the ethics of glory incited people to virtue, and that without it, people would sink into decadence and vice: “One object only is to be pursued insatiably: the applauding voice of posterity. For by contemning fame, the virtues that acquire it are contemned.”2
The ethics of glory seems to have inspired all the Aryan peoples who created Europe — Norsemen as well as Greeks and Romans. The ethics of glory is at the heart of European civilization. One finds it in the last lines of Beowulf, which describe Beowulf’s funeral:
After Beowulf, our book group read Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha. Hiawatha is effortless reading; it flows along more smoothly than any poetry I’ve ever read. Unlike Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf, it’s not a translation of an ancient work; rather, it’s based on American Indian legends, transmitted orally. On the whole, Hiawatha is authentic, but it has been sugar-coated to appeal to the reading public. And appeal it did: it was one of the most popular American books of the 19th century. It doesn’t have energy in every line, as Beowulf does, and it doesn’t abound in authentic details, as Beowulf does. But the broad outlines of the story are the product of the Indian collective unconscious, not of Longfellow’s imagination, hence Jung had a high opinion of it, and regarded it as an authentic myth.
In Hiawatha, I find no trace of the ethics of glory. Hiawatha’s goal seems to be helping his people, not winning fame:
Notice how Longfellow uses repetition, and parallel construction, to achieve clarity, and make his poem flow along effortlessly.
I first read Hiawatha about twenty years ago, after reading Jung’s comments on it in Symbols of Transformation. Jung argues that many of Hiawatha’s battles are against mother-figures and father-figures, they are battles for independence from parent-images. Jung speaks of the importance of “giving up the connection with the mother, relinquishing all the ties and limitations which the psyche has taken over from childhood into adult life.... It is not possible to live too long amid infantile surroundings, or in the bosom of the family, without endangering one’s psychic health. Life calls us forth to independence.”4
Jung mentions various heroes, including Buddha, who left their father’s house, and set off on their own. He also mentions Horus, an Egyptian deity, who “snatches the head-dress from his mother [Isis], the emblem of her power.”5 In a footnote, Jung speaks of “Horus’s sacrilegious assault on Isis, which so horrifies Plutarch.”
A reader of Proust will be reminded of Proust’s ‘sacrilegious assaults’ on his mother. Proust’s biographer, discussing Swann’s Way, speaks of “Mlle. Vinteuil’s desecration of her dead father at Montjouvain,”6 and I seem to remember a similar episode in Proust’s own life. Perhaps Proust could achieve freedom and independence only if his mother died, hence he may have willed her death (consciously or unconsciously), as Swann willed Odette’s death: “Sometimes [Swann] hoped that [Odette] would die, painlessly, in some accident, she who was out of doors in the streets, crossing busy thoroughfares, from morning to night.... Swann felt a very cordial sympathy with that Mahomet II... who, on finding that he had fallen madly in love with one of his wives, stabbed her, in order... to recover his spiritual freedom.”7
Proust would have understood Oscar Wilde’s paradox, “we always kill the thing we love.” In fact, Proust did feel that he had killed his mother, just as he felt that he had killed his beloved chauffeur, Albert Agostinelli: “Thinking at once of my grandmother’s death and of Albertine’s, it seemed to me that my life was stained with a double murder.”8 (In Proust’s work, his mother is represented by his grandmother, and Albert Agostinelli by Albertine.)
We kill the thing we love in order to achieve freedom, independence, a strong character, in order to learn what Nietzsche called the ultimate art: the art of self love. One might compare this process to the process of psychotherapy, which often begins with “transference” — that is, strong feelings for the therapist himself — and ends with the patient drawing these strong feelings back into himself, and thereby strengthening his ego, his character.
After Proust killed the ones he loved, what happened? What was the outcome? What did he gain by his double murder? He gained one of the greatest literary works of the 20th century. “[Proust] set to work far more earnestly after his parents’ death, and his mourning for them is generally considered to have inspired the greatness of his literary achievement.”9 What is true of Proust’s mourning for his parents is surely true of his mourning for Albert/Albertine, too; it, too, “inspired the greatness of his literary achievement.”
Jung continues his discussion of “the battle for independence” with a quotation from Nietzsche: “We must suppose that a mind in which the ideal of the ‘free spirit’ can grow to maturity and perfection has had its decisive crisis in some great act of emancipation.... A sudden horror and mistrust of what it loved, a flash of contempt for its so-called ‘duty,’ a rebellious, willful, volcanically impelling desire for travel, strangeness, estrangement, coldness, disillusion, glaciation; a hatred of love, perhaps a sacrilegious grasp and glance backwards to everything it had worshipped and loved till then, perhaps a blush of shame over what it has just done and at the same time an exultation over having done it.... [When Proust profaned his mother’s memory, he probably felt “a blush of shame... and at the same time an exultation over having done it.”] Of such evil and painful things is the history of the great emancipation composed.... this first eruption of strength and will to self-determination.”
When Nietzsche speaks of a desire for travel, I recall something that I wrote in my book of aphorisms: “Traveling often prompts people to make important decisions, and it often forms a turning-point in people’s lives. The desire to travel that young people often have is prompted by a desire to break the emotional bonds that have hitherto tied them to home and family.”10 Traveling often forms a chapter in the battle for independence.
In the January issue of Phlit, I discussed The Grail Legend, a Jungian interpretation of the Quest for the Holy Grail. It’s full of interesting ideas, but it assumes that the reader is already familiar with Jung, and it’s quite difficult to read, so it probably wasn’t a good choice for the book group. The hero, Perceval, is raised by his mother, then leaves his mother in order to seek glory as a knight. He marries a woman named Blancheflor. So far he seems to be following the injunction to ‘leave thy mother and father, and cleave unto thy wife’.11 But soon he leaves Blancheflor as well. The authors of The Grail Legend (Emma Jung and Marie-Louise von Franz) say that Perceval must leave Blancheflor in order to challenge himself with new adventures, and in order to achieve a proper relationship to his own unconscious, which might be projected onto his wife if he remained with her. The battle for independence can’t be reduced to the simple formula, ‘leave thy mother and father, and cleave unto thy wife’; Perceval’s battle for independence entailed leaving his wife as well as his parents.
There don’t seem to be any simple formulas in psychology; everything is “but on the other hand...”, “yet at the same time...” etc.
According to The Grail Legend, King Arthur and his knights represent an earlier stage of development than Perceval. Arthur is the man of virtue who battles the forces of evil, while Perceval is the introspective man who recognizes the forces of evil within himself, who recognizes the shadow within himself.
Arthur’s Round Table is “a symbol in which is mirrored the developing consciousness of Christian man in the first millennium. In those days the spread of Christianity was linked with the great civilizing task of subduing the aboriginal brutality and unconsciousness of the heathen peoples. This lent a higher meaning to the Christian knight’s aggressive masculinity, which was put to the service of a nobler ideal and a higher state of consciousness.”12 Just as Perceval represents a higher stage than Arthur, so Arthur represents a higher stage than the civilization that preceded him; Arthur represents virtue as opposed to violence, consciousness as opposed to instinct.
Arthur, Gawain, Galahad, and the other figures associated with the Round Table are Knights of Virtue, while Perceval is a different sort of knight. “It is a very remarkable fact that just at the time of the high flowering of chivalry, a hero (Perceval), whose most essential characteristics were a spiritual search and an undoubted lack of certainty, amounting even to a burden of guilt, should take the stage alongside the perfect Christian knights (Gawain, Galahad) as the most important figure in the Grail legend. A higher value is placed on the more human hero than on the conventional noble knight, for to be able to doubt oneself, to grope one’s lonely way, step by uncertain step, appears to represent a higher achievement of consciousness than naïvely to follow collective ideals.”13 An interesting argument, and a plausible argument, but the evidence supporting it is thin. The authors of The Grail Legend don’t give the reader any anecdotes that suggest Perceval is introspective and uncertain, they simply tell the reader that he’s introspective and uncertain, perhaps because earlier Grail scholars made that argument.
Perhaps the most important concept in Jungian psychology is the concept of The Self. The Self is the archetype of archetypes, a mid-point between consciousness and the unconscious, the goal of the individual’s development. The Self is sometimes symbolized by a circle, sometimes by a square, sometimes by a mandala, i.e., concentric and inter-locking squares and circles.
According to Jung, Christ is a symbol of The Self, hence he is often surrounded by the four evangelists. A king is also a symbol of The Self, and Christ is sometimes called “the king of kings”. King Arthur, with his Round Table and his twelve knights (analogous to Christ’s twelve apostles) is a symbol of The Self. The treasure sought by mythical heroes, the treasure hard to attain, is a symbol of The Self. The philosopher’s stone, sought by the alchemists, is a symbol of The Self. The Holy Grail is also a symbol of The Self, and in one version of the Grail legend (Wolfram von Eschenbach’s version) the Holy Grail is a stone. In most Grail stories, the Grail is a chalice, originally used to hold Christ’s blood. “The Grail’s many wonderful attributes, which qualify it as a ‘treasure hard to attain’, and its analogy to the alchemical stone, which in Wolfram actually goes as far as identification, justify its being taken as a symbol of the Self. Inasmuch as it is in many versions a relic of Christ’s blood, it is clear that this symbol of the Self has a connection with the Christ-image.”14
To realize the Self, and attain wholeness, one must not only listen to one’s unconscious, one must also listen to one’s conscious mind. While Jung advises us to pay attention to the unconscious, he also warns us against the danger of getting stuck in the unconscious. One must respect the unconscious and consciousness equally, while not submitting completely to either. The authors of The Grail Legend compare human life to a planet that is kept in its orbit by two opposing forces. The Grail Legend ends with the following sentence: “This narrow path between the opposites, which must be adhered to with the greatest constancy, because every deviation places the goal in question, is the way to the realization of the Self.”15
According to Jungians, Christ is a symbol of the Self — a one-sided Self, a Self from which all that is dark, all that is evil, all that is shadow has been excluded. Other symbols of the Self, such as the yin-yang symbol, are a blend of dark and light, but Christ is completely light, completely good. The ancient Hebrew God, Yahweh, is an impulsive, violent being, a blend of dark and light, good and evil. When Yahweh evolved into a God of light, his dark side was relegated to Satan, and to the Antichrist. Instead of blending dark and light, Christianity has sharpened their opposition.
One purpose of alchemy, and of the Grail legend, is to compensate for the one-sided nature of Christ. The philosopher’s stone (or lapis), which was sought by the alchemists, was a blend of dark and light. Wolfram, who described the Grail as a stone, said “the Grail stone was left behind on earth and guarded by those angels who had remained neutral during the strife between God and Satan.... It is therefore those angels who were opposed to the rending apart of the divine inner opposites and who sought to maintain a state of balance and to hold fast to the original unity of the God-image who now watch over the Grail. In alchemy, the lapis represents a similar light-dark unity of the divine opposites.”16
In addition to the lapis, the alchemical symbol Mercurius also blends light and dark, good and evil. “Mercurius [is] cunning and duplex (double); one text says of him that ‘he runs around the earth and enjoys equally the company of the good and the wicked.’ He is an embodiment of the original man, a figure that unites Christ, the light half of the symbol of the Self, with its dark half, the Antichrist, in one being.”17 The authors of The Grail Legend are struck by the similarity between Mercurius (an alchemical symbol) and Merlin (a character in the Grail story): “It is amazing how such a figure of the Self emerges almost simultaneously as Mercurius in Occidental alchemy and as Merlin in the Grail legend. This indicates how profound the psychic need must already have been at that time for some such undivided personification of the incarnated Godhead that should heal the opposites of Christ-Antichrist.”18
Why did Christianity exaggerate the light, positive, good aspect of Christ? Perhaps this was done in order to restrain the barbarian energies of recently-Christianized peoples. Once these energies were brought under control, Europeans were ready to acknowledge their own dark side, their own shadow; the age of Arthur had ended, and the age of Perceval had begun. “The circle of knights around Arthur mirrors the symbol of the Self as it was manifested in the first half of the Christian age, an image in which the light, spiritual, masculine aspect of Logos predominated one-sidedly and whose vital expansion served the civilizing purpose of overcoming pagan and animal primitivity. At this stage, the problem of the shadow, of the individual inner opposite, is not yet constellated but is still projected outwardly on to the barbarian opponents who must be overcome.”19
Because Christ was entirely light and good, Christian thinkers believed that evil had no positive existence, evil was simply a lack of good (privatio boni). Some Protestant sects even eliminated the devil, in order to drive out every vestige of evil. Jung says that in actual life one must acknowledge the existence of evil, and Jung praises the Gnostics for doing that: “the Gnostics, whose arguments were very much influenced by psychic experience, tackled the problem of evil on a broader basis than the Church Fathers.... So far as we can judge from experience, light and shadow are so evenly distributed in man’s nature that his psychic totality appears, to say the least of it, in a somewhat murky light.... The dogmatic figure of Christ is so sublime and spotless that everything else turns dark beside it. It is, in fact, so one-sidedly perfect that it demands a psychic complement to restore the balance. This inevitable opposition led very early to the doctrine of the two sons of God, of whom the elder was called Satanaël.”20
Some Christian thinkers predicted the coming of the Antichrist, perhaps in 1000 AD. The reign of the Antichrist would last for 1000 years, as the reign of Christ had lasted for 1000 years. The pendulum that had swung to an extreme of light and good has swung back toward darkness and evil. Did this psychic trend enable Christian thinkers (such as the author of the Book of Revelation) to anticipate the violence and genocide of the 20th century?
Joachim of Floris, who lived from about 1130 to 1200 AD, argued that the human spirit developed through three stages: the age of the Father, the age of the Son, and the age of the Holy Spirit. The Father is described in the Old Testament. The Father is both dark and light, both benevolent and destructive, and man accepts him as he is, without criticism, as a child accepts a parent.
In the New Testament, the Son of God appears on the scene. In the age of the Son, “conscious consideration of previously accepted things begins and with it criticism, judgment and moral differentiation. The condition of the Son is, accordingly, one of conflict.... In most religions, the archetypal form of the Son of God is a figure of suffering.”21 One thinks of adolescence, when uncritical acceptance of the parents is replaced by judgment and criticism.
In the third age, the age of the Holy Spirit, man listens to the Holy Spirit, listens to the voice within, listens to the unconscious; the third age “corresponds on the human level to an attitude that, through recognition of the guiding and enlightening function of the unconscious, strives to move beyond the state of being suspended in conflict.”22 The age of the Holy Spirit is characterized by “the submission of individual independence to the spirit, i.e. ‘articulating one’s ego consciousness with a supraordinate totality.’”23
In the Grail legend, there is an analogy to the Trinity: the two Grail kings and Perceval form a trinity. “The too-old, seemingly alive king stands for the unconsciousness of the world of the Father, the wounded King for the state of conflict of the Son condition. But Perceval is the man who serves wholeness and, as the tierz hom [the third man], is therefore destined to redeem them both.”24 We live in the third age, the age of the Holy Spirit, the age of Perceval, and it is our destiny to listen to the unconscious, to acknowledge our own shadow, to find the Self within, to find wholeness.
What would Jung say about the current war in Iraq? Perhaps he would say that Bush & Company have fallen into the King Arthur Mistake — they have projected their shadow onto an external opponent (Saddam). They have located evil in particular individuals, instead of acknowledging that evil is part of human nature, evil is in everyone. Because evil is in everyone, we can’t rid the world of evil, we can only try to understand it, try to manage it.
The King Arthur Mistake has been made before in U.S. history. We thought that victory in World War I would enable us to inaugurate an era of peace and harmony in international relations; we regarded World War I as “the war to end all wars”. Later, during World War II, we thought that Hitler was an embodiment of evil, and we failed to realize that our ally, Stalin, was scarcely better than Hitler. After World War II, we decided that Communism was Evil, and we began another Arthurian crusade. When Communism collapsed, we decided that Islamic terrorism was Evil, and started another crusade.
Perhaps Jung would also say that Bush’s critics, who march in the streets and advocate peace, have fallen into the Privatio Boni Mistake, the mistake of believing that evil doesn’t really exist, that Saddam can be dealt with through peaceful means. We all possess a shadow, we all have evil tendencies, but most of us control those tendencies, and hearken to the “better angels of our nature”. A few people, like Stalin and Saddam, are evil — that is, they hearken to their evil tendencies, and they ignore their “better angels”.
War is the best way to deal with Saddam. Things were different with Stalin, Stalin was so strong militarily that we could do nothing but let his regime run its course, and let him indulge his sadistic impulses decade after decade, we could do nothing except try to understand the extent of his evil policies, and try to embarrass him in the court of world opinion. Saddam, on the other hand, isn’t very strong militarily, so we should try to depose him now — before he acquires weapons that will make him impossible to depose.
“But Saddam isn’t a threat to the U.S. The U.S. is invading Iraq in order to acquire oil fields, it is an imperialist war, motivated by economic considerations.” If Saddam and his sons remain in power, it’s only a matter of time before they acquire dangerous weapons, including nuclear weapons. Such weapons could end up in the hands of terrorists, and we know that terrorists have a special fondness for attacking the U.S. As for the Bush administration’s motives, we can never fully understand motives, motivation is so complex that we can’t fully understand our own motives, much less other people’s motives. Why did Shakespeare write Hamlet? For a hundred different reasons, which he himself couldn’t completely sort out and explain. The theory that foreign policy is motivated by economics is (as I argued in an earlier issue of Phlit) over-rated, over-used, and largely false.
Americans expect economic losses from the invasion of Iraq, not economic gains. But many Americans are willing to bear this economic burden because we realize that we made a big mistake by leaving Iraq too quickly at the end of the last Iraq war, we realize that we shouldn’t have abandoned the Iraqis who had risen up against Saddam. In 1991, the Vietnam debacle was still fresh in our minds, and we mistakenly believed that the quicker we could extricate ourselves from a foreign war, the better.
“But there are repressive regimes all over the world. Do you think the U.S. and Britain should pursue ‘regime change’ wherever repressive governments exist?” No, Iraq is a special case; Iraq is a wealthy country, possessing the world’s second-largest oil reserves, and because of this wealth, Iraq can acquire dangerous weapons, perhaps nuclear weapons, and these weapons will not only make Saddam impossible to depose, they will also pose a threat to Iraq’s neighbors and indeed to all nations. Furthermore, Iraq is a special case insofar as Saddam is unusually evil, there aren’t many Saddams in the world.
Saddam respects Stalin, studies his life, and emulates his policies; a visitor to Saddam’s library was surprised to find row upon row of books about Stalin. Around 1980, when Saddam gained control of the Ba’ath party, he summoned top officials to a meeting, and read out the names of “traitors”, who were then dragged away and executed; this incident comes straight out of a Stalin biography. Around 1990, Saddam was worried by the sight of Stalinist regimes in Eastern Europe collapsing. When his sons became teenagers, he took them to a prison, where they executed some criminals, and learned to ignore their “better angels”. The later conduct of Saddam’s sons is a study in sadism.
Since Saddam’s father died when Saddam was young, Saddam was raised by his mother, his uncle, and other relatives. Though Saddam is sometimes portrayed as a penniless, barefoot boy from a small town, his origins might more accurately be described as middle-class, even upper-class. His uncle wrote a tract called “Three Things God Should Not Have Created: Persians, Jews and Flies”; this suggests that his uncle was literate, in a country where the average man probably wasn’t literate. Furthermore, Saddam’s cousin, al-Bakr, was the ruler of Iraq from 1968 until Saddam took power in 1979. So Saddam wasn’t from an average family, let alone a lower-class family.
If a boy is raised in a fatherless family, he stands a greater chance of becoming a hero, and also a greater chance of becoming a criminal. Many mythical heroes, including Perceval, grew up without a father. In The Grail Legend, we read that “a fatherless boy... has to make his own way and is compelled to develop independence and feelings of responsibility, while a boy who lives under the guidance of a father who offers him support will be less impelled towards such achievements.”25
But while a fatherless environment can make a hero, it can also make a criminal. The father is the main source of the super-ego, the conscience, and a boy without a father may lack a conscience; an example is Lee Harvey Oswald, the assassin of John F. Kennedy. The love and admiration that is normally directed toward the father are directed toward the fatherless boy himself; Jung said that such a boy may become “terribly autoerotic, even criminal.”26 A psychologist who studied Saddam said, “Saddam is not crazy. He has the most dangerous personality configuration, what we call ‘malignant narcissism,’ such extreme self-absorption, he has no concern for the pain or suffering of others, a paranoid outlook, no constraint of conscience and will use whatever aggression is necessary in pursuit of his own Messianic drives.”27
Freud described narcissistic types thus: “their mental composition... contains some of the essential conditioning factors which make for criminality.... The main interest is focused on self-preservation; the type is independent and not easily overawed. The ego has a considerable amount of aggression available.... People of this type impress others as being ‘personalities’; it is on them that their fellow-men are specially likely to lean; they readily assume the role of leader.”28 Freud’s description of the narcissistic type fits Saddam perfectly. Freud’s description also fits Stalin. Stalin was raised by his father, but since his father beat him mercilessly, he acquired the narcissism that is sometimes found in fatherless boys.
One who knew Saddam during his Cairo exile remembered him as a natural leader:
Saddam relies on his intuition, his “sixth sense”, to detect conspirators; he said, “I can judge a conspirator against me from his looks.” One observer said, “He is able to read between the lines and also to read people’s eyes. Anyone who goes to see him discovers that the first thing the president does is look them in the eyes. He does rely heavily on his sixth sense, on his instinct of just knowing when something is fishy.”30
If ever there were an evil man, it is Saddam; if ever there were an evil regime, it is Saddam’s regime; if ever there were a just war, it is a war to depose Saddam; if ever people could serve their fellow man, it is by helping to depose Saddam and set up a new government in Iraq.
|1.|| Thucydides, The Peloponessian War, 2 back|
|2.|| Annals, IV, 38 back|
|3.|| 5 back|
|4.|| Symbols of Transformation, ¶461 back|
|5.|| ibid, ¶471 back|
|6.|| Marcel Proust: A Biography, by George Painter, vol. II, 3, p. 64. This episode is in the “Combray” chapter of Swann’s Way, p. 208. back|
|7.|| Swann’s Way, “Swann In Love”. This passage was written before Agostinelli’s death, and it strengthens our suspicions that Proust willed, even arranged, Agostinelli’s death, consciously or unconsciously. back|
|8.|| The Sweet Cheat Gone, I back|
|9.|| Nostalgia: A Psychoanalytic Study of Marcel Proust, by Milton L. Miller, ch. 7 back|
|10.|| Conversations With Great Thinkers, ch. 4, “Ethics”, #69, “Traveling” back|
|11.|| Genesis 2:23 back|
|12.|| The Grail Legend, ch. 3 back|
|13.|| ibid, ch. 12 back|
|14.|| ibid, ch. 8 back|
|15.|| ibid, ch. 24 back|
|16.|| ibid back|
|17.|| ibid, ch. 22 back|
|18.|| ibid back|
|19.|| ibid, ch. 12 back|
|20.|| C. G. Jung, Aion, ch. 5; Collected Works, vol. IX, part 2, ¶75-77 back|
|21.|| The Grail Legend, ch. 27 back|
|22.|| ibid back|
|23.|| ibid. The quote within the quote is from Jung’s essay, “A Psychological Approach to the Dogma of the Trinity”. back|
|24.|| ibid back|
|25.|| ibid, ch. 2 back|
|26.|| C. G. Jung Speaking: Interviews and Encounters, “1957” back|
|27.|| Dr. Jerrold M. Post, Political Psychologist, George Washington University, quoted in “Frontline: The Mind of Hussein”, first broadcast February 26, 1991 back|
|28.|| see Freud’s essay, “Libidinal Types” (1931) back|
|29.|| Ahmed Abbas Saleh, former Press Officer, Iraqi Embassy, quoted in “Frontline: The Mind of Hussein”, first broadcast February 26, 1991; I’ve polished the language, which is somewhat rough. back|
|30.||Fouad Matar, Official Hussein Biographer, quoted in “Frontline: The Mind of Hussein”, first broadcast February 26, 1991 back|