Psychological Types

In the following pages I shall attempt a general description of the types, and my first concern must be with the two general types I have termed introverted and extraverted. But, in addition, I shall also try to give a certain characterization of those special types whose particularity is due to the fact that his most differentiated function plays the principal role in an individual's adaptation or orientation to life. The former I would term general attitude types, since they are distinguished by the direction of general interest or libido movement, while the latter I would call function-types.

In the next few pages, I'll give an overview of the personality types, starting with the two broad categories I call introverted and extraverted. In addition, I'll also try to describe the specific personality types that are defined by the fact that a person's most developed psychological function plays the leading role in how they adapt to and navigate life. I call the first group general attitude types because they are defined by the overall direction of a person's interest or energy (libido), and I call the second group function types because they are defined by which psychological function is most developed in the individual.

The general-attitude types, as I have pointed out more than once, are differentiated by their particular attitude to the object. The introvert's attitude to the object is an abstracting one; at bottom, he is always facing the problem of how libido can be withdrawn from the object, as though an attempted ascendancy on the part of the object had to be continually frustrated. The extravert, on the contrary, maintains a positive relation to the object. To such an extent does he affirm its importance that his subjective attitude is continually being orientated by, and related to the object. An fond, the object can never have sufficient value; for him, therefore, its importance must always be paramount.

As I've mentioned several times, the general attitude types are distinguished by how a person relates to the external world—or "the object." The introvert's attitude toward the external world is one of abstraction—they tend to pull their focus away from outer objects. At a deeper level, they are preoccupied with how to withdraw their psychological energy (libido) from external things, as if they must constantly counteract the object's pull or prevent it from taking control. The extravert, by contrast, maintains an active and engaged relationship with the external world. They place so much importance on the external world that their inner perspective is constantly shaped and directed by their relationship to it. At their core, the external world can never be valued highly enough; for them, its significance must always take priority.

The two types are so essentially different, presenting so striking a contrast, that their existence, even to the uninitiated in psychological matters becomes an obvious fact, when once attention has been drawn to it. Who does not know those taciturn, impenetrable, often shy natures, who form such a vivid contrast to these other open, sociable, serene maybe, or at least friendly and accessible characters, who are on good terms with all the world, or, even when disagreeing with it, still hold a relation to it by which they and it are mutually affected.

The two types are fundamentally different and show such a clear contrast that, once you become aware of them, their existence becomes obvious—even to those unfamiliar with psychology. Who doesn't recognize those quiet, hard-to-read, often shy personalities that stand in sharp contrast to the open, sociable, and maybe calm—or at least friendly and approachable—people who get along well with everyone, or even when they disagree, still maintain a connection that influences both themselves and the world around them?

Naturally, at first, one is inclined to regard such differences as mere individual idiosyncrasies. But anyone with the opportunity of gaining a fundamental knowledge of many men will soon discover that such a far-reaching contrast does not merely concern the individual case, but is a question of typical attitudes, with a universality far greater than a limited psychological experience would at first assume. In reality, as the preceding chapters will have shown, it is a question of a fundamental opposition; at times clear and at times obscure, but always emerging whenever we are dealing with individuals whose personality is in any way pronounced. Such men are found not only among the educated classes, but in every rank of society; with equal distinctness, therefore, our types can be demonstrated among labourers and peasants as among the most differentiated members of a nation. Furthermore, these types over-ride the distinctions of sex, since one finds the same contrasts amongst women of all classes. Such a universal distribution could hardly arise at the instigation of consciousness, ie. as the result of a conscious and deliberate choice of attitude. If this were the case, a definite level of society, linked together by a similar education and environment and, therefore, correspondingly localized, would surely have a majority representation of such an attitude. But the actual facts are just the reverse, for the types have, apparently, quite a random distribution. In the same family one child is introverted, and another extraverted.

At first, it's natural to see these differences as just unique personal quirks. However, anyone who has the chance to deeply understand many people will quickly realize that this profound difference isn't just about individual quirks—it reflects basic personality attitudes that are much more universal than a limited experience might initially suggest. In fact, as the earlier chapters have shown, this is a fundamental opposition—sometimes obvious, sometimes subtle—but it always appears when we encounter people with strong or distinctive personalities. These types of people aren't just found among the educated—they appear clearly in every level of society. So, we can observe these personality types just as distinctly in workers and peasants as we do among the most developed individuals in a nation. Moreover, these personality types transcend gender differences, as the same contrasts can be seen among women across all social classes. Such a widespread presence of these types is unlikely to result from conscious decisions or deliberate choices about how to approach life. If that were true, then within any specific social group—connected by shared education and environment—we would expect to see one dominant attitude prevailing among most people. But in reality, the opposite is true: these personality types appear to be distributed randomly across different social groups. Within the same family, one child may be introverted while another is extraverted.

Since, in the light of these facts, the attitude-type regarded as a general phenomenon having an apparent random distribution, can be no affair of conscious judgment or intention, its existence must be due to some unconscious instinctive cause. The contrast of types, therefore, as a universal psychological phenomenon, must in some way or other have its biological precursor.

Given these facts, and since attitude types appear randomly and aren't a matter of conscious choice, their existence must be rooted in some unconscious, instinctive cause. Therefore, the contrast between these personality types, as a universal psychological phenomenon, must have some kind of biological basis or origin.

The relation between subject and object, considered biologically, is always a relation of adaptation, since every relation between subject and object presupposes mutually modifying effects from either side. These modifications constitute the adaptation. The typical attitudes to the object, therefore, are adaptation processes. Nature knows two fundamentally different ways of adaptation, which determine the further existence of the living organism the one is by increased fertility, accompanied by a relatively small degree of defensive power and individual conservation; the other is by individual equipment of manifold means of self-protection, coupled with a relatively insignificant fertility. This biological contrast seems not merely to be the analogue, but also the general foundation of our two psychological modes of adaptation. At this point a mere general indication must suffice; on the one hand, I need only point to the peculiarity of the extravert, which constantly urges him to spend and propagate himself in every way, and, on the other, to the tendency of the introvert to defend himself against external claims, to conserve himself from any expenditure of energy directly related to the object, thus consolidating for himself the most secure and impregnable position.

From a biological perspective, the relationship between a person (subject) and the outside world (object) is always one of adaptation, because both influence and change each other. These mutual changes are what make up the process of adaptation. So, the typical ways people relate to the external world are essentially different forms of adaptation. Nature has two basic ways that living beings adapt to survive: one is by producing many offspring but having limited ability to defend or protect themselves individually; the other is by developing strong personal defenses and protective traits, but producing fewer offspring. This biological contrast appears to be not just a parallel, but the fundamental basis for the two psychological ways people adapt to life. For now, a brief summary must do: on one hand, the extravert is characterized by a constant drive to express and share themselves outwardly; on the other hand, the introvert tends to protect themselves from outside demands, conserving their energy by withdrawing from direct engagement with the external world, thereby creating a secure and strong inner position.

Blake's intuition did not err when he described the two forms as the "prolific" and the "devouring" As is shown by the general biological example, both forms are current and successful after their kind ; this is equally true of the typical attitudes. What the one brings about by a multiplicity of relations, the other gains by monopoly.

William Blake's intuition was accurate when he described the two forms as the "prolific" and the "devouring." By this, Blake contrasted creative, expansive energy with a more consuming, inward-focused force. As shown by the biological example, both ways of adapting—whether through producing many offspring or through strong individual defense—are effective in their own way. Similarly, in psychology, one personality type achieves success by forming many different connections and relationships, while the other succeeds by focusing intensely and exclusively on a few key areas or interests.

The fact that often in their earliest years children display an unmistakable typical attitude forces us to assume that it cannot possibly be the struggle for existence, as it is generally understood, which constitutes the compelling factor in favour of a definite attitude. We might, however, demur, and indeed with cogency, that even the tiny infant, the very babe at the breast, has already an unconscious psychological adaptation to perform, inasmuch as the special character of the maternal influence leads to specific reactions in the child. This argument, though appealing to incontestable facts, has none the less to yield before the equally unarguable fact that two children of the same mother may at a very early age exhibit opposite types, without the smallest accompanying change in the attitude of the mother. Although nothing would induce me to underestimate the well-nigh incalculable importance of parental influence, this experience compels me to conclude that the decisive factor must be looked for in the disposition of the child. The fact that, in spite of the greatest possible similarity of external conditions, one child will assume this type while another that, must, of course, in the last resort he ascribed to individual disposition. Naturally in saying this I only refer to those cases which occur under normal conditions. Under abnormal conditions, i.e. when there is an extreme and, therefore, abnormal attitude in the mother, the children can also be coerced into a relatively similar attitude; but this entails a violation of their individual disposition, which quite possibly would have assumed another type if no abnormal and disturbing external influence had intervened. As a rule, whenever such a falsification of type takes place as a result of external influence, the individual becomes neurotic later, and a cure can successfully be sought only in a development of that attitude which corresponds with the individual's natural way.

The fact that children often show clear personality types from a very young age suggests that their attitude isn't shaped primarily by the usual idea of "survival of the fittest" or life struggles as we commonly understand them. However, one could reasonably argue that even a newborn baby has an unconscious psychological adjustment to make, since the unique nature of the mother's influence naturally triggers specific responses in the child. While this argument is supported by undeniable facts, it must give way to the equally undeniable observation that two children from the same mother can show opposite personality types very early on, even though their mother's behavior remains exactly the same. While I fully recognize the enormous importance of parental influence, this observation forces me to conclude that the key factor lies in the child's own innate temperament or disposition. The fact that—even when external conditions are as similar as possible—one child develops one personality type while another develops a different one, must ultimately be attributed to each child's unique individual nature. Of course, in saying this, I'm referring only to cases that arise under normal, healthy circumstances. In abnormal situations—such as when the mother has an extreme and unhealthy attitude—children can be pressured into adopting a similar attitude. However, this goes against their natural disposition, which likely would have developed into a different personality type if there had been no such disturbing external influence. Usually, when a person's natural personality type is distorted by external pressures, they tend to develop neuroses later in life. Healing is generally only possible by helping the person reconnect with and develop the attitude that truly aligns with their inborn nature.

As regards the particular disposition, I know not what to say, except that there are clearly individuals who have either a greater readiness and capacity for one way, or for whom it is more congenial to adapt to that way rather than the other. In the last analysis it may well be that physiological causes, inaccessible to our knowledge, play a part in this. That this may be the case seems to me not improbable, in view of one's experience that a reversal of type often proves exceedingly harmful to the physiological well-being of the organism, often provoking an acute state of exhaustion.

As for the nature of this individual disposition, I can only say that some people clearly have a greater natural tendency or ability to follow one path over the other, or simply find one way of adapting more comfortable and fitting for them. Ultimately, it's quite possible that underlying physiological factors—beyond our current understanding—play a role in shaping these dispositions. This seems likely to me, especially given the observation that forcing a person to adopt the opposite personality type can seriously harm their physical health, often leading to extreme fatigue or burnout.

In our descriptions of this and the following type it will be necessary, in the interest of lucid and comprehensive presentation, to discriminate between the conscious and unconscious psychology. Let us first lend our minds to a description of the phenomena of consciousness.

In describing this type and the next, we'll need to clearly distinguish between conscious and unconscious psychological processes in order to give a clear and complete picture. To begin, let's focus on the traits that appear in conscious experience.

Everyone is, admittedly, orientated by the data with which the outer world provides him ; yet we see that this may be the case in a way that is only relatively decisive. Because it is cold out of doors, one man is persuaded to wear his overcoat, another from a desire to become hardened finds this unnecessary; one man admires the new tenor because all the world admires him, another withholds his approbation not because he dislikes him but because in his view the subject of general admiration is not thereby proved to be admirable; one submits to [p. 417] a given state of affairs because his experience argues nothing else to be possible, another is convinced that, although it has repeated itself a thousand times in the same way, the thousand and first will be different. The former is orientated by the objective data; the latter reserves a view, which is, as it were, interposed between himself and the objective fact. Now, when the orientation to the object and to objective facts is so predominant that the most frequent and essential decisions and actions are determined, not by subjective values but by objective relations, one speaks of an extraverted attitude. When this is habitual, one speaks of an extraverted type. If a man so thinks, feels, and acts, in a word so lives, as to correspond directly with objective conditions and their claims, whether in a good sense or ill, he is extraverted. His life makes it perfectly clear that it is the objective rather than the subjective value which plays the greater role as the determining factor of his consciousness. He naturally has subjective values, but their determining power has less importance than the external objective conditions. Never, therefore, does he expect to find any absolute factors in his own inner life, since the only ones he knows are outside himself. Epimetheus-like, his inner life succumbs to the external necessity, not of course without a struggle; which, however, always ends in favour of the objective determinant. His entire consciousness looks outwards to the world, because the important and decisive determination always comes to him from without. But it comes to him from without, only because that is where he expects it. All the distinguishing characteristics of his psychology, in so far as they do not arise from the priority of one definite psychological function or from individual peculiarities, have their origin in this basic attitude. Interest and attention follow objective happenings and, primarily, those of the immediate environment. Not only persons, but things, seize and rivet his interest. His actions, therefore, are also governed by the influence of persons and things. They are directly related to objective data and determinations, and are, as it were, exhaustively explainable on these grounds. Extraverted action is recognizably related to objective conditions. In so far it is not purely reactive to environmental stimuli, its character is constantly applicable to the actual circumstances, and it finds adequate and appropriate play within the limits of the objective situation. It has no serious tendency to transcend these bounds. The same holds good for interest: objective occurrences have a well-nigh inexhaustible charm, so that in the normal course the extravert's interest makes no other claims.

Everyone, of course, is influenced by information from the outside world—but we can see that this influence varies in how strongly it shapes a person's overall attitude. For example, when it's cold outside, one person puts on a coat because it's sensible, while another, wanting to toughen himself, chooses not to. One person praises a new tenor simply because everyone else does, while another holds back—not out of dislike, but because popular opinion alone doesn't prove the singer is truly admirable. One person accepts a situation as unchangeable because past experience suggests no alternative, while another believes that, even if it's happened the same way a thousand times, the next time could still be different. The first person is guided directly by the facts of the outer world, while the second holds back, placing a personal perspective or filter between himself and the external reality. When a person's focus on the external world and objective facts is so strong that their major decisions and actions are guided more by outward circumstances than by their own inner values, we call this an extraverted attitude. When this outward orientation becomes a consistent pattern, we refer to the person as having an extraverted psychological type. If a person thinks, feels, and acts—in other words, lives—in a way that directly aligns with external conditions and their demands, whether positively or negatively, then he is considered extraverted. His way of living clearly shows that it's external, objective values—not his inner, subjective ones—that have the strongest influence on how he thinks and makes decisions. Of course, he still has inner, personal values—but they carry less weight in shaping his behavior than the external, objective circumstances do. Because of this, he never expects to find any absolute or unchanging truths within himself—he believes that such definitive factors exist only outside in the external world. Like Epimetheus from mythology, his inner life yields to external demands—not without resistance, but in the end, the external reality always takes precedence. His entire awareness is directed outward toward the world because the important and decisive influences always come from outside him. But they come from outside only because that's where he expects them to come from. All the key features of his psychology—aside from the effects of a dominant psychological function or unique personal traits—stem from this fundamental outward focus. His interest and attention naturally follow external events, especially those happening in his immediate surroundings. It's not just people who capture his attention, but also objects and things. Consequently, his actions are influenced by people and things around him. His behavior is closely tied to external facts and circumstances and can be fully understood by these external influences. Extraverted behavior clearly responds to outside conditions. While it's not simply a mechanical reaction to the environment, its nature fits well within actual situations and plays out appropriately within the limits of the external world. It doesn't tend to go beyond these boundaries. The same applies to his interests: external events hold an almost endless fascination, so under normal conditions, the extravert's focus rarely extends beyond the outside world.

The moral laws which govern his action coincide with the corresponding claims of society, i.e. with the generally valid moral view-point. If the generally valid view were different, the subjective moral guiding line would also be different, without the general psychological habitus being in any way changed. It might almost seem, although it, is by no means the case, that this rigid determination by objective factors would involve an altogether ideal and complete adaptation to general conditions of life. An accommodation to objective data, such as we have described, must, of course, seem a complete adaptation to the extraverted view, since from this standpoint no other criterion exists. But from a higher point of view, it is by no means granted that the standpoint of objectively given, facts is the normal one under all circumstances. Objective conditions may be either temporarily or locally abnormal. An individual who is accommodated to such con certainly conforms to the abnormal style of his surroundings, but, in relation to the universally valid laws of life. He is, in common with his milieu, in an abnormal position. The individual may, however, thrive in such surroundings [p. 419] but only to the point when he, together with his whole milieu, is destroyed for transgressing the universal laws of life. He must inevitably participate in this downfall with the same completeness as he was previously adjusted to the objectively valid situation. He is adjusted, but not adapted, since adaptation demands more than a mere frictionless participation in the momentary conditions of the immediate environment. (Once more I would point to Spitteler's Epimetheus). Adaptation demands an observance of laws far more universal in their application than purely local and temporary conditions. Mere adjustment is the limitation of the normal extraverted type. On the one hand, the extravert owes his normality to his ability to fit into existing conditions with relative ease. He naturally pretends to nothing more than the satisfaction of existing objective possibilities, applying himself, for instance, to the calling which offers sound prospective possibilities in the actual situation in time and place. He tries to do or to make just what his milieu momentarily needs and expects from him, and abstains from every innovation that is not entirely obvious, or that in any way exceeds the expectation of those around him. But on the other hand, his normality must also depend essentially upon whether the extravert takes into account the actuality of his subjective needs and requirements; and this is just his weak point, for the tendency of his type has such a strong outward direction that even the most obvious of all subjective facts, namely the condition of his own body, may quite easily receive inadequate consideration. The body is not sufficiently objective or 'external,' so that the satisfaction of simple elementary requirements which are indispensable to physical well-being are no longer given their place. The body accordingly suffers, to say nothing of the soul. Although, as a rule, the extravert takes small note of this latter circumstance, his intimate domestic circle perceives it all the more keenly. His loss of equilibrium is perceived by himself only when abnormal bodily sensations make themselves felt.

The moral principles that guide his behavior align with society's widely accepted ethical standards. If society's general moral viewpoint were different, his personal moral direction would also change, without altering his overall psychological makeup. It might almost seem—though this is definitely not true—that strictly following external factors would lead to a perfect and complete adjustment to life's general conditions. Adjusting to external facts, as described, naturally appears to be a full adaptation from the extraverted perspective, since no other standard exists from that viewpoint. However, from a broader perspective, it's not guaranteed that focusing solely on external facts is always the normal or healthiest position. External circumstances can sometimes be unusual or abnormal, either temporarily or in a specific location. A person who fits into such abnormal surroundings certainly follows the unusual style of their environment, but in relation to universally valid life laws, they—and their environment—are in an abnormal state. Such a person might do well in that environment—but only until they, along with their environment, face destruction for breaking universal laws of life. They will inevitably share in this downfall just as completely as they were once adjusted to the objectively valid situation. They are adjusted but not truly adapted, since real adaptation requires more than just smoothly fitting into the current local conditions. (Again, I refer to Spitteler's Epimetheus.) True adaptation requires obeying laws that are far more universal than just local or temporary circumstances. Simple adjustment is the main limitation of the typical extraverted type. On one side, the extravert's normalcy comes from his ability to fit into existing conditions fairly easily. He doesn't claim more than taking advantage of the current external possibilities—for example, choosing a job that looks promising where and when he lives. He tries to do exactly what his environment currently needs and expects, avoiding any innovation that isn't clearly accepted or goes beyond others' expectations. But on the other hand, his normalcy also depends on whether he considers his own inner needs and desires—which is often his weak point. His focus is so outward that even the most basic personal fact—his own physical condition—can be easily overlooked. Because the body isn't seen as sufficiently external or objective, essential physical needs often don't get the attention they deserve. As a result, his body suffers—and so does his mind. Although the extravert usually doesn't notice this, those closest to him at home are very aware of it, and he only becomes aware of his imbalance when obvious physical symptoms force his attention.

These tangible facts he cannot ignore. It is natural he should regard them as concrete and 'objective', since for his mentality there exists only this and nothing more — in himself. In others he at once sees "imagination" at work. A too extraverted attitude may actually become so regardless of the subject that the latter is entirely sacrificed to so-called objective claims; to the demands, for instance, of a continually extending business, because orders lie claiming one's attention or because profitable possibilities are constantly being opened up which must instantly be seized.

He cannot ignore these concrete facts. It's natural for him to see them as real and objective, because in his way of thinking, nothing else exists—certainly not inside himself. In other people, he immediately assumes imagination is at work. An overly extraverted attitude can become so focused on external demands that the individual's own needs are completely sacrificed—for example, to the pressures of a growing business, because orders require immediate attention or new opportunities must be quickly pursued.

This is the extravert's danger; he becomes caught up in objects, wholly losing himself in their toils. The functional (nervous) or actual physical disorders which result from this state have a compensatory significance, forcing the subject to an involuntary self-restriction. Should the symptoms be functional, their peculiar formation may symbolically express the psychological situation; a singer, for instance, whose fame quickly reaches a dangerous pitch tempting him to a disproportionate outlay of energy, is suddenly robbed of his high tones by a nervous inhibition. A man of very modest beginnings rapidly reaches a social position of great influence and wide prospects, when suddenly he is overtaken by a psychogenic state, with all the symptoms of mountain-sickness. Again, a man on the point of marrying an idolized woman of doubtful character, whose value he extravagantly over-estimates, is seized with a spasm of the oesophagus, which forces him to a regimen of two cups of milk in the day, demanding his three-hourly attention. All visits to his fiancée are thus effectually stopped, and no choice is left to him [p. 421] but to busy himself with his bodily nourishment. A man who through his own energy and enterprise has built up a vast business, entailing an intolerable burden of work, is afflicted by nervous attacks of thirst, as a result of which he speedily falls a victim to hysterical alcoholism.

This is the extravert's risk: he becomes so absorbed in external things that he completely loses himself in their demands. The resulting nervous or physical health problems serve as a kind of warning, forcing him to limit himself involuntarily. When these symptoms are nervous in nature, their specific form may symbolically reflect the underlying psychological issue; for example, a singer whose rising fame pushes him to expend too much energy suddenly loses his ability to reach high notes due to nervous inhibition. A man from humble origins quickly gains a position of great social influence and opportunity, but then suffers a psychologically caused illness resembling mountain sickness. Similarly, a man about to marry a highly idealized but questionable woman—whom he overvalues—develops a spasm in his esophagus that restricts him to drinking only two cups of milk per day, requiring attention every three hours. As a result, he effectively stops all visits to his fiancée and is left no choice but to focus on his physical health. Another man who has built a huge business through his own effort, facing an unbearable workload, suffers from nervous episodes of intense thirst and quickly falls into hysterical alcoholism.

Hysteria is, in my view, by far the most frequent neurosis with the extraverted type. The classical example of hysteria is always characterized by an exaggerated rapport with the members of his circle, and a frankly imitatory accommodation to surrounding conditions. A constant tendency to appeal for interest and to produce impressions upon his milieu is a basic trait of the hysterical nature. A correlate to this is his proverbial suggestibility, his pliability to another person's influence. Unmistakable extraversion comes out in the communicativeness of the hysteric, which occasionally leads to the divulging of purely phantastic contents; whence arises the reproach of the hysterical lie.

In my opinion, hysteria is by far the most common neurosis among extraverted individuals. The typical case of hysteria is marked by an exaggerated closeness to people in their social circle and a clearly imitative adaptation to their surroundings. A persistent need to attract attention and make an impression on others is a fundamental trait of someone with hysteria. Related to this is their well-known suggestibility and tendency to be easily influenced by others. Their strong extraversion shows in how talkative they are, which sometimes causes them to reveal completely imagined stories, leading to accusations of lying.

To begin with, the 'hysterical' character is an exaggeration of the normal attitude; it is then complicated by compensatory reactions from the side of the unconscious, which manifests its opposition to the extravagant extraversion in the form of physical disorders, whereupon an introversion of psychic energy becomes unavoidable. Through this reaction of the unconscious, another category of symptoms arises which have a more introverted character. A morbid intensification of phantasy activity belongs primarily to this category. From this general characterization of the extraverted attitude, let us now turn to a description of the modifications, which the basic psychological functions undergo as a result of this attitude.

First, the 'hysterical' personality is an exaggeration of the normal extraverted attitude; it becomes complicated by unconscious reactions that oppose excessive extraversion by causing physical symptoms, which make an inward turning of psychic energy unavoidable. Because of this unconscious reaction, another set of symptoms appears that are more introverted in nature. An unhealthy increase in imaginative activity mainly falls into this category. With this general understanding of the extraverted attitude, let's now move on to describe how the basic psychological functions change as a result of this attitude.

It may perhaps seem odd that I should speak of attitude of the 'unconscious'. As I have already sufficiently indicated, I regard the relation of the unconscious to the conscious as compensatory. The unconscious, according to this view, has as good a claim to an 'attitude' as the conscious.

It might seem strange to talk about the unconscious as having an attitude. But as I've already made clear, I see the unconscious and conscious minds as balancing each other out. From this perspective, the unconscious is just as entitled to be seen as having an 'attitude' as the conscious mind.

In the foregoing section I emphasized the tendency to a certain one-sidedness in the extraverted attitude, due to the controlling power of the objective factor in the course, of psychic events. The extraverted type is constantly tempted to give himself away (apparently) in favour of the object, and to assimilate his subject to the object. I have referred in detail to the ultimate consequences of this exaggeration of the extraverted attitude, viz. to the injurious suppression of the subjective factor. It is only to be expected, therefore, that a psychic compensation of the conscious extraverted attitude will lay especial weight upon the subjective factor, i.e. we shall have to prove a strong egocentric tendency in the unconscious. Practical experience actually furnishes this proof. I do not wish to enter into a casuistical survey at this point, so must refer my readers to the ensuing sections, where I shall attempt to present the characteristic attitude of the unconscious from the angle of each function-type. In this section we are merely concerned with the compensation of a general extraverted attitude; I shall, therefore, confine myself to an equally general characterization of the compensating attitude of the unconscious.

In the previous section, I pointed out that the extraverted attitude tends to become one-sided, since external factors have such strong influence over the flow of psychological events. People with an extraverted type are often tempted to give themselves up—at least outwardly—in favor of external objects, molding their inner life to match what's outside. I've already discussed the long-term effects of pushing the extraverted attitude too far—namely, that it harms the inner, subjective side of the personality. So it's only natural that the unconscious will try to balance this by emphasizing the subjective side—that is, we should expect to find a strong self-centered tendency in the unconscious. And in practice, we do see this happen. I won't go into detailed case studies here, but in the next sections I'll examine how this unconscious attitude appears differently depending on each function-type. For now, we're only looking at how the unconscious compensates for a generally extraverted attitude; so I'll limit myself to describing the unconscious's response in equally general terms.

The attitude of the unconscious as an effective complement to the conscious extraverted attitude has a definitely introverting character. It focusses libido upon the subjective factor, i.e. all those needs and claims which are stifled or repressed by a too extraverted conscious attitude. It may be readily gathered from what has been said in the previous section that a purely objective orientation does violence to a multitude of subjective emotions, intentions, needs, and desires, since it robs them of the energy which is their natural right. Man is not a machine that one can reconstruct, as occasion demands, upon other lines and for quite other ends, in the hope that it will then proceed to function, in a totally different way, just as normally as before. Man bears his age-long history with him— in his very structure is written the history of mankind.

The unconscious, when it tries to balance a strongly extraverted conscious attitude, takes on a clearly introverted character. It redirects energy inward, toward subjective needs and demands that have been ignored or suppressed by an overly outward-facing attitude. As explained earlier, when a person is focused only on the external world, it harms many inner emotions, goals, and desires by depriving them of the energy they naturally deserve. A human being isn't a machine that can simply be rebuilt to serve different purposes and expected to function just as well in an entirely new way. We carry the entire history of humanity within us—our very bodies reflect that long and complex story.

The historical factor represents a vital need, to which a wise economy must respond. Somehow the past must become vocal, and participate in the present. Complete assimilation to the object, therefore, encounters the protest of the suppressed minority, elements belonging to the past and existing from the beginning. From this quite general consideration it may be understood why it is that the unconscious claims of the extraverted type have an essentially primitive, infantile, and egoistical character. When Freud says that the unconscious is "only able to wish", this observation contains a large measure of truth for the unconscious of the extraverted type. Adjustment and assimilation to objective data prevent inadequate subjective impulses from reaching consciousness. These tendencies (thoughts, wishes, affects, needs, feelings, etc.) take on a regressive character corresponding with the degree of their repression, i.e. the less they are recognized, the more infantile and archaic they become. The conscious attitude robs them of their relatively disposable energy-charge, only leaving them the energy of which it cannot deprive them. This remainder, which still possesses a potency not to be under-estimated, can be described only as primeval instinct. Instinct can never be rooted out from an individual by any arbitrary measures; it requires the slow, organic transformation of many generations to effect a radical change, for instinct is the energic expression of a definite organic foundation.

The influence of the past is a fundamental need that must be respected by any healthy psychological balance. In some way, our personal and collective history needs to have a voice in the present. So, total focus on external objects ends up triggering resistance from these suppressed parts of ourselves—parts that are rooted in our history and early development. This is why the unconscious of the extraverted type tends to express itself in ways that are primitive, childlike, and self-centered. Freud's idea that the unconscious "can only wish" is especially true when applied to the unconscious of the extraverted personality. When we are overly adjusted to the outer world, it blocks out personal, inner drives that aren't immediately useful or appropriate. These inner needs—like thoughts, emotions, desires, and impulses—start to regress: the more they're suppressed, the more childish and ancient they become. The conscious mind drains them of usable energy, leaving only a core energy that can't be taken away. This leftover force still carries significant weight and is best described as instinct in its rawest form. And instinct can't be removed from a person through willpower or suppression—it would take many generations of slow, natural evolution to change it, because instinct reflects a deep, biological foundation.

Thus with every repressed tendency a considerable sum of energy ultimately remains. This sum corresponds with the potency of the instinct and guards its effectiveness, notwithstanding the deprivation of energy which made it unconscious. The measure of extraversion in the conscious attitude entails a like degree of infantilism and archaism in the attitude of the unconscious. The egoism which so often characterizes the extravert's unconscious attitude goes far beyond mere childish selfishness; it even verges upon the wicked and brutal. It is here we find in fullest bloom that incest-wish described by Freud. It is self-evident that these things are entirely unconscious, remaining altogether hidden from the eyes of the uninitiated observer so long as the extraversion of the conscious attitude does not reach an extreme stage. But wherever an exaggeration of the conscious standpoint takes place, the unconscious also comes to light in a symptomatic form, i.e. the unconscious egoism, infantilism, and archaism lose their original compensatory characters, and appear in more or less open opposition to the conscious attitude. This process begins in the form of an absurd exaggeration of the conscious standpoint, which is aimed at a further repression of the unconscious, but usually ends in a reductio ad absurdum of the conscious attitude, i.e. a collapse. The catastrophe may be an objective one, since the objective aims gradually become falsified by the subjective. I remember the case of a printer who, starting as a mere employé, worked his way up through two decades of hard struggle, till at last he was the independent possessor of a very extensive business. The more the business extended, the more it increased its hold upon him, until gradually every other interest was allowed to become merged in it. At length he was completely enmeshed in its toils, and, as we shall soon see, this surrender eventually proved his ruin. As a sort of compensation to his exclusive interest in the business, certain memories of his childhood came to life. As a child he had taken great delight in painting and drawing. But, instead of renewing this capacity for its own sake as a balancing side-interest, he canalized it into his business and began to conceive 'artistic' elaborations of his products. His phantasies unfortunately materialized: he actually began to produce after his own primitive and infantile taste, with the result that after a very few years his business went to pieces. He acted in obedience to one of our 'civilized ideals', which enjoins the energetic man to concentrate everything upon the one end in view. But he went too far, and merely fell a victim to the power of his subjective infantile claims.

Whenever a natural drive is repressed, it still holds on to a significant amount of energy. That energy reflects the strength of the instinct and keeps it active, even though it's been pushed into the unconscious. The more someone is consciously focused on the external world, the more their unconscious takes on a childish and outdated quality. The selfishness that often appears in the unconscious of the extravert can go far beyond immaturity—it can become destructive and even cruel. This is where Freud's idea of the incest wish becomes fully visible. Obviously, all of this happens unconsciously, remaining completely hidden unless the person's outward focus becomes extreme. But when the conscious focus on the external world becomes too intense, the unconscious starts showing itself through symptoms—its selfish, childish, and primitive tendencies stop acting as a balancing force and start clashing openly with the conscious mind. This often starts with an over-the-top commitment to one-sided conscious values meant to suppress the unconscious, but it typically ends in the collapse of that conscious structure. The result can be a real-life crisis, because personal goals get twisted by hidden emotional forces. I once knew a printer who started out as an employee and, after twenty years of hard work, built a large and successful business. But as his business grew, it consumed more and more of his time and identity, pushing everything else aside. Eventually, he was completely trapped by it—and as we'll see, this complete devotion ended in disaster. As a kind of unconscious reaction, childhood memories began resurfacing. As a child, he had loved painting and drawing. Instead of using these skills to create balance in his life, he applied them to his business, trying to "artistically" redesign his products. Unfortunately, his childish fantasies became reality—he designed based on his immature tastes, and within a few years, his business collapsed. He was following a cultural ideal that tells us to focus everything on one clear goal. But he took it too far and became overwhelmed by his own unresolved inner needs from childhood.

But the catastrophic solution may also be subjective, i.e. in the form of a nervous collapse. Such a solution always comes about as a result of the unconscious counterinfluence, which can ultimately paralyse conscious action. In which case the claims of the unconscious force themselves categorically upon consciousness, thus creating a calamitous cleavage which generally reveals itself in two ways: either the subject no longer knows what he really wants and nothing any longer interests him, or he wants too much at once and has too keen an interest-but in impossible things. The suppression of infantile and primitive claims, which is often necessary on "civilized" grounds, easily leads to neurosis, or to the misuse of narcotics such as alcohol, morphine, cocaine, etc. In more extreme cases the cleavage ends in suicide.

But the breakdown doesn't always show up externally—it can also take the form of a mental or emotional collapse. This kind of collapse is usually triggered by pressure from the unconscious, which can eventually shut down the ability to act consciously. When that happens, the needs and demands of the unconscious push themselves forcefully into awareness, creating a deep internal split that usually shows up in one of two ways: either the person becomes confused and disinterested in everything, unsure of what they want—or they feel overwhelmed by wanting too much and being obsessed with things that are out of reach or unrealistic. Trying to suppress these immature or instinctual urges—often in the name of being "civilized"—can easily result in mental illness or in turning to substances like alcohol, morphine, or cocaine to cope. In the most severe cases, this inner conflict can end in suicide.

It is a salient peculiarity of unconscious tendencies that, just in so far as they are deprived of their energy by a lack of conscious recognition, they assume a correspondingly destructive character, and as soon as this happens their compensatory function ceases. They cease to have a compensatory effect as soon as they reach a depth or stratum that corresponds with a level of culture absolutely incompatible with our own. From this moment the unconscious tendencies form a block, which is opposed to the conscious attitude in every respect; such a block inevitably leads to open conflict.

A key trait of unconscious drives is that when they're denied energy—because they're not acknowledged by consciousness—they become increasingly destructive, and once that happens, they lose their original role of helping to balance the psyche. They stop serving a balancing function once they sink into layers of the psyche tied to a level of culture that's completely out of step with the present. At that point, these unconscious drives become a psychological roadblock, clashing with the conscious attitude at every turn—and this inevitably creates direct internal conflict.

In a general way, the compensating attitude of the unconscious finds expression in the process of psychic equilibrium. A normal extraverted attitude does not, of course, mean that the individual behaves invariably in accordance with the extraverted schema. Even in the same individual many psychological happenings may be observed, in which the mechanism of introversion is concerned. A habitus can be called extraverted only when the mechanism of extraversion predominates. In such a case the most highly differentiated function has a constantly extraverted application, while the inferior functions are found in the service of introversion, i.e. the more valued function, because the more conscious, is more completely subordinated to conscious control and purpose, whilst the less conscious, in other words, the partly unconscious inferior functions are subjected to conscious free choice in a much smaller degree.

Generally speaking, the unconscious plays a balancing role in the psyche, helping to maintain psychological equilibrium. Having a normal extraverted attitude doesn't mean a person always behaves according to an extraverted pattern. Even in someone who leans extraverted, you can still observe psychological processes that involve introversion. We only call someone extraverted when extraverted patterns dominate their overall behavior. In such cases, the most developed psychological function is typically used in an outward-facing, extraverted way, while the less developed functions serve more inward, introverted processes—meaning the more conscious and controlled function is directed by the person's will, but the less conscious, less developed functions operate with less voluntary control.

The superior function is always the expression of the conscious personality, its aim, its will, and its achievement, whilst the inferior functions belong to the things that happen to one. Not that they merely beget blunders, e.g. lapsus linguae or lapsus calami, but they may also breed half or three-quarter resolves, since the inferior functions also possess a slight degree of consciousness. The extraverted feeling type is a classical example of this, for he enjoys an excellent feeling rapport with his entourage, yet occasionally opinions of an incomparable tactlessness [p. 427] will just happen to him. These opinions have their source in his inferior and subconscious thinking, which is only partly subject to control and is insufficiently related to the object ; to a large extent, therefore, it can operate without consideration or responsibility.

The dominant function is always a reflection of the conscious personality—its goals, intentions, and accomplishments—while the less developed functions tend to show up as things that just seem to happen to the person. These inferior functions don't just cause slip-ups like saying the wrong word or making a writing error—they can also result in unclear or half-hearted decisions, because they still have a small degree of awareness. This is especially clear in the extraverted feeling type, who usually has great emotional sensitivity toward others, yet occasionally says things that are shockingly tactless without meaning to. These awkward statements come from his weaker, mostly unconscious thinking function, which isn't fully under control and doesn't engage well with the outside world—so it often acts without thoughtfulness or responsibility.

In the extraverted attitude the inferior functions always reveal a highly subjective determination with pronounced egocentricity and personal bias, thus demonstrating their close connection with the unconscious. Through their agency the unconscious is continually coming to light. On no account should we imagine that the unconscious lies permanently buried under so many overlying strata that it can only be uncovered, so to speak, by a laborious process of excavation. On the contrary, there is a constant influx of the unconscious into the conscious psychological process; at times this reaches such a pitch that the observer can decide only with difficulty which character-traits are to be ascribed to the conscious, and which to the unconscious personality. This difficulty occurs mainly with persons whose habit of expression errs rather on the side of profuseness. Naturally it depends very largely also upon the attitude of the observer, whether he lays hold of the conscious or the unconscious character of a personality. Speaking generally a judging observer will tend to seize the conscious character, while a perceptive observer will be influenced more by the unconscious character, since judgement is chiefly interested in the conscious motivation of the psychic process, while perception tends to register the mere happening. But in so far as we apply perception and judgment in equal measure, it may easily happen that a personality appears to us as both introverted and extraverted, so that we cannot at once decide to which attitude the superior function belongs. In such cases only a thorough analysis of the function qualities can help us to a sound opinion. During the analysis we must observe which function is placed under the control and motivation of consciousness, and which functions have an accidental and spontaneous character. The former is always more highly differentiated than the latter, which also possess many infantile and primitive qualities. Occasionally the former function gives the impression of normality, while the latter have something abnormal or pathological about them.

In people with an extraverted attitude, their weaker functions often come across as very self-centered and biased, which shows how closely they're tied to the unconscious. These weaker functions are a constant way for the unconscious to show itself. We shouldn't imagine the unconscious as something deeply buried that can only be accessed through a long and difficult digging process. On the contrary, unconscious material regularly flows into our conscious minds—and sometimes so strongly that it's hard to tell whether a person's traits come from their conscious or unconscious self. This is especially true in people who tend to express themselves in an overly talkative or excessive way. Of course, how the observer sees things also plays a big role—whether they focus more on the conscious or unconscious side of a person. In general, someone who judges tends to focus on the conscious side, while someone who perceives is more likely to notice the unconscious, since judgment looks at intentional motivation, whereas perception is more about what simply happens. If we use both perception and judgment equally, we may get the impression that someone is both introverted and extraverted, making it hard to determine which type their strongest function belongs to. In these situations, the only way to reach a good conclusion is through a careful analysis of the person's mental functions. We need to look at which function is clearly controlled and directed by conscious intention, and which ones seem more random or automatic. The consciously controlled function is always more developed, while the weaker ones tend to be more childish or primitive. Sometimes the main function seems totally normal, while the weaker ones come off as strange or even pathological.

As a result of the general attitude of extraversion, thinking is orientated by the object and objective data. This orientation of thinking produces a noticeable peculiarity.

Because of the extraverted attitude's general orientation, thinking is guided by external objects and objective facts. This outward focus gives thinking a distinct characteristic.

Thinking in general is fed from two sources, firstly from subjective and in the last resort unconscious roots, and secondly from objective data transmitted through sense perceptions.

Thinking generally draws from two sources: first, from internal and ultimately unconscious origins, and second, from objective facts received through our senses.

Extraverted thinking is conditioned in a larger measure by these latter factors than by the former. Judgment always presupposes a criterion; for the extraverted judgment, the valid and determining criterion is the standard taken from objective conditions, no matter whether this be directly represented by an objectively perceptible fact, or expressed in an objective idea; for an objective idea, even when subjectively sanctioned, is equally external and objective in origin. Extraverted thinking, therefore, need not necessarily be a merely concretistic thinking—it may equally well be a purely ideal thinking, if, for instance, it can be shown that the ideas with which it is engaged are to a great extent borrowed from without, i.e. are transmitted by tradition and education. The criterion of judgment, therefore, as to whether or no a thinking is extraverted, hangs directly upon the question: by which standard is its judgment governed—is it furnished from without, or is its origin subjective? A further criterion is afforded by the direction of the thinker's conclusion, namely, whether or no the thinking has a preferential direction outwards. It is no proof of its extraverted nature that it is preoccupied with concrete objects, since I may be engaging my thoughts with a concrete object, either because I am abstracting my thought from it or because I am concretizing my thought with it.

Extraverted thinking relies more heavily on external facts than on internal sources. All judgment requires a standard—for the extravert, the valid standard comes from external conditions, whether it's a directly observable fact or an objective idea. Even a subjective idea, once accepted, has an external and objective origin. Therefore, extraverted thinking doesn't have to be purely concrete—it can also be highly abstract and conceptual, as long as the ideas it works with are largely borrowed from external sources like tradition and education. So to determine whether thinking is extraverted, we ask: is the standard for judgment provided from outside, or does it come from within? Another way to tell is by looking at where the thinker's conclusions lead—whether they naturally point outward toward the external world. The fact that someone thinks about concrete objects doesn't automatically make their thinking extraverted, since I could be thinking about a concrete object either to abstract concepts from it or to apply my concepts to it.

Even if I engage my thinking with concrete things, and to that extent could be described as extraverted, it yet remains both questionable and characteristic as regards the direction my thinking will take; namely, whether in its further course it leads back again to objective data, external facts, and generally accepted ideas, or not. So far as the practical thinking of the merchant, the engineer, or the natural science pioneer is concerned, the objective direction is at once manifest. But in the case of a philosopher it is open to doubt, whenever the course of his thinking is directed towards ideas. In such a case, before deciding, we must further enquire whether these ideas are mere abstractions from objective experience, in which case they would merely represent higher collective concepts, comprising a sum of objective facts; or whether (if they are clearly not abstractions from immediate experience) they may not be derived from tradition or borrowed from the intellectual atmosphere of the time. In the latter event, such ideas must also belong to the category of objective data, in which case this thinking should also be called extraverted.

Even if I'm thinking about concrete things—which might make me seem extraverted—the real question is where my thinking leads: does it circle back to external facts and commonly accepted ideas, or does it go elsewhere? For practical thinkers like merchants, engineers, or scientists, this outward direction is immediately obvious. But with philosophers, it's less clear when their thinking focuses on abstract ideas. Before deciding, we need to ask: are these ideas simply drawn from external experience (making them general concepts summarizing objective facts), or—if they're not direct abstractions from experience—are they perhaps inherited from tradition or absorbed from the culture? If the ideas come from tradition or culture, they still count as objective data, which means this thinking should be called extraverted.

Although I do not propose to present the nature of introverted thinking at this point, reserving it for a later section, it is, however, essential that I should make a few statements about it before going further. For if one considers strictly what I have just said concerning extraverted thinking, one might easily conclude that such a statement includes everything that is generally understood as thinking. It might indeed be argued that a thinking whose aim is concerned neither with objective facts nor with general ideas scarcely merits the name 'thinking'. I am fully aware of the fact that the thought of our age, in common with its most eminent representatives, knows and acknowledges only the extraverted type of thinking. This is partly due to the fact that all thinking which attains visible form upon the world's surface, whether as science, philosophy, or even art, either proceeds direct from objects or flows into general ideas. On either ground, although not always completely evident it at least appears essentially intelligible, and therefore relatively valid. In this sense it might be said that the extraverted intellect, i.e. the mind that is orientated by objective data, is actually the only one recognized.

While I won't fully describe introverted thinking here—I'll save that for a later section—I do need to say a few things about it before moving on. If you think carefully about what I've just said about extraverted thinking, you might easily assume that I've described everything that counts as thinking. You could argue that thinking that doesn't deal with objective facts or general ideas hardly deserves to be called "thinking" at all. I'm well aware that modern thought, including that of our most respected thinkers, recognizes and accepts only the extraverted type of thinking. This is partly because all thinking that takes visible form in the world—whether in science, philosophy, or even art—either comes directly from objects or leads to general ideas. Either way, even if not always entirely clear, it at least seems understandable and therefore relatively valid. In this sense, we might say that only the extraverted mind—the one oriented by objective data—is truly recognized.

There is also, however -- and now I come to the question of the introverted intellect -- an entirely different kind of thinking, to which the term I "thinking" can hardly be denied: it is a kind that is neither orientated by the immediate objective experience nor is it concerned with general and objectively derived ideas. I reach this other kind of thinking in the following way. When my thoughts are engaged with a concrete object or general idea in such a way that the course of my thinking eventually leads me back again to my object, this intellectual process is not the only psychic proceeding taking place in me at the moment. I will disregard all those possible sensations and feelings which become noticeable as a more or less disturbing accompaniment to my train of thought, merely emphasizing the fact that this very thinking process which proceeds from objective data and strives again towards the object stands also in a constant relation to the subject. This relation is a condition sine qua non, without which no thinking process whatsoever could take place. Even though my thinking process is directed, as far as possible, towards objective data, nevertheless it is my subjective process, and it can neither escape the subjective admixture nor yet dispense with it. Although I try my utmost to give a completely objective direction to my train of thought, even then I cannot exclude the parallel subjective process with its all-embracing participation, without extinguishing the very spark of life from my thought. This parallel subjective process has a natural tendency, only relatively avoidable, to subjectify objective facts, i.e. to assimilate them to the subject.

However—and now I come to the question of the introverted mind—there is an entirely different kind of thinking that can hardly be denied the name "thinking": it's neither guided by immediate external experience nor concerned with ideas derived from objective sources. I arrive at this other type of thinking in the following way. When I'm thinking about a concrete object or general idea in a way that eventually brings my thoughts back to that object, this intellectual process isn't the only mental activity happening in me at that moment. Setting aside all the sensations and feelings that might accompany my thinking process, I want to emphasize that this thinking—which begins with external data and aims back toward the object—also maintains a constant relationship with me as the subject. This relationship is absolutely essential; without it, no thinking process could occur at all. Even when I try to direct my thinking as objectively as possible, it's still my subjective process—it can't escape or do without this personal element. No matter how hard I try to keep my thinking completely objective, I cannot eliminate the parallel subjective process without draining all the life from my thought. This subjective process naturally tends—though it can be somewhat controlled—to interpret objective facts through a personal lens, essentially absorbing them into the subject's own perspective.

Whenever the chief value is given to the subjective process, that other kind of thinking arises which stands opposed to extraverted thinking, namely, that purely subjective orientation of thought which I have termed introverted. A thinking arises from this other orientation that is neither determined by objective facts nor directed towards objective data -- a thinking, therefore, that proceeds from subjective data and is directed towards subjective ideas or facts of a subjective character. I do not wish to enter more fully into this kind of thinking here; I have merely established its existence for the purpose of giving a necessary complement to the extraverted thinking process, whose nature is thus brought to a clearer focus.

Whenever primary value is placed on the subjective process, a different type of thinking emerges that stands in opposition to extraverted thinking—namely, the purely subjective orientation of thought that I call introverted. This thinking is neither determined by objective facts nor directed toward external data; instead, it arises from inner, subjective sources and moves toward subjective ideas or personally meaningful insights. I won't explore this kind of thinking in detail here—I've simply established that it exists in order to provide a necessary counterpoint to extraverted thinking, which helps bring the nature of both into clearer focus.

When the objective orientation receives a certain predominance, the thinking is extraverted. This circumstance changes nothing as regards the logic of thought -- it merely determines that difference between thinkers which James regards as a matter of temperament. The orientation towards the object, as already explained, makes no essential change in the thinking function; only its appearance is altered. Since it is governed by objective data, it has the appearance of being captivated by the object, as though without the external orientation it simply could not exist. Almost it seems as though it were a sequence of external facts, or as though it could reach its highest point only when chiming in with some generally valid idea. It seems constantly to be affected by objective data, drawing only those conclusions which substantially agree with these. Thus it gives one the impression of a certain lack of freedom, of occasional short-sightedness, in spite of every kind of adroitness within the objectively circumscribed area. What I am now describing is merely the impression this sort of thinking makes upon the observer, who must himself already have a different standpoint, or it would be quite impossible for him to observe the phenomenon of extraverted thinking. As a result of his different standpoint he merely sees its aspect, not its nature; whereas the man who himself possesses this type of thinking is able to seize its nature, while its aspect escapes him. Judgment made upon appearance only cannot be fair to the essence of the thing-hence the result is depreciatory. But essentially this thinking is no less fruitful and creative than introverted thinking, only its powers are in the service of other ends. This difference is perceived most clearly when extraverted thinking is engaged upon material, which is specifically an object of the subjectively orientated thinking. This happens, for instance, when a subjective conviction is interpreted analytically from objective facts or is regarded as a product or derivative of objective ideas. But, for our 'scientifically' orientated consciousness, the difference between the two modes of thinking becomes still more obvious when the subjectively orientated thinking makes an attempt to bring objective data into connections not objectively given, i.e. to subordinate them to a subjective idea. Either senses the other as an encroachment, and hence a sort of shadow effect is produced, wherein either type reveals to the other its least favourable aspect, The subjectively orientated thinking then appears quite arbitrary, while the extraverted thinking seems to have an incommensurability that is altogether dull and banal. Thus the two standpoints are incessantly at war.

When focus on the external world becomes dominant, thinking is extraverted. This doesn't change the logic of thought itself—it simply determines the difference between thinkers that William James described as a matter of temperament. As I've explained, this outward orientation doesn't fundamentally change how the thinking function works; it only changes how it appears. Because it's driven by external data, it looks as if it's completely absorbed by the object, as though it couldn't exist without this outward focus. It almost seems like a chain of external facts, or as if it reaches its peak only when it aligns with some widely accepted idea. It appears to be constantly shaped by objective data, drawing only conclusions that agree with those facts. This gives the impression of limited freedom and occasional narrow-mindedness, despite being highly skilled within its objective boundaries. What I'm describing here is just the impression this type of thinking makes on an observer who must have a different perspective—otherwise, it would be impossible to observe extraverted thinking at all. Because of their different perspective, the observer only sees how it appears, not its true nature; whereas someone who thinks this way understands its nature but can't see how it appears to others. Judging something only by appearance can't do justice to its essence—which is why such judgments are often negative. But in reality, extraverted thinking is just as productive and creative as introverted thinking—its strengths simply serve different purposes. This difference becomes most clear when extraverted thinking works with material that's naturally suited to subjectively oriented thinking. For example, this happens when a personal belief is analyzed through objective facts or treated as a product of objective ideas. But for our scientifically minded culture, the difference between the two thinking modes becomes even more obvious when subjectively oriented thinking tries to connect objective facts in ways not objectively given—in other words, to fit them into a subjective framework. Each type experiences the other as an intrusion, creating a kind of shadow effect where each reveals its worst side to the other: subjective thinking appears completely arbitrary, while extraverted thinking seems rigidly limited and dull. As a result, the two perspectives are constantly in conflict.

Such a conflict, we might think, could be easily adjusted if only we clearly discriminated objects of a subjective from those of an objective nature. Unfortunately, however, such a discrimination is a matter of impossibility, although not a few have attempted it. Even if such a separation were possible, it would be a very disastrous proceeding, since in themselves both orientations are one-sided, with a definitely restricted validity; hence they both require this mutual correction. Thought is at once sterilized, whenever thinking is brought, to any great extent, under the influence of objective data, since it becomes degraded into a mere appendage of objective facts; in which case, it is no longer able to free itself from objective data for the purpose of establishing an abstract idea. The process of thought is reduced to mere 'reflection', not in the sense of 'meditation', but in the sense of a mere imitation that makes no essential affirmation beyond what was already visibly and immediately present in the objective data. Such a thinking-process leads naturally and directly back to the objective fact, but never beyond it ; not once, therefore, can it lead to the coupling of experience with an objective idea. And, vice versa, when this thinking has an objective idea for its object, it is quite unable to grasp the practical individual experience, but persists in a more or less tautological position. The materialistic mentality presents a magnificent example of this.

You might think this conflict could be easily resolved by clearly separating subjective matters from objective ones. Unfortunately, making such a clear distinction is impossible, though many have tried. Even if such separation were possible, it would be harmful, because both orientations are inherently one-sided and limited—they need each other for balance and correction. Thinking becomes lifeless when it's too heavily influenced by objective data, because it degrades into a simple attachment to external facts and can no longer step back to form abstract ideas. The thinking process then becomes mere "reflection"—not in the sense of deep contemplation, but in the sense of simple mirroring that adds nothing beyond what's already visible in the objective data. This kind of thinking naturally leads back to the objective fact but never goes beyond it, so it can never connect experience with broader ideas. Conversely, when this thinking focuses on an abstract idea, it becomes unable to grasp real, individual experience and gets stuck in circular reasoning. The materialistic mindset is a perfect example of this.

When, as the result of a reinforced objective determination, extraverted thinking is subordinated to objective data, it entirely loses itself, on the one hand, in the individual experience, and proceeds to amass an accumulation of undigested empirical material. The oppressive mass of more or less disconnected individual experiences produces a state of intellectual dissociation, which, on the other hand, usually demands a psychological compensation. This must consist in an idea, just as simple as it is universal, which shall give coherence to the heaped-up but intrinsically disconnected whole, or at least it should provide an inkling of such a connection. Such ideas as "matter" or "energy" are suitable for this purpose. But, whenever thinking primarily depends not so much upon external facts as upon an accepted or second-hand idea, the very poverty of the idea provokes a compensation in the form of a still more impressive accumulation of facts, which assume a one-sided grouping in keeping with the relatively restricted and sterile point of view; whereupon many valuable and sensible aspects of things automatically go by the board. The vertiginous abundance of the socalled scientific literature of to-day owes a deplorably high percentage of its existence to this misorientation.

When extraverted thinking becomes overly controlled by objective data, it gets completely lost in individual experiences and accumulates masses of unprocessed, raw information. This overwhelming pile of loosely connected experiences creates intellectual fragmentation, which typically triggers a psychological need for compensation. This compensation takes the form of a simple, universal idea that can give coherence to the disconnected pile of information—or at least hint at such a connection. Concepts like "matter" or "energy" serve this purpose well. On the flip side, when thinking relies primarily on borrowed or secondhand ideas rather than actual facts, the shallowness of the idea triggers compensation through an even more excessive accumulation of facts. These facts get arranged in a one-sided way that fits the narrow, unproductive viewpoint, causing many valuable and meaningful aspects to be overlooked. The overwhelming flood of so-called scientific literature today owes a sadly large portion of its existence to this misguided approach.

It is a fact of experience that all the basic psychological functions seldom or never have the same strength or grade of development in one and the same individual. As a rule, one or other function predominates, in both strength and development. When supremacy among the psychological functions is given to thinking, i.e. when the life of an individual is mainly ruled by reflective thinking so that every important action proceeds from intellectually considered motives, or when there is at least a tendency to conform to such motives, we may fairly call this a thinking type. Such a type can be either introverted or extraverted. We will first discuss the extraverted thinking type.

It's a well-known fact that all the basic psychological functions rarely—if ever—are equally strong or developed in any single person. Typically, one function is dominant in both strength and development. When thinking holds this dominant position—meaning a person's life is primarily governed by rational thought, so that every major decision comes from intellectually considered motives, or at least there's a strong tendency toward this—we can reasonably call this person a thinking type. This type can be either introverted or extraverted. We'll start by discussing the extraverted thinking type.

In accordance with his definition, we must picture a, man whose constant aim -- in so far, of course, as he is a pure type -- is to bring his total life-activities into relation with intellectual conclusions, which in the last resort are always orientated by objective data, whether objective facts or generally valid ideas. This type of man gives the deciding voice-not merely for himself alone but also on behalf of his entourage-either to the actual objective reality or to its objectively orientated, intellectual formula. By this formula are good and evil measured, and beauty and ugliness determined. All is right that corresponds with this formula; all is wrong that contradicts it; and everything that is neutral to it is purely accidental. Because this formula seems to correspond with the meaning of the world, it also becomes a world-law whose realization must be achieved at all times and seasons, both individually and collectively. Just as the extraverted thinking type subordinates himself to his formula, so, for its own good, must his entourage also obey it, since the man who refuses to obey is wrong -- he is resisting the world-law, and is, therefore, unreasonable, immoral, and without a conscience. His moral code forbids him to tolerate exceptions; his ideal must, under all circumstances, be realized; for in his eyes it is the purest conceivable formulation of objective reality, and, therefore, must also be generally valid truth, quite indispensable for the salvation of man. This is not from any great love for his neighbour, but from a higher standpoint of justice and truth. Everything in his own nature that appears to invalidate this formula is mere imperfection, an accidental miss-fire, something to be eliminated on the next occasion, or, in the event of further failure, then clearly a sickness.

Following this definition, we should imagine a person whose constant goal—if they're a pure type—is to align their entire life with intellectual conclusions that are always based on objective data, whether concrete facts or widely accepted ideas. This type of person gives final authority—not just for themselves but also for those around them—either to actual external reality or to an objective intellectual framework. This framework determines what's good or evil, beautiful or ugly. Whatever fits the formula is right; whatever contradicts it is wrong; and anything unrelated to it is purely accidental. Because this formula seems to capture the meaning of the world, it becomes a universal law that must be applied at all times, both personally and collectively. Just as the extraverted thinking type submits to their own formula, they believe everyone else should follow it too—anyone who refuses is wrong, resisting the universal law, and therefore unreasonable, immoral, and lacking conscience. Their moral code won't allow exceptions; their ideal must be realized no matter what, because they see it as the purest expression of objective reality and therefore as universal truth essential for human well-being. This doesn't come from deep compassion for others, but from a higher commitment to justice and truth. Anything in their own personality that seems to contradict the formula is seen as a flaw, an accident, something to be corrected next time—or, if it persists, a sign of illness.

If tolerance for the sick, the suffering, or the deranged should chance to be an ingredient in the formula, special provisions will be devised for humane societies, hospitals, prisons, colonies, etc., or at least extensive plans for such projects. For the actual execution of these schemes the motives of justice and truth do not, as a rule, suffice; still devolve upon real Christian charity, which I to do with feeling than with any intellectual 'One really should' or I one must' figure largely in this programme. If the formula is wide enough, it may play a very useful rôle in social life, with a reformer or a ventilator of public wrongs or a purifier of the public conscience, or as the propagator of important innovations. But the more rigid the formula, the more, does he develop into a grumbler, a crafty reasoner, and a self-righteous critic, who would like to impress both himself and others into one schema.

If the formula happens to include tolerance for those who are sick, suffering, or mentally ill, they'll design detailed systems for charitable organizations, hospitals, prisons, or similar institutions—or at least create elaborate plans for them. However, justice and truth alone aren't usually enough to actually carry out these plans—that still requires genuine compassion, which has more to do with feeling than intellectual obligation. Phrases like "one really should" or "one must" dominate this approach. When the formula is broad enough, it can serve a valuable social role—they might become a reformer, someone who exposes injustice, a champion of public morality, or a promoter of important innovations. But the more rigid the formula becomes, the more they turn into a complainer, a manipulative arguer, and a self-righteous critic who wants to force both themselves and everyone else into one narrow mold.

We have now outlined two extreme figures, between which terminals the majority of these types may be graduated.

We've now outlined two extremes, with most people of this type falling somewhere along the spectrum between them.

In accordance with the nature of the extraverted attitude, the influence and activities of such personalities are all the more favourable and beneficent, the further one goes from the centre. Their best aspect is to be found at the periphery of their sphere of influence. The further we penetrate into their own province, the more do the unfavourable results of their tyranny impress us. Another life still pulses at the periphery, where the truth of the formula can be sensed as an estimable adjunct to the rest. But the further we probe into the special sphere where the formula operates, the more do we find life ebbing away from all that fails to coincide with its dictates. Usually it is the nearest relatives who have to taste the most disagreeable results of an extraverted formula, since they are the first to be unmercifully blessed with it. But above all the subject himself is the one who suffers most -- which brings us to the other side of the psychology of this type.

True to the extraverted attitude, the influence and activities of such people are most favorable and beneficial at the outer edges of their sphere—the further from the center, the better. Their best qualities appear at the periphery of their influence. But as we move closer to their inner circle, the negative effects of their tyranny become more apparent. Life still thrives at the periphery, where the truth of their formula can be appreciated as a valuable addition. However, the deeper we go into the core area where the formula dominates, the more we find life draining away from everything that doesn't align with it. Usually, the closest family members experience the worst effects of an extraverted formula, since they're the first to be ruthlessly subjected to it. But ultimately, the person themselves suffers the most—which brings us to the other side of this type's psychology.

The fact that an intellectual formula never has been and never will be discovered which could embrace the abundant possibilities of life in a fitting expression must lead -- where such a formula is accepted -- to an inhibition, or total exclusion, of other highly important forms and activities of life. In the first place, all those vital forms dependent upon feeling will become repressed in such a type, as, for instance, aesthetic activities, taste, artistic sense, the art of friendship, etc. Irrational forms, such as religious experiences, passions and the like, are often obliterated even to the point of complete unconsciousness. These, conditionally quite important, forms of life have to support an existence that is largely unconscious. Doubtless there are exceptional men who are able to sacrifice their entire life to one definite formula; but for most of us a permanent life of such exclusiveness is impossible. Sooner or later -- in accordance with outer circumstances and inner gifts -- the forms of life repressed by the intellectual attitude become indirectly perceptible, through a gradual disturbance of the conscious conduct of life. Whenever disturbances of this kind reach a definite intensity, one speaks of a neurosis. In most cases, however, it does not go so far, because the individual instinctively allows himself some preventive extenuations of his formula, worded, of course, in a suitable and reasonable way. In this way a safety-valve is created.

The reality is that no intellectual formula has ever been—or ever will be—discovered that can adequately capture life's abundant possibilities. When someone rigidly accepts such a formula, it inevitably leads to the suppression or complete exclusion of other vitally important aspects of life. First and foremost, all those vital activities dependent on feeling become repressed in this type—for example, aesthetic pursuits, taste, artistic appreciation, the art of friendship, and so on. Non-rational experiences like religious feelings and passions are often suppressed to the point of complete unconsciousness. These conditionally important forms of life must then exist largely in the unconscious. Certainly, there are exceptional individuals who can dedicate their entire lives to one specific formula, but for most people, a permanently exclusive life like this is impossible. Sooner or later—depending on external circumstances and inner capacities—the life forms repressed by this intellectual attitude start making themselves felt indirectly, through gradual disruptions in conscious behavior. When these disturbances reach a certain intensity, we call it a psychological disorder. In most cases, however, it doesn't go that far, because people instinctively create some reasonable-sounding modifications to their formula as a preventive measure. This creates a safety valve.

The relative or total unconsciousness of such tendencies or functions as are excluded from any participation in the conscious attitude keeps them in a relatively undeveloped state. As compared with the conscious function they are inferior. To the extent that they are unconscious, they become merged with the remaining contents of the unconscious, from which they acquire a bizarre character. To the extent that they are conscious, they only play a secondary rôle, although one of considerable importance for the whole psychological picture.

The tendencies and functions excluded from conscious awareness—whether partially or completely—remain relatively undeveloped. Compared to the conscious function, they're inferior. To the extent they remain unconscious, they merge with other unconscious contents and take on a strange, distorted character. To the extent they're conscious, they only play a secondary role—though one that's quite important for the complete psychological picture.

Since feelings are the first to oppose and contradict the rigid intellectual formula, they are affected first this conscious inhibition, and upon them the most intense repression falls. No function can be entirely eliminated -- it can only be greatly distorted. In so far as feelings allow themselves to be arbitrarily shaped and subordinated, they have to support the intellectual conscious attitude and adapt themselves to its aims. Only to a certain degree, however, is this possible; a part of the feeling remains insubordinate, and therefore must be repressed. Should the repression succeed, it disappears from consciousness and proceeds to unfold a subconscious activity, which runs counter to conscious aims, even producing effects whose causation is a complete enigma to the individual. For example, conscious altruism, often of an extremely high order, may be crossed by a secret self-seeking, of which the individual is wholly unaware, and which impresses intrinsically unselfish actions with the stamp of selfishness. Purely ethical aims may lead the individual into critical situations, which sometimes have more than a semblance of being decided by quite other than ethical motives. There are guardians of public morals or voluntary rescue-workers who suddenly find themselves in deplorably compromising situations, or in dire need of rescue. Their resolve to save often leads them to employ means which only tend to precipitate what they most desire to avoid. There are extraverted idealists, whose desire to advance the salvation of man is so consuming that they will not shrink from any lying and dishonest means in the pursuit of their ideal. There are a few painful examples in science where investigators of the highest esteem, from a profound conviction of the truth and general validity of their formula, have not scrupled to falsify evidence in favour of their ideal. This is sanctioned by the formula; the end justifieth the means. Only an inferior feeling-function, operating seductively and unconsciously, could bring about such aberrations in otherwise reputable men.

Since feelings are the first to oppose and contradict a rigid intellectual formula, they're the first affected by this conscious suppression, and they receive the most intense repression. No function can be completely eliminated—it can only be severely distorted. To the extent that feelings can be arbitrarily shaped and subordinated, they must support the intellectual conscious attitude and adapt to its goals. However, this is only possible to a limited degree; part of the feeling remains rebellious and therefore must be repressed. When this repression succeeds, feeling disappears from consciousness and begins to unfold unconscious activity that works against conscious aims, producing effects whose cause completely baffles the person. For example, conscious altruism—often of the highest order—may be undermined by secret self-interest that the person is completely unaware of, which gives genuinely unselfish actions the appearance of selfishness. Purely ethical goals may lead someone into compromising situations that seem driven by decidedly unethical motives. There are guardians of public morality and volunteer rescue workers who suddenly find themselves in deeply compromising situations or desperately needing rescue themselves. Their determination to save others often leads them to use methods that actually bring about what they most want to prevent. There are extraverted idealists whose desire to save humanity is so all-consuming that they won't hesitate to use lies and dishonesty in pursuit of their ideal. There are painful examples in science where highly respected researchers, out of deep conviction in the truth and universal validity of their formula, haven't hesitated to falsify evidence in favor of their ideal. The formula sanctions this: the end justifies the means. Only an inferior feeling function, operating seductively and unconsciously, could bring about such moral failures in otherwise respectable people.

The inferiority of feeling in this type manifests itself also in other ways. In so far as it corresponds with the dominating positive formula, the conscious attitude becomes more or less impersonal, often, indeed, to such a degree that a very considerable wrong is done to personal interests. When the conscious attitude is extreme, all personal considerations recede from view, even those which concern the individual's own person. His health is neglected, his social position deteriorates, often the most vital interests of his family are violated -- they are wronged morally and financially, even their bodily health is made to suffer -- all in the service of the ideal. At all events personal sympathy with others must be impaired, unless they too chance to be in the service of the same formula. Hence it not infrequently happens that his immediate family circle, his own children for instance, only know such a father as a cruel tyrant, whilst the outer world resounds with the fame of his humanity. Not so much in spite of as because of the highly impersonal character of the conscious attitude, the unconscious feelings are highly personal and oversensitive, giving rise to certain secret prejudices, as, for instance, a decided readiness to misconstrue any objective opposition to his formula as personal ill-will, or a constant tendency to make negative suppositions regarding the qualities of others in order to invalidate their arguments beforehand-in defence, naturally, of his own susceptibility. As a result of this unconscious sensitiveness, his expression and tone frequently becomes sharp, pointed, aggressive, and insinuations multiply. The feelings have an untimely and halting character, which is always a mark of the inferior function. Hence arises a pronounced tendency to resentment. However generous the individual sacrifice to the intellectual goal may be, the feelings are correspondingly petty, suspicious, crossgrained, and conservative. Everything new that is not already contained formula is viewed through a veil of unconscious and is judged accordingly. It happened only in middle of last century that a certain physician, famed his humanitarianism, threatened to dismiss an assistant for daring to use a thermometer, because the formula decreed that fever shall be recognized by the pulse. There are, of course, a host of similar examples.

The inferior feeling function in this type shows itself in other ways too. To the extent the conscious attitude aligns with the dominant formula, it becomes increasingly impersonal—often to such a degree that serious harm is done to personal interests. When the conscious attitude becomes extreme, all personal considerations fade away, even those concerning the person's own well-being. Their health is neglected, their social standing deteriorates, and often their family's most vital interests are violated—harmed both morally and financially, sometimes even physically—all in service of the ideal. In any case, personal empathy with others must be impaired unless they too serve the same formula. As a result, it's not uncommon for the immediate family—their own children, for instance—to know this person only as a cruel tyrant, while the outside world celebrates their humanitarianism. Not despite but because of the highly impersonal conscious attitude, the unconscious feelings are intensely personal and oversensitive, giving rise to secret prejudices: for instance, they're quick to interpret any objective criticism of their formula as personal ill will, or they constantly make negative assumptions about others' character to preemptively discredit their arguments—naturally, as a defense against their own sensitivity. As a result of this unconscious sensitivity, their manner and tone frequently become sharp, pointed, and aggressive, with increasing insinuations. The feelings have an awkward, hesitant quality that always marks the inferior function. This gives rise to a pronounced tendency toward resentment. However generous the personal sacrifice to the intellectual goal might be, the feelings are correspondingly petty, suspicious, irritable, and rigid. Everything new that isn't already part of the formula is viewed with unconscious suspicion and judged accordingly. Only in the mid-19th century, a certain physician famous for his humanitarianism threatened to fire an assistant for daring to use a thermometer, because his formula declared that fever must be detected by pulse. There are countless similar examples.

Thinking which in other respects may be altogether blameless becomes all the more subtly and prejudicially, affected, the more feelings are repressed. An intellectual standpoint, which, perhaps on account of its actual intrinsic value, might justifiably claim general recognition, undergoes a characteristic alteration through the influence of this unconscious personal sensitiveness; it becomes rigidly dogmatic. The personal self-assertion is transferred to the intellectual standpoint. Truth is no longer left to work her natural effect, but through an identification with the subject she is treated like a sensitive darling whom an evil-minded critic has wronged. The critic is demolished, if possible with personal invective, and no argument is too gross to be used against him. Truth must be trotted out, until finally it begins to dawn upon the public that it is not so much really a question of truth as of her personal procreator.

Thinking that might otherwise be perfectly sound becomes increasingly subtle and distorted the more feelings are repressed. An intellectual position that might genuinely deserve widespread recognition undergoes a characteristic change through the influence of unconscious personal sensitivity—it becomes rigidly dogmatic. Personal self-assertion gets transferred onto the intellectual position itself. Truth is no longer allowed to work its natural effect; instead, through identification with the person, it's treated like a sensitive beloved who's been wronged by malicious critics. The critic must be destroyed—with personal attacks if possible—and no argument is too crude to use against them. Truth is paraded around until it finally becomes clear to everyone that this isn't really about truth at all, but about its personal champion.

The dogmatism of the intellectual standpoint, however, occasionally undergoes still further peculiar modifications from the unconscious admixture of unconscious personal feelings; these changes are less a question of feeling, in the stricter sense, than of contamination from other unconscious factors which become blended with the repressed feeling in the unconscious. Although reason itself offers proof, that every intellectual formula can be no more than a partial truth, and can never lay claim, therefore, to autocratic authority; in practice, the formula obtains so great an ascendancy that, beside it, every other standpoint and possibility recedes into the background. It replaces all the more general, less defined, hence the more modest and truthful, views of life. It even takes the place of that general view of life which we call religion. Thus the formula becomes a religion, although in essentials it has not the smallest connection with anything religious. Therewith it also gains the essentially religious character of absoluteness. It becomes, as it were, an intellectual superstition. But now all those psychological tendencies that suffer under its repression become grouped together in the unconscious, and form a counter-position, giving rise to paroxysms of doubt. As a defence against doubt, the conscious attitude grows fanatical. For fanaticism, after all, is merely overcompensated doubt. Ultimately this development leads to an exaggerated defence of the conscious position, and to the gradual formation of an absolutely antithetic unconscious position; for example, an extreme irrationality develops, in opposition to the conscious rationalism, or it becomes highly archaic and superstitious, in opposition to a conscious standpoint imbued with modern science. This fatal opposition is the source of those narrow-minded and ridiculous views, familiar to the historians of science, into which many praiseworthy pioneers have ultimately blundered. It not infrequently happens in a man of this type that the side of the unconscious becomes embodied in a woman.

The dogmatism of the intellectual position sometimes undergoes even stranger modifications from the unconscious mixture of repressed personal feelings. These changes are less about feeling in the strict sense, and more about contamination from other unconscious factors that blend with repressed feeling in the unconscious. Although reason itself demonstrates that every intellectual formula can be no more than a partial truth and can never claim absolute authority, in practice the formula gains such dominance that every other viewpoint and possibility fades into the background. It replaces broader, less defined, and therefore more modest and truthful views of life. It even takes the place of what we call religion. Thus the formula becomes a religion, even though it has no essential connection to anything religious. In doing so, it acquires the essentially religious quality of absoluteness—it becomes a kind of intellectual superstition. But now all those psychological tendencies suffering under its repression group together in the unconscious and form a counter-position, triggering episodes of intense doubt. As a defense against doubt, the conscious attitude becomes fanatical. After all, fanaticism is simply overcompensated doubt. Ultimately this development leads to an exaggerated defense of the conscious position and the gradual formation of a completely opposite unconscious position: for example, extreme irrationality develops in opposition to conscious rationalism, or the person becomes highly archaic and superstitious in opposition to a conscious stance steeped in modern science. This destructive opposition is the source of those narrow-minded and absurd views—familiar to historians of science—that many admirable pioneers have ultimately fallen into. It's not uncommon for a man of this type to have his unconscious side embodied in a woman.

In my experience, this type, which is doubtless familiar to my readers, is chiefly found among men, since thinking tends to be a much more dominant function in men than in women. As a rule, when thinking achieves the mastery in women, it is, in my experience, a kind of thinking which results from a prevailingly intuitive activity of mind.

In my experience, this type—which readers are likely familiar with—is found chiefly among men, since thinking tends to be a more dominant function in men than in women. Generally, when thinking becomes dominant in women, it's a type of thinking that emerges from primarily intuitive mental activity.

The thought of the extraverted thinking type is, positive, i.e. it produces. It either leads to new facts or to general conceptions of disparate experimental material. Its judgment is generally synthetic. Even when it analyses, it constructs, because it is always advancing beyond the, analysis to a new combination, a further conception which reunites the analysed material in a new way or adds some., thing further to the given material. In general, therefore, we may describe this kind of judgment as predicative. In any case, characteristic that it is never absolutely depreciatory or destructive, but always substitutes a fresh value for one that is demolished. This quality is due to the fact that thought is the main channel into which a thinking-type's energy flows. Life steadily advancing shows itself in the man's thinking, so that his ideas maintain a progressive, creative character. His thinking neither stagnates, nor is it in the least regressive. Such qualities cling only to a thinking that is not given priority in consciousness. In this event it is relatively unimportant, and also lacks the character of a positive vital activity. It follows in the wake of other functions, it becomes Epimethean, it has an 'esprit de l'escalier' quality, contenting itself with constant ponderings and broodings upon things past and gone, in an effort to analyse and digest them. Where the creative element, as in this case, inhabits another function, thinking no longer progresses it stagnates. Its judgment takes on a decided inherency-character, i.e. it entirely confines itself to the range of the given material, nowhere overstepping it. It is contented with a more or less abstract statement, and fails to impart any value to the experimental material that was not already there.

The thinking of the extraverted thinking type is positive—meaning it produces. It either leads to new facts or to general concepts that bring together disparate experimental material. Its judgment is generally synthetic. Even when analyzing, it constructs, because it's always moving beyond the analysis to a new combination, a further conception that reunites the analyzed material in a new way or adds something more to the given material. Generally, therefore, we can describe this kind of judgment as predicative—it builds upon things. In any case, it's characteristic that this thinking is never purely negative or destructive; it always substitutes a fresh value for whatever it tears down. This quality stems from the fact that thinking is the main channel through which the thinking type's energy flows. Their steadily advancing life force shows itself in their thinking, so their ideas maintain a progressive, creative character. Their thinking neither stagnates nor regresses. Such negative qualities only attach to thinking that doesn't have priority in consciousness. When thinking is secondary, it becomes relatively unimportant and lacks the character of a positive, vital activity. It follows in the wake of other functions, becomes reactive rather than proactive, and has a "staircase wit" quality—constantly pondering and brooding over things past and gone, trying to analyze and digest them after the fact. When the creative element inhabits another function, thinking no longer progresses; it stagnates. Its judgment takes on a decidedly limited character—it confines itself entirely to the range of the given material, never going beyond it. It's content with a more or less abstract statement and fails to add any value to the material that wasn't already present.

The inherency-judgment of such extraverted thinking is objectively orientated, i.e. its conclusion always expresses the objective importance of experience. Hence, not only does it remain under the orientating influence of objective data, but it actually rests within the charmed circle of the individual experience, about which it affirms nothing that was not already given by it. We may easily observe this thinking in those people who cannot refrain from tacking on to an impression or experience some rational and doubtless very valid remark, which, however, in no way adventures beyond the given orbit of the experience. At bottom, such a remark merely says 'I have understood it -- I can reconstruct it.' But there the matter also ends. At its very highest, such a judgment signifies merely the placing of an experience in an objective setting, whereby the experience is at once recognized as belonging to the frame.

The limited judgment of such extraverted thinking is objectively oriented—its conclusions always express the objective significance of experience. Therefore, it not only remains under the guiding influence of objective data, but actually stays within the closed circle of the individual experience, affirming nothing that wasn't already contained in it. We can easily observe this thinking in people who can't resist adding some rational and undoubtedly valid remark to an impression or experience—but one that never ventures beyond the experience's given boundaries. At bottom, such a remark simply says, "I've understood it—I can reconstruct it." But that's where it ends. At its very best, such judgment merely means placing an experience in an objective context, whereby the experience is recognized as fitting within that framework.

But whenever a function other than thinking possesses priority in consciousness to any marked degree, in so far as thinking is conscious at all and not directly dependent upon the dominant function, it assumes a negative character. In so far as it is subordinated to the dominant function, it may actually wear a positive aspect, but a narrower scrutiny will easily prove that it simply mimics the dominant function, supporting it with arguments that unmistakably contradict the laws of logic proper to thinking. Such a thinking, therefore, ceases to have any interest for our present discussion. Our concern is rather with the constitution of that thinking which cannot be subordinated to the dominance of another function, but remains true to its own principle. To observe and investigate this thinking in itself is not easy, since, in the concrete case, it is more or less constantly repressed by the conscious attitude. Hence, in the majority of cases, it first must be retrieved from the background of consciousness, unless in some unguarded moment it should chance to come accidentally to the surface. As a rule, it must be enticed with some such questions as 'Now what do you really think?' or, again, 'What is your private view about the matter?' Or perhaps one may even use a little cunning, framing the question something this: 'What do you imagine, then, that I really think about the matter?' This latter form should be chosen when the real thinking is unconscious and, therefore projected. The thinking that is enticed to the surface this way has characteristic qualities; it was these I had in mind just now when I described it as negative. It habitual mode is best characterized by the two words 'nothing but'. Goethe personified this thinking in the figure of Mephistopheles. It shows a most distinctive tendency to trace back the object of its judgment to some banality or other, thus stripping it of its own independent significance. This happens simply because it is represented as being dependent upon some other commonplace thing. Wherever a conflict, apparently essential in nature, arises between two men, negative thinking mutters 'Cherchez la femme'. When a man champions or advocates a cause, negative thinking makes no inquiry as to the importance of the thing, but merely asks 'How much does he make by it?' The dictum ascribed to Moleschott: "Der Mensch ist, was er isst" (" Man is what he eats ") also belongs to this collection, as do many more aphorisms and opinions which I need not enumerate.

But whenever a function other than thinking has clear priority in consciousness, thinking—if it's conscious at all and not directly serving the dominant function—takes on a negative character. When thinking is subordinated to the dominant function, it may appear positive, but closer examination reveals it simply mimics that function, supporting it with arguments that clearly violate the laws of logical thought. Such thinking no longer interests us for this discussion. We're more concerned with thinking that can't be subordinated to another function's dominance but stays true to its own principles. Observing and investigating this thinking isn't easy, since in practice it's more or less constantly repressed by the conscious attitude. In most cases, it must be retrieved from the background of consciousness, unless in some unguarded moment it happens to surface accidentally. Usually, it must be drawn out with questions like "What do you really think?" or "What's your personal view on this?" Or you might use a bit of cunning, framing the question like: "What do you imagine I really think about this?" This latter approach works when the real thinking is unconscious and therefore projected onto others. The thinking drawn out this way has characteristic qualities—these are what I meant when I described it as negative. Its habitual mode is best characterized by the two words "nothing but." Goethe personified this thinking in the figure of Mephistopheles. It shows a distinctive tendency to reduce the object of its judgment to some banality, thereby stripping it of its independent significance. This happens because the object is represented as merely dependent on some other commonplace thing. Wherever an apparently fundamental conflict arises between two people, negative thinking mutters "Cherchez la femme" (look for the woman). When someone champions a cause, negative thinking doesn't ask about its importance but merely "How much does he profit from it?" The saying attributed to Moleschott—"Man is what he eats"—belongs to this collection, along with many other reductive aphorisms I needn't list.

The destructive quality of this thinking as well as its occasional and limited usefulness, hardly need further elucidation. But there still exists another form of negative thinking, which at first glance perhaps would scarcely be recognized as such I refer to the theosophical thinking which is to-day rapidly spreading in every quarter of the globe, presumably as a reaction phenomenon to the materialism of the epoch now receding. Theosophical thinking has an air that is not in the least reductive, since it exalts everything to transcendental and world-embracing ideas. A dream, for instance, is no longer a modest dream, but an experience upon 'another plane'. The hitherto inexplicable fact of telepathy is ,very simply explained by 'vibrations' which pass from one man to another. An ordinary nervous trouble is quite simply accounted for by the fact that something has collided with the astral body. Certain anthropological peculiarities of the dwellers on the Atlantic seaboard are easily explained by the submerging of Atlantis, and so on. We have merely to open a theosophical book to be overwhelmed by the realization that everything is already explained, and that 'spiritual science' has left no enigmas of life unsolved. But, fundamentally, this sort of thinking is just as negative as materialistic thinking. When the latter conceives psychology as chemical changes taking place in the cell-ganglia, or as the extrusion and withdrawal of cell-processes, or as an internal secretion, in essence this is just as superstitious as theosophy. The only difference lies in the fact that materialism reduces all phenomena to our current physiological notions, while theosophy brings everything into the concepts of Indian metaphysics. When we trace the dream to an overloaded stomach, the dream is not thereby explained, and when we explain telepathy as 'vibrations', we have said just as little. Since, what are 'vibrations'? Not only are both methods of explanation quite impotent -- they are actually destructive, because by interposing their seeming explanations they withdraw interest from the problem, diverting it in the former case to the stomach, and in the latter to imaginary vibrations, thus preventing any serious investigation of the problem. Either kind of thinking is both sterile and sterilizing. Their negative quality consists in this it is a method of thought that is indescribably cheap there is a real poverty of productive and creative energy. It is a thinking taken in tow by other functions.

The destructive quality of this thinking—as well as its occasional limited usefulness—hardly needs further explanation. But there exists another form of negative thinking that might not be recognized as such at first glance: theosophical thinking, which is rapidly spreading across the globe today, presumably as a reaction to the receding materialism of the previous era. Theosophical thinking doesn't appear reductive at all, since it elevates everything to transcendent, world-encompassing ideas. A dream, for instance, is no longer just a dream but an "experience on another plane." The previously unexplained phenomenon of telepathy is simply explained by "vibrations" passing from one person to another. An ordinary psychological difficulty is easily accounted for by something colliding with the astral body. Certain anthropological peculiarities of Atlantic coastal peoples are easily explained by the submersion of Atlantis, and so on. We only need to open a theosophical book to be overwhelmed by the sense that everything is already explained and that "spiritual science" has left no life mystery unsolved. But fundamentally, this kind of thinking is just as negative as materialistic thinking. When materialism conceives psychology as chemical changes in brain cells, or as the extension and withdrawal of cellular processes, or as internal secretions, this is essentially just as superstitious as theosophy. The only difference is that materialism reduces all phenomena to our current physiological concepts, while theosophy translates everything into Indian metaphysical concepts. When we attribute dreams to an overloaded stomach, we haven't explained the dream; when we explain telepathy as "vibrations," we've said just as little. After all, what are "vibrations"? Both methods aren't just powerless—they're actually destructive, because by offering these superficial explanations they divert interest from the real problem: in the first case to the stomach, in the second to imaginary vibrations, thus preventing any serious investigation. Both kinds of thinking are sterile and sterilizing. Their negative quality lies in being an indescribably cheap method of thought—there's a real poverty of productive and creative energy. It's thinking that's been taken over by other functions.

Feeling in the extraverted attitude is orientated by objective data, i.e. the object is the indispensable determinant of the kind of feeling. It agrees with objective values. If one has always known feeling as a subjective fact, the nature of extraverted feeling will not immediately be understood, since it has freed itself as fully as possible from the subjective factor, and has, instead, become wholly subordinated to the influence of the object. Even where it seems to show a certain independence of the quality of the concrete object, it is none the less under the spell of. traditional or generally valid standards of some sort. I may feel constrained, for instance, to use the predicate 'beautiful' or 'good', not because I find the object 'beautiful' or 'good' from my own subjective feeling, but because it is fitting and politic so to do; and fitting it certainly is, inasmuch as a contrary opinion would disturb the general feeling situation. A feeling-judgment such as this is in no way a simulation or a lie -- it is merely an act of accommodation. A picture, for instance, may be termed beautiful, because a picture that is hung in a drawing-room and bearing a well-known signature is generally assumed to be beautiful, or because the predicate 'ugly' might offend the family of the fortunate possessor, or because there is a benevolent intention on the part of the visitor to create a pleasant feeling-atmosphere, to which end everything must be felt as agreeable. Such feelings are governed by the standard of the objective determinants. As such they are genuine, and represent the total visible feeling-function.

Feeling in the extraverted attitude is oriented by objective data—the object is the essential determinant of the kind of feeling. It aligns with objective values. If you've always understood feeling as a subjective fact, the nature of extraverted feeling won't be immediately clear, since it has freed itself as much as possible from the subjective factor and instead become wholly subordinated to the object's influence. Even when it seems to show some independence from the concrete object's qualities, it's still under the spell of traditional or generally accepted standards. I might feel compelled to call something "beautiful" or "good," not because I personally find it so from my own subjective feeling, but because it's appropriate and tactful to do so—and it is appropriate, since a contrary opinion would disturb the general emotional climate. A feeling-judgment like this isn't fake or dishonest—it's simply an act of social accommodation. A painting might be called beautiful because paintings hung in drawing rooms with famous signatures are generally assumed to be beautiful, or because calling it "ugly" might offend the owner's family, or because the visitor wants to create a pleasant emotional atmosphere where everything must be appreciated. Such feelings are governed by objective standards. As such, they're genuine and represent the complete visible feeling function.

In precisely the same way as extraverted thinking strives to rid itself of subjective influences, extraverted feeling has also to undergo a certain process of differentiation, before it is finally denuded of every subjective trimming. The valuations resulting from the act of feeling either correspond directly with objective values or at least chime in with certain traditional and generally known standards of value. This kind of feeling is very largely responsible for the fact that so many people flock to the theatre, to concerts, or to Church, and what is more, with correctly adjusted positive feelings. Fashions, too, owe their existence to it, and, what is far more valuable, the whole positive and wide-spread support of social, philanthropic, and such like cultural enterprises. In such matters, extraverted feeling proves itself a creative factor. Without this feeling, for instance, a beautiful and harmonious sociability would be unthinkable. So far extraverted feeling is just as beneficent and rationally effective as extraverted thinking. But this salutary effect is lost as soon as the object gains an exaggerated influence. For, when this happens, extraverted feeling draws the personality too much into the object, i.e. the object assimilates the person, whereupon the personal character of the feeling, which constitutes its principal charm, is lost. Feeling then becomes cold, material, untrustworthy. It betrays a secret aim, or at least arouses the suspicion of it in an impartial observer. No longer does it make that welcome and refreshing impression the invariable accompaniment of genuine feeling; instead, one scents a pose or affectation, although the egocentric motive may be entirely unconscious.

Just as extraverted thinking strives to eliminate subjective influences, extraverted feeling must also undergo a certain developmental process before it's finally stripped of all subjective elements. The valuations that result from feeling either correspond directly with objective values or at least align with traditional and widely recognized standards of value. This kind of feeling is largely responsible for why so many people attend theaters, concerts, or religious services—and do so with appropriately positive feelings. Fashion also owes its existence to it, and more importantly, so does the widespread positive support for social, philanthropic, and cultural endeavors. In these matters, extraverted feeling proves itself a creative force. Without this feeling, for instance, beautiful and harmonious social interaction would be impossible. Thus far, extraverted feeling is just as beneficial and rationally effective as extraverted thinking. But this positive effect is lost as soon as the object gains excessive influence. When this happens, extraverted feeling pulls the personality too deeply into the object—the object absorbs the person—and the personal character of the feeling, which is its main appeal, is lost. Feeling then becomes cold, calculating, and untrustworthy. It betrays a hidden agenda, or at least raises suspicion of one in impartial observers. It no longer makes that warm and refreshing impression that always accompanies genuine feeling; instead, one senses a performance or affectation, even though the self-centered motive may be entirely unconscious.

Such overstressed, extraverted feeling certainly fulfils æsthetic expectations, but no longer does it speak to the heart; it merely appeals to the senses, or -- worse still -- to the reason. Doubtless it can provide æsthetic padding for a situation, but there it stops, and beyond that its effect is nil. It has become sterile. Should this process go further, a strangely contradictory dissociation of feeling develops; every object is seized upon with feeling- valuations, and numerous relationships are made which are inherently and mutually incompatible. Since such aberrations would be quite impossible if a sufficiently emphasized subject were present, the last vestige of a real personal standpoint also becomes suppressed. The subject becomes so swallowed up in individual feeling processes that to the observer it seems as though there were no longer a subject of feeling but merely a feeling process. In such a condition feeling has entirely forfeited its original human warmth, it gives an impression of pose, inconstancy, unreliability, and in the worst cases appears definitely hysterical.

Such overstressed extraverted feeling certainly meets aesthetic expectations, but it no longer speaks to the heart—it merely appeals to the senses, or worse still, to reason. It can certainly provide aesthetic decoration for a situation, but that's where it stops; beyond that, its effect is nothing. It has become sterile. Should this process continue further, a strangely contradictory fragmentation of feeling develops: every object is met with emotional valuations, creating numerous relationships that are inherently and mutually incompatible. Since such distortions would be impossible if a strong personal center were present, the last remnant of a real personal standpoint also becomes suppressed. The person becomes so absorbed in individual feeling processes that to the observer it appears there's no longer a person who feels, but merely feeling itself. In this condition, feeling has completely lost its original human warmth and gives an impression of performance, inconsistency, and unreliability—in the worst cases appearing decidedly like an anxiety disorder.

In so far as feeling is, incontestably, a more obvious peculiarity of feminine psychology than thinking, the most pronounced feeling-types are also to be found among women. When extraverted feeling possesses the priority we speak of an extraverted feeling-type. Examples of this type that I can call to mind are, almost without exception, women. She is a woman who follows the guiding-line of her feeling. As the result of education her feeling has become developed into an adjusted function, subject to conscious control. Except in extreme cases, feeling has a personal character, in spite of the fact that the subjective factor may be already, to a large extent, repressed. The personality appears to be adjusted in relation to objective conditions. Her feelings correspond with objective situations and general values. Nowhere is this more clearly revealed than in the so-called 'love-choice'; the 'suitable' man is loved, not another one; he is suitable not so much because he fully accords with the fundamental character of the woman -- as a rule she is quite uninformed about this -- but because he meticulously corresponds in standing, age, capacity, height, and family respectability with every reasonable requirement. Such a formulation might, of course, be easily rejected as ironical or depreciatory, were I not fully convinced that the love-feeling of this type of woman completely corresponds with her choice. It is genuine, and not merely intelligently manufactured. Such 'reasonable' marriages exist without number, and they are by no means the worst. Such women are good comrades to their husbands and excellent mothers, so long as husbands or children possess the conventional psychic constitution. One can feel 'correctly', however, only when feeling is disturbed by nothing else. But nothing disturbs feeling so much as thinking. It is at once intelligible, therefore, that this type should repress thinking as much as possible. This does not mean to say that such a woman does not think at all; on the contrary, she may even think a great deal and very ably, but her thinking is never sui generis; it is, in fact, an Epimethean appendage to her feeling. What she cannot feel, she cannot consciously think. 'But I can't think what I don't feel', such a type said to me once in indignant tones. As far as feeling permits, she can think very well, but every conclusion, however logical, that might lead to a disturbance of feeling is rejected from the outset. It is simply not thought. And thus everything that corresponds with objective valuations is good: these things are loved or treasured; the rest seems merely to exist in a world apart.

Since feeling is indisputably a more prominent feature of feminine psychology than thinking, the most pronounced feeling types are found among women. When extraverted feeling has priority, we speak of an extraverted feeling type. The examples I can recall are almost without exception women. She is a woman who follows the guiding thread of her feeling. Through upbringing and education, her feeling has developed into an adapted function subject to conscious control. Except in extreme cases, feeling retains a personal character, despite the fact that the subjective factor may already be largely repressed. The personality appears well-adjusted to objective conditions. Her feelings correspond with objective situations and generally accepted values. This is nowhere more clearly seen than in romantic partner choice: the "suitable" man is loved, not another one. He's suitable not because he accords with the woman's fundamental character—she's usually quite unaware of this—but because he meticulously matches every reasonable requirement in terms of social standing, age, ability, height, and family respectability. This description might easily be dismissed as ironic or critical, except that I'm fully convinced the love feelings of this type of woman completely align with her choice. It's genuine, not artificially manufactured. Such "reasonable" marriages exist in great numbers and are by no means the worst. Such women make good partners to their husbands and excellent mothers, as long as their husbands or children have conventional psychological constitutions. One can only feel "correctly," however, when feeling isn't disturbed by anything else. And nothing disturbs feeling more than thinking. It's immediately clear, then, why this type represses thinking as much as possible. This doesn't mean such a woman doesn't think at all—on the contrary, she may think extensively and skillfully—but her thinking is never independent; it's an afterthought, a reactive appendage to her feeling. What she can't feel, she can't consciously think. "But I can't think what I don't feel," a woman of this type once told me indignantly. As far as feeling permits, she can think very well, but any conclusion—however logical—that might disturb feeling is rejected from the start. It simply isn't thought. Thus everything that aligns with objective values is good and is loved or treasured; the rest seems to exist in a separate world.

But a change comes over the picture when the importance of the object reaches a still higher level. As already explained above, such an assimilation of subject to object then occurs as almost completely to engulf the subject of feeling. Feeling loses its personal character -- it becomes feeling per se; it almost seems as though the personality were wholly dissolved in the feeling of the moment. Now, since in actual life situations constantly and successively alternate, in which the feeling-tones released are not only different but are actually mutually contrasting, the personality inevitably becomes dissipated in just so many different feelings. Apparently, he is this one moment, and something completely different the next -- apparently, I repeat, for in reality such a manifold personality is altogether impossible. The basis of the ego always remains identical with itself, and, therefore, appears definitely opposed to the changing states of feeling. Accordingly the observer senses the display of feeling not so much as a personal expression of the feeling-subject as an alteration of his ego, a mood, in other words. Corresponding with the degree of dissociation between the ego and the momentary state of feeling, signs of disunion with the self will become more or less evident, i.e. the original compensatory attitude of the unconscious becomes a manifest opposition. This reveals itself, in the first instance, in extravagant demonstrations of feeling, in loud and obtrusive feeling predicates, which leave one, however, somewhat incredulous. They ring hollow; they are not convincing. On the contrary, they at once give one an inkling of a resistance that is being overcompensated, and one begins to wonder whether such a feeling-judgment might not just as well be entirely different. In fact, in a very short time it actually is different. Only a very slight alteration in the situation is needed to provoke forthwith an entirely contrary estimation of the selfsame object. The result of such an experience is that the observer is unable to take either judgment at all seriously. He begins to reserve his own opinion. But since, with this type, it is a matter of the greatest moment to establish an intensive feeling rapport with his environment, redoubled efforts are now required to overcome this reserve. Thus, in the manner of the circulus vitiosus, the situation goes from bad to worse. The more the feeling relation with the object becomes overstressed, the nearer the unconscious opposition approaches the surface.

But the picture changes when the object's importance reaches an even higher level. As explained earlier, such an absorption of the person into the object occurs that it almost completely engulfs the feeling subject. Feeling loses its personal character—it becomes feeling in itself; it almost seems as though the personality were wholly dissolved in the feeling of the moment. Now, since in real life situations constantly alternate, triggering not just different but actually contrasting emotional tones, the personality inevitably becomes fragmented into just as many different feelings. Apparently, they're one thing at this moment and something completely different the next—apparently, I emphasize, because in reality such a fragmented personality is impossible. The core of the ego always remains identical with itself and therefore appears clearly opposed to the shifting feeling states. Accordingly, the observer perceives the display of feeling not so much as a personal expression of the feeling subject but as a shift in their ego—a mood, in other words. Corresponding with the degree of split between the ego and the momentary feeling state, signs of inner conflict become more or less evident—the original compensatory attitude of the unconscious becomes manifest opposition. This first reveals itself in exaggerated emotional displays, in loud and intrusive emotional pronouncements that leave observers somewhat skeptical. They ring hollow; they're not convincing. On the contrary, they immediately hint at resistance being overcompensated, and one begins to wonder whether such an emotional judgment might just as easily be completely different. In fact, very soon it actually is different. Only a very slight shift in the situation is needed to immediately provoke an entirely opposite assessment of the same object. The result is that the observer can't take either judgment seriously. They begin withholding their own opinion. But since, for this type, establishing an intense emotional connection with their environment is of utmost importance, redoubled efforts are now required to overcome this reserve. Thus, in a vicious circle, the situation deteriorates. The more the emotional relationship with the object becomes overstressed, the closer the unconscious opposition comes to the surface.

We have already seen that the extraverted feeling type, as a rule, represses his thinking, just because thinking is the function most liable to disturb feeling. Similarly, when thinking seeks to arrive at pure results of any kind, its first act is to exclude feeling, since nothing is calculated to harass and falsify thinking so much as feeling-values. Thinking, therefore, in so far as it is an independent function, is repressed in the extraverted feeling type. Its repression, as I observed before, is complete only in so far as its inexorable logic forces it to conclusions that are incompatible with feeling. It is suffered to exist as the servant of feeling, or more accurately its slave. Its backbone is broken; it may not operate on its own account, in accordance with its own laws, Now, since a logic exists producing inexorably right conclusions, this must happen somewhere, although beyond the bounds of consciousness, i.e. in the unconscious. Pre-eminently, therefore, the unconscious content of this type is a particular kind of thinking. It is an infantile, archaic, and negative thinking.

We've already seen that the extraverted feeling type typically represses their thinking, precisely because thinking is the function most likely to disturb feeling. Similarly, when thinking seeks pure results of any kind, it must first exclude feeling, since nothing disrupts and distorts thinking as much as emotional values. Therefore, thinking—as an independent function—is repressed in the extraverted feeling type. Its repression is complete only insofar as its inexorable logic forces it to conclusions incompatible with feeling. It's allowed to exist as feeling's servant—or more accurately, its slave. Its backbone is broken; it can't operate independently, according to its own laws. Now, since logic exists that produces inevitably correct conclusions, this must happen somewhere—though beyond consciousness, in the unconscious. Consequently, the unconscious content of this type is predominantly a particular kind of thinking. It's an undeveloped, archaic, and negative thinking.

So long as conscious feeling preserves the personal character, or, in other words, so long as the personality does not become swallowed up by successive states of feeling, this unconscious thinking remains compensatory. But as soon as the personality is dissociated, becoming dispersed in mutually contradictory states of feeling, the identity of the ego is lost, and the subject becomes unconscious. But, because of the subject's lapse into the unconscious, it becomes associated with the unconscious thinking -- function, therewith assisting the unconscious thought to occasional consciousness. The stronger the conscious feeling relation, and therefore, the more 'depersonalized,' it becomes, the stronger grows the unconscious opposition. This reveals itself in the fact that unconscious ideas centre round just the most valued objects, which are thus pitilessly stripped of their value. That thinking which always thinks in the 'nothing but' style is in its right place here, since it destroys the ascendancy of the feeling that is chained to the object.

As long as conscious feeling preserves its personal character—in other words, as long as the personality doesn't become swallowed up by successive feeling states—this unconscious thinking remains compensatory. But as soon as the personality becomes fragmented, dispersing into mutually contradictory feeling states, the ego's identity is lost and the person becomes unconscious. Because the person has lapsed into the unconscious, they become associated with the unconscious thinking function, thereby helping unconscious thought occasionally reach consciousness. The stronger the conscious feeling relationship—and therefore the more depersonalized it becomes—the stronger the unconscious opposition grows. This reveals itself in the fact that unconscious ideas center precisely on the most valued objects, which are thus ruthlessly stripped of their value. That "nothing but" thinking is perfectly placed here, since it destroys the dominance of feeling that's chained to the object.

Unconscious thought reaches the surface in the form of irruptions, often of an obsessing nature, the general character of which is always negative and depreciatory. Women of this type have moments when the most hideous thoughts fasten upon the very objects most valued by their feelings. This negative thinking avails itself of every infantile prejudice or parallel that is calculated to breed doubt in the feeling-value, and it tows every primitive instinct along with it, in the effort to make 'a nothing but' interpretation of the feeling. At this point, it is perhaps in the nature of a side-remark to observe that the collective unconscious, i.e. the totality of the primordial images, also becomes enlisted in the same manner, and from the elaboration and development of these images there dawns the possibility of a regeneration of the attitude upon another basis.

Unconscious thought reaches the surface as intrusive eruptions, often obsessive in nature, whose general character is always negative and critical. Women of this type have moments when the most terrible thoughts attach themselves to the very objects most valued by their feelings. This negative thinking employs every childish prejudice or parallel calculated to create doubt in the emotional value, dragging along every primal instinct in its effort to create a "nothing but" interpretation of the feeling. At this point, it's worth noting as an aside that the collective unconscious—the totality of primordial images—also becomes mobilized in the same way, and from the working through and development of these images emerges the possibility of regenerating the attitude on a different foundation.

Hysteria, with the characteristic infantile sexuality of its unconscious world of ideas, is the principal form of neurosis with this type.

Anxiety disorders, with their characteristic undeveloped sexuality in the unconscious, are the principal form of psychological distress with this type.

I term the two preceding types rational or judging types because they are characterized by the supremacy of the reasoning and the judging functions. It is a general distinguishing mark of both types that their life is, to a large extent, subordinated to reasoning judgment. But we must not overlook the point, whether by 'reasoning' we are referring to the standpoint of the individual's subjective psychology, or to the standpoint of the observer, who perceives and judges from without. For such an observer could easily arrive at an opposite judgment, especially if he has a merely intuitive apprehension of the behaviour of the observed, and judges accordingly. In its totality, the life of this type is never dependent upon reasoning judgment alone; it is influenced in almost equal degree by unconscious irrationality. If observation is restricted to behaviour, without any concern for the domestic interior of the individual's consciousness, one may get an even stronger impression of the irrational and accidental character of certain unconscious manifestations in the individual's behaviour than of the reasonableness of his conscious purposes and motivations. I, therefore, base my judgment upon what the individual feels to be his conscious psychology. But I am prepared to grant that we may equally well entertain a precisely opposite conception of such a psychology, and present it accordingly. I am also convinced that, had I myself chanced to possess a different individual psychology, I should have described the rational types in the reversed way, from the standpoint of the unconscious-as irrational, therefore. This circumstance aggravates the difficulty of a lucid presentation of psychological matters to a degree not to be underestimated, and immeasurably increases the possibility of misunderstandings. The discussions which develop from these misunderstandings are, as a rule, quite hopeless, since the real issue is never joined, each side speaking, as it were, in a different tongue. Such experience is merely one reason the more for basing my presentation upon the subjective conscious psychology of the individual, since there, at least, one has a definite objective footing, which completely drops away the moment we try to ground psychological principles upon the unconscious. For the observed, in this case, could undertake no kind of co-operation, because there is nothing of which he is not more informed than his own unconscious. The judgment would entirely devolve upon the observer -- a certain guarantee that its basis would be his own individual psychology, which would infallibly be imposed upon the observed. To my mind, this is the case in the psychologies both of Freud and of Adler. The individual is completely at the mercy of the arbitrary discretion of his observing critic -- which can never be the case when the conscious psychology of the observed is accepted as the basis. After all, he is the only competent judge, since he alone knows his own motives.

I call the two preceding types rational or judging types because they're characterized by the dominance of reasoning and judging functions. A general distinguishing mark of both types is that their lives are, to a large extent, governed by reasoned judgment. But we mustn't overlook whether by "reasoning" we mean the individual's own subjective psychology, or the viewpoint of an external observer who perceives and judges from outside. Such an observer could easily reach the opposite conclusion, especially if they have only an intuitive grasp of the person's behavior and judge accordingly. In totality, this type's life never depends on reasoned judgment alone—it's influenced almost equally by unconscious non-rationality. If observation is restricted to behavior, without concern for the person's inner conscious experience, one may get a stronger impression of the non-rational and accidental character of certain unconscious manifestations than of the reasonableness of their conscious purposes and motivations. I therefore base my judgment on what the individual experiences as their conscious psychology. But I'm prepared to grant that we could equally well hold a precisely opposite conception of such psychology and present it accordingly. I'm also convinced that had I happened to possess a different individual psychology, I would have described the rational types in reverse—from the unconscious standpoint, as non-rational. This circumstance greatly complicates any clear presentation of psychological matters and immeasurably increases the possibility of misunderstandings. Discussions arising from these misunderstandings are usually quite hopeless, since the real issue is never engaged—each side speaking, as it were, in a different language. This experience is one more reason to base my presentation on the individual's subjective conscious psychology, since there at least we have definite objective ground, which completely disappears when we try to base psychological principles on the unconscious. In the latter case, the person being observed couldn't cooperate at all, since there's nothing about which they're less informed than their own unconscious. The judgment would fall entirely on the observer—which guarantees its basis would be the observer's own individual psychology, inevitably imposed on the observed. In my view, this is the case with both Freud's and Adler's psychologies. The individual becomes completely subject to the arbitrary judgment of their observing critic—which can never happen when the person's conscious psychology is accepted as the basis. After all, they're the only competent judge, since only they know their own motives.

The reasonableness that characterizes the conscious management of life in both these types, involves a conscious exclusion of the accidental and non-rational. Reasoning judgment, in such a psychology, represents a power that coerces the untidy and accidental things of life into definite forms; such at least is its aim. Thus, on the one hand, a definite choice is made among the possibilities of life, since only the rational choice is consciously accepted; but, on the other hand, the independence and influence of those psychic functions which perceive life's happenings are essentially restricted. This limitation of sensation and intuition is, of course, not absolute. These functions exist, for they are universal; but their products are subject to the choice of the reasoning judgment. It is not the absolute strength of sensation, for instance, which turns the scales in the motivation of action, but judgment, Thus, in a certain sense, the perceiving-functions share the same fate as feeling in the case of the first type, or thinking in that of the second. They are relatively repressed, and therefore in an inferior state of differentiation. This circumstance gives a particular stamp to the unconscious of both our types; what such men do consciously and intentionally accords with reason (their reason of course), but what happens to them corresponds either with infantile, primitive sensations, or with similarly archaic intuitions. I will try to make clear what I mean by these latter concepts in the sections that follow. At all events, that which happens to this type is irrational (from their own standpoint of course). Now, since there are vast numbers of men whose lives consist in what happens to them more than in actions resulting from reasoned intention, it might conceivably happen, that such a man, after careful analysis, would describe both our types as irrational. We must grant him, however, that only too often a man's unconscious makes a far stronger impression upon one than his conscious, and that his actions often have considerably more weight and meaning than his reasoned motivations.

The reasonableness characterizing conscious life management in both these types involves consciously excluding the accidental and non-rational. Reasoned judgment, in such a psychology, represents a force that coerces life's messy and accidental elements into definite forms—at least that's its goal. Thus, on one hand, a definite choice is made among life's possibilities, since only the rational choice is consciously accepted; but on the other hand, the independence and influence of those psychic functions that perceive life's happenings are essentially restricted. This limitation of sensation and intuition isn't absolute, of course. These functions exist because they're universal, but their products are subject to reasoned judgment's selection. It's not sensation's absolute strength, for instance, that determines action, but judgment. Thus, in a sense, the perceiving functions share the same fate as feeling in the first type or thinking in the second. They're relatively repressed and therefore poorly developed. This gives the unconscious of both types a particular character: what they do consciously and intentionally accords with reason (their reason, of course), but what happens to them corresponds to either undeveloped, primal sensations or similarly archaic intuitions. I'll try to clarify what I mean by these concepts in the following sections. In any case, what happens to this type is non-rational (from their own standpoint, of course). Now, since vast numbers of people's lives consist more in what happens to them than in actions from reasoned intention, it's conceivable that such a person, after careful analysis, would describe both our types as non-rational. We must grant, however, that all too often a person's unconscious makes a far stronger impression than their conscious mind, and their actions often carry considerably more weight and meaning than their reasoned motivations.

The rationality of both types is orientated objectively, and depends upon objective data. Their reasonableness corresponds with what passes as reasonable from the collective standpoint. Subjectively they consider nothing rational save what is generally considered as such. But reason is also very largely subjective and individual. In our case this share is repressed -- increasingly so, in fact, the more the significance of the object is exalted, Both the subject and subjective reason, therefore, are always threatened with repression and, when it descends, they fall under the tyranny of the unconscious, which in this case possesses most unpleasant qualities. We have already spoken of its thinking. But, in addition, there are primitive sensations, which reveal themselves in compulsive forms, as, for instance, an abnormal compulsive pleasure seeking in every conceivable direction ; there are also primitive intuitions, which can become a positive torture to the individuals concerned, not to mention their entourage. Everything disagreeable and painful, everything disgusting, ugly, and evil is scented out or suspected, and these as a rule only correspond with half-truths, than which nothing is more calculated to create misunderstandings of the most poisonous kind. The powerful influence of the opposing unconscious contents necessarily brings about a frequent interruption of the rational conscious government, namely, a striking subservience to the element of chance, so that, either by virtue of their sensational value or unconscious significance, accidental happenings acquire a compelling influence.

The rationality of both types is objectively oriented and depends on objective data. Their reasonableness corresponds to what's considered reasonable from the collective standpoint. Subjectively, they consider nothing rational except what's generally regarded as such. But reason is also largely subjective and individual. In these types, this subjective element is repressed—increasingly so as the object's significance grows. Both the person and their subjective reason are therefore always threatened with repression, and when repression occurs, they fall under the tyranny of the unconscious, which in this case has most unpleasant qualities. We've already discussed its thinking. But additionally, there are primal sensations that reveal themselves in compulsive forms—for instance, abnormal compulsive pleasure-seeking in every conceivable direction—and there are also primal intuitions that can become actual torture to those concerned, not to mention those around them. Everything disagreeable and painful, everything disgusting, ugly, and evil is sniffed out or suspected, and these usually correspond only to half-truths—nothing is more calculated to create the most toxic misunderstandings. The powerful influence of opposing unconscious contents necessarily brings frequent interruptions to rational conscious control—a striking susceptibility to chance, so that accidental happenings acquire compelling influence either through their sensational value or unconscious significance.

Sensation, in the extraverted attitude, is most definitely conditioned by the object. As sense-perception, sensation is naturally dependent upon the object. But, just as naturally, it is also dependent upon the subject; hence, there is also a subjective sensation, which after its kind is entirely different from the objective. In the extraverted attitude this subjective share of sensation, in so far as its conscious application is concerned, is either inhibited or repressed. As an irrational function, sensation is equally repressed, whenever a rational function, thinking or feeling, possesses the priority, ie. it can be said to have a conscious function, only in so far as the rational attitude of consciousness permits accidental perceptions to become conscious contents; in short, realizes them. The function of sense is, of course, absolute in the stricter sense; for example, everything is seen or heard to the farthest physiological possibility, but not everything attains that threshold value which a perception must possess in order to be also apperceived. It is a different matter when sensation itself possesses priority, instead of merely seconding another function. In this case, no element of objective sensation is excluded and nothing repressed (with the exception of the subjective share already mentioned). Sensation has a preferential objective determination, and those objects which release the strongest sensation are decisive for the individual's psychology. The result of this is a pronounced sensuous hold to the object. Sensation, therefore, is a vital function, equipped with the potentest vital instinct. In so far as objects release sensations, they matter; and, in so far as it lies within the power of sensation, they are also fully accepted into consciousness, whether compatible with reasoned judgment or not. As a function its sole criterion of value is the strength of the sensation as conditioned by its objective qualities. Accordingly, all objective processes, in so far as they release sensations at all, make their appearance in consciousness. It is, however, only concrete, sensuously perceived objects or processes which excite sensations in the extraverted attitude; exclusively those, in fact, which everyone in all times and places would sense as concrete. Hence, the orientation of such an individual corresponds with purely concrete reality. The judging, rational functions are subordinated to the concrete facts of sensation, and, accordingly, possess the qualities of inferior differentiation, i.e. they are marked by a certain negativity, with infantile and archaic tendencies. The function most affected by the repression, is, naturally, the one standing opposite to sensation, viz. intuition, the function of unconscious perception.

Sensation in the extraverted attitude is most definitely conditioned by the object. As sense perception, sensation is naturally dependent on the object. But just as naturally, it's also dependent on the person; hence there's also subjective sensation, which is entirely different in character from objective sensation. In the extraverted attitude, this subjective component of sensation is either inhibited or repressed in conscious application. As a non-rational function, sensation is equally repressed whenever a rational function—thinking or feeling—has priority. It can be said to have a conscious function only insofar as the rational conscious attitude permits accidental perceptions to become conscious contents—in short, realizes them. The sensory function is absolute in the strict sense—for example, everything is seen or heard to the furthest physiological possibility—but not everything reaches the threshold value a perception must have to be consciously registered. It's a different matter when sensation itself has priority instead of merely supporting another function. In this case, no element of objective sensation is excluded and nothing repressed (except the subjective component already mentioned). Sensation has preferential objective determination, and those objects releasing the strongest sensation are decisive for the person's psychology. The result is a pronounced sensory grip on the object. Sensation is therefore a vital function, equipped with the most potent vital instinct. Insofar as objects release sensations, they matter; and insofar as it lies within sensation's power, they're fully accepted into consciousness, whether compatible with reasoned judgment or not. As a function, its sole criterion of value is the sensation's strength as conditioned by objective qualities. Accordingly, all objective processes, insofar as they release sensations at all, appear in consciousness. However, only concrete, sensuously perceived objects or processes excite sensations in the extraverted attitude—exclusively those, in fact, that everyone everywhere would sense as concrete. Hence, such a person's orientation corresponds with purely concrete reality. The judging, rational functions are subordinated to sensation's concrete facts and accordingly have the qualities of poor development—marked by a certain negativity with undeveloped and archaic tendencies. The function most affected by repression is naturally the one opposite to sensation: intuition, the function of unconscious perception.

No other human type can equal the extraverted sensation-type in realism. His sense for objective facts is extraordinarily developed. His life is an accumulation of actual experience with concrete objects, and the more pronounced he is, the less use does he make of his experience. In certain cases the events of his life hardly deserve the name 'experience'. He knows no better use for this sensed 'experience' than to make it serve as a guide to fresh sensations; anything in the least 'new' that comes within his circle of interest is forthwith turned to a sensational account and is made to serve this end. In so far as one is disposed to regard a highly developed sense for sheer actuality as very reasonable, will such men be esteemed rational. In reality, however, this is by no means the case, since they are equally subject to the sensation of irrational, chance happenings, as they are to rational behaviour.

No other human type can equal the extraverted sensation type in realism. Their sense for objective facts is extraordinarily developed. Their life is an accumulation of actual experiences with concrete objects, and the more pronounced the type, the less use they make of their experience. In certain cases, the events of their life hardly deserve the name "experience." They know no better use for this sensed "experience" than as a guide to fresh sensations; anything even slightly "new" that enters their circle of interest is immediately converted into sensational experience and made to serve this purpose. Insofar as one considers a highly developed sense for sheer actuality very reasonable, such people will be esteemed rational. In reality, however, this isn't the case at all, since they're equally subject to non-rational, chance sensations as they are to rational behavior.

Such a type -- the majority arc men apparently -- does not, of course, believe himself to be 'subject' to sensation. He would be much more inclined to ridicule this view as altogether inconclusive, since, from his standpoint, sensation is the concrete manifestation of life -- it is simply the fulness of actual living. His aim is concrete enjoyment, and his morality is similarly orientated. For true enjoyment has its own special morality, its own moderation and lawfulness, its own unselfishness and devotedness. It by no means follows that he is just sensual or gross, for he may differentiate his sensation to the finest pitch of æsthetic purity without being the least unfaithful, even in his most abstract sensations, to his principle of objective sensation. Wulfen's Cicerone des r¨cksichtlosen Lebensgenusses is the unvarnished confession of a type of this sort. From this point of view the book seems to me worth reading.

Such a type—the majority apparently being men—doesn't, of course, believe themselves "subject" to sensation. They would be more inclined to dismiss this view as completely unfounded, since from their standpoint, sensation is life's concrete manifestation—it's simply the fullness of actual living. Their aim is concrete enjoyment, and their morality is oriented accordingly. True enjoyment has its own special morality, its own moderation and order, its own unselfishness and devotion. It doesn't follow that they're merely sensual or crude; they may refine their sensation to the finest aesthetic purity without being the least unfaithful—even in their most abstract sensations—to the principle of objective sensation. Wulfen's "Cicerone of Uncompromising Life-Enjoyment" is the candid confession of this type. From this perspective, the book seems worth reading to me.

Upon the lower levels this is the man of tangible reality, with little tendency either for reflection or commanding purpose. To sense the object, to have and if possible to enjoy sensations, is his constant motive. He is by no means unlovable; on the contrary, he frequently has a charming and lively capacity for enjoyment; he is sometimes a jolly fellow, and often a refined æsthete.

At lower developmental levels, this is the person of tangible reality, with little inclination for either reflection or overarching purpose. To sense the object, to have and if possible enjoy sensations, is their constant motivation. They're by no means unpleasant; on the contrary, they frequently have a charming and lively capacity for enjoyment; they're sometimes jovial companions and often refined aesthetes.

In the former case, the great problems of life hinge upon a good or indifferent dinner; in the latter, they are questions of good taste. When he 'senses', everything essential has been said and done. Nothing can be more than concrete and actual; conjectures that transcend or go beyond the concrete are only permitted on condition that they enhance sensation. This need not be in any way a pleasurable reinforcement, since this type is not a common voluptuary; he merely desires the strongest sensation, and this, by his very nature, he can receive only from without. What comes from within seems to him morbid and objectionable. In so far as lie thinks and feels, he always reduces down to objective foundations, i.e. to influences coming from the object, quite unperturbed by the most violent departures from logic. Tangible reality, under any conditions, makes him breathe again. In this respect he is unexpectedly credulous. He will, without hesitation, relate an obvious psychogenic symptom to the falling barometer, while the existence of a psychic conflict seems to him a fantastic abnormality. His love is incontestably rooted in the manifest attractions of the object. In so far as he is normal, he is conspicuously adjusted to positive reality -- conspicuously, because his adjustment is always visible. His ideal is the actual; in this respect he is considerate. He has no ideals related to ideas -- he has, therefore, no sort of ground for maintaining a hostile attitude towards the reality of things and facts. This expresses itself in all the externals of his life. He dresses well, according to his circumstances ; he keeps a good table for his friends, who are either made comfortable or at least given to understand that his fastidious taste is obliged to impose certain claims upon his entourage. He even convinces one that certain sacrifices are decidedly worth while for the sake of style.

In the former case, life's great problems hinge on a good or mediocre dinner; in the latter, they're questions of good taste. When they "sense," everything essential has been said and done. Nothing can be more than concrete and actual; speculations that transcend the concrete are only permitted if they enhance sensation. This needn't be pleasurable reinforcement, since this type isn't a common pleasure-seeker; they merely want the strongest sensation, which by their very nature can only come from outside. What comes from within seems to them unhealthy and objectionable. Insofar as they think and feel, they always reduce things to objective foundations—to influences from the object—quite undisturbed by the most extreme departures from logic. Tangible reality, under any conditions, lets them breathe easy again. In this respect they're unexpectedly credulous. They'll readily attribute an obvious psychological symptom to the falling barometer, while the existence of inner conflict seems to them a fantastic abnormality. Their love is undeniably rooted in the object's manifest attractions. Insofar as they're well-adjusted, they're conspicuously adapted to concrete reality—conspicuously, because their adjustment is always visible. Their ideal is the actual; in this respect they're practical. They have no ideals based on abstract ideas—therefore no grounds for maintaining hostility toward the reality of things and facts. This expresses itself in all the externals of their life. They dress well according to their circumstances; they keep a good table for friends, who are either made comfortable or at least given to understand that refined taste imposes certain requirements on those around them. They even convince others that certain sacrifices are definitely worthwhile for the sake of style.

But the more sensation predominates, so that the sensing subject disappears behind the sensation, the more unsatisfactory does this type become. Either he develops into a crude pleasure-seeker or he becomes an unscrupulous, designing sybarite. Although the object is entirely indispensable to him, yet, as something existing in and through itself, it is none the less depreciated. It is ruthlessly violated and essentially ignored, since now its sole use is to stimulate sensation. The hold upon the object is pushed to the utmost limit. The unconscious is, accordingly, forced out of its me[accent]tier as a compensatory function and driven into open opposition. But, above all, the repressed intuitions begin to assert themselves in the form of projections upon the object. The strangest conjectures arise; in the case of a sexual object, jealous phantasies and anxiety-states play a great role. More acute cases develop every sort of phobia, and especially compulsive symptoms. The pathological contents have a remarkable air of unreality, with a frequent moral or religious colouring. A pettifogging captiousness often develops, or an absurdly scrupulous morality coupled with a primitive, superstitious and 'magical' religiosity, harking back to abstruse rites. All these things have their source in the repressed inferior functions, which, in such cases, stand in harsh opposition to the conscious standpoint; they wear, in fact, an aspect that is all the more striking because they appear to rest upon the most absurd suppositions, in complete contrast to the conscious sense of reality. The whole culture of thought and feeling seems, in this second personality, to be twisted into a morbid primitiveness; reason is hair-splitting sophistry -- morality is dreary moralizing and palpable Pharisaism -- religion is absurd superstition -- intuition, the noblest of human gifts, is a mere personal subtlety, a sniffing into every corner; instead of searching the horizon, it recedes to the narrowest gauge of human meanness.

But the more sensation predominates, so that the sensing person disappears behind the sensation, the more unsatisfactory this type becomes. Either they develop into a crude pleasure-seeker or become an unscrupulous, calculating hedonist. Although the object is entirely indispensable to them, yet as something existing independently, it's nonetheless depreciated. It's ruthlessly exploited and essentially ignored, since now its sole use is to stimulate sensation. The grip on the object is pushed to the extreme limit. The unconscious is accordingly forced out of its role as compensatory function and driven into open opposition. Above all, the repressed intuitions begin asserting themselves as projections onto the object. The strangest suspicions arise; in the case of romantic partners, jealous fantasies and anxiety states play a major role. More severe cases develop all sorts of phobias and especially compulsive symptoms. The pathological contents have a remarkable air of unreality, frequently with moral or religious coloring. A nitpicking fault-finding often develops, or an absurdly scrupulous morality coupled with a primal, superstitious, and "magical" religiosity, harking back to obscure rites. All these things originate in the repressed inferior functions, which in such cases stand in sharp opposition to the conscious standpoint; they appear all the more striking because they seem to rest on the most absurd assumptions, in complete contrast to the conscious sense of reality. The entire culture of thought and feeling in this second personality seems twisted into an unhealthy primitiveness: reason becomes hair-splitting sophistry, morality becomes dreary moralizing and obvious hypocrisy, religion becomes absurd superstition, and intuition—the noblest of human gifts—becomes mere personal cunning, sniffing into every corner; instead of searching the horizon, it shrinks to the narrowest gauge of human pettiness.

The specially compulsive character of the neurotic symptoms represent the unconscious counterweight to the laisser aller morality of a purely sensational attitude, which, from the standpoint of rational judgment, accepts without discrimination, everything that happens. Although this lack of basic principles in the sensation-type does not argue an absolute lawlessness and lack of restraint, it at least deprives him of the quite essential restraining power of judgment. Rational judgment represents a conscious coercion, which the rational type appears to impose upon himself of his own free will. This compulsion overtakes the sensation-type from the unconscious. Moreover, the rational type's link to the object, from the very existence of a judgment, never means such an unconditioned relation as that which the sensation-type has with the object. When his attitude reaches an abnormal one-sidedness, he is in danger of falling just as deeply into the arms of the unconscious as he consciously clings to the object. When he becomes neurotic, he is much harder to treat in the rational way, because the functions to which the physician must appeal are in a relatively undifferentiated state; hence little or no trust can be placed in them. Special means of bringing emotional pressure to bear are often needed to make him at all conscious.

The particularly compulsive character of the neurotic symptoms represents the unconscious counterweight to the permissive morality of a purely sensational attitude, which from the rational standpoint accepts everything that happens without discrimination. Although this lack of guiding principles in the sensation type doesn't mean absolute lawlessness and lack of restraint, it at least deprives them of judgment's essential restraining power. Rational judgment represents a conscious discipline that the rational type appears to impose on themselves freely. This compulsion overtakes the sensation type from the unconscious. Moreover, the rational type's connection to the object, by the very existence of judgment, never means such an unconditional relationship as the sensation type has with the object. When their attitude reaches abnormal one-sidedness, they're in danger of falling just as deeply into the unconscious as they consciously cling to the object. When they develop psychological distress, they're much harder to treat rationally because the functions the therapist must appeal to are relatively undeveloped; hence little trust can be placed in them. Special means of applying emotional pressure are often needed to make them conscious at all.

Intuition as the function of unconscious perception is wholly directed upon outer objects in the extraverted attitude. Because, in the main, intuition is an unconscious process, the conscious apprehension of its nature is a very difficult matter. In consciousness, the intuitive function is represented by a certain attitude of expectation, a perceptive and penetrating vision, wherein only the subsequent result can prove, in every case, how much was 'perceived-into', and how much actually lay in the object.

Intuition as the function of unconscious perception is wholly directed toward outer objects in the extraverted attitude. Because intuition is mainly an unconscious process, consciously grasping its nature is very difficult. In consciousness, the intuitive function is represented by a certain attitude of expectation, a perceptive and penetrating vision, where only the subsequent result can prove how much was "perceived-into" the object and how much actually existed in it.

Just as sensation, when given the priority, is not a mere reactive process of no further importance for the object, but is almost an action which seizes and shapes the object, so it is with intuition, which is by no means a mere perception, or awareness, but an active, creative process that builds into the object just as much as it takes out. But, because this process extracts the perception unconsciously, it also produces an unconscious effect in the object. The primary function of intuition is to transmit mere images, or perceptions of relations and conditions, which could be gained by the other functions, either not at all, or only by very roundabout ways. Such images have the value of definite discernments, and have a decisive bearing upon action, whenever intuition is given the chief weight; in which case, psychic adaptation is based almost exclusively upon intuition. Thinking, feeling, and sensation are relatively repressed; of these, sensation is the one principally affected, because, as the conscious function of sense, it offers the greatest obstacle to intuition. Sensation disturbs intuition's clear, unbiassed, naïve awareness with its importunate sensuous stimuli; for these direct the glance upon the physical superficies, hence upon the very things round and beyond which intuition tries to peer. But since intuition, in the extraverted attitude, has a prevailingly objective orientation, it actually comes very near to sensation; indeed, the expectant attitude towards outer objects may, with almost equal probability, avail itself of sensation. Hence, for intuition really to become paramount, sensation must to a large extent be suppressed. I am now speaking of sensation as the simple and direct sense-reaction, an almost definite physiological and psychic datum. This must be expressly established beforehand, because, if I ask the intuitive how he is orientated, he will speak of things which are quite indistinguishable from sense-perceptions. Frequently he will even make use of the term 'sensation'. He actually has sensations, but he is not guided by them per se, merely using them as directing-points for his distant vision. They are selected by unconscious expectation. Not the strongest sensation, in the physiological sense, obtains the crucial value, but any sensation whatsoever whose value happens to become considerably enhanced by reason of the intuitive's unconscious attitude. In this way it may eventually attain the leading position, appearing to the intuitive's consciousness indistinguishable from a pure sensation. But actually it is not so.

Just as sensation, when given priority, isn't merely a reactive process of no further importance for the object but almost an action that seizes and shapes the object, so it is with intuition, which is by no means mere perception or awareness but an active, creative process that builds into the object just as much as it extracts from it. But because this process extracts perception unconsciously, it also produces an unconscious effect on the object. Intuition's primary function is to transmit images—perceptions of relations and conditions—that the other functions could gain either not at all or only through very roundabout ways. Such images have the value of definite insights and decisively influence action whenever intuition is given primary weight; in which case, psychological adaptation is based almost exclusively on intuition. Thinking, feeling, and sensation are relatively repressed; of these, sensation is most affected because, as the conscious sensory function, it offers the greatest obstacle to intuition. Sensation disturbs intuition's clear, unbiased, naive awareness with its intrusive sensory stimuli; these direct attention to the physical surface—the very things intuition tries to see around and beyond. But since intuition in the extraverted attitude has a predominantly objective orientation, it actually comes very close to sensation; indeed, the expectant attitude toward outer objects may use sensation with almost equal likelihood. Hence, for intuition really to become dominant, sensation must be largely suppressed. I'm now speaking of sensation as the simple, direct sensory reaction—an almost definite physiological and psychological fact. This must be explicitly established beforehand because if I ask the intuitive how they're oriented, they'll describe things quite indistinguishable from sense perceptions. They'll frequently even use the term "sensation." They actually have sensations, but they're not guided by them as such, merely using them as reference points for their distant vision. They're selected by unconscious expectation. It's not the physiologically strongest sensation that gains crucial value, but any sensation whose value becomes considerably enhanced by the intuitive's unconscious attitude. In this way it may eventually attain the leading position, appearing to the intuitive's consciousness indistinguishable from pure sensation. But actually it's not.

Just as extraverted sensation strives to reach the highest pitch of actuality, because only thus can the appearance of a complete life be created, so intuition tries to encompass the greatest possibilities, since only through the awareness of possibilities is intuition fullysatisfied. Intuition seeks to discover possibilities in the objective situation; hence as a mere tributary function (viz. when not in the position of priority) it is also the instrument which, in the presence of a hopelessly blocked situation, works automatically towards the issue, which no other function could discover. Where intuition has the priority, every ordinary situation in life seems like a closed room, which intuition has to open. It is constantly seeking outlets and fresh possibilities in external life. In a very short time every actual situation becomes a prison to the intuitive; it burdens him like a chain, prompting a compelling need for solution. At times objects would seem to have an almost exaggerated value, should they chance to represent the idea of a severance or release that might lead to the discovery of a new possibility. Yet no sooner have they performed their office, serving intuition as a ladder or a bridge, than they appear to have no further value, and are discarded as mere burdensome appendages. A fact is acknowledged only in so far as it opens up fresh possibilities of advancing beyond it and of releasing the individual from its operation. Emerging possibilities are compelling motives from which intuition cannot escape and to which all else must be sacrificed.

Just as extraverted sensation strives to reach the highest pitch of actuality—because only thus can the appearance of a complete life be created—intuition tries to encompass the greatest possibilities, since only through awareness of possibilities is intuition fully satisfied. Intuition seeks to discover possibilities in the objective situation; thus as a mere supporting function (when not in the position of priority), it's also the instrument that, in a hopelessly blocked situation, automatically works toward the solution that no other function could discover. Where intuition has priority, every ordinary life situation seems like a closed room that intuition must open. It's constantly seeking outlets and fresh possibilities in external life. Very quickly, every actual situation becomes a prison to the intuitive; it burdens them like a chain, prompting a compelling need for a way out. At times objects seem to have almost exaggerated value if they happen to represent the idea of a break or release that might lead to discovering a new possibility. Yet as soon as they've served their purpose—serving intuition as a ladder or bridge—they appear to have no further value and are discarded as mere burdensome attachments. A fact is acknowledged only insofar as it opens fresh possibilities for moving beyond it and releasing the person from its constraints. Emerging possibilities are compelling motives from which intuition can't escape and to which everything else must be sacrificed.

Whenever intuition predominates, a particular and unmistakable psychology presents itself. Because intuition is orientated by the object, a decided dependence upon external situations is discernible, but it has an altogether different character from the dependence of the sensational type. The intuitive is never to be found among the generally recognized reality values, but he is always present where possibilities exist. He has a keen nose for things in the bud pregnant with future promise. He can never exist in stable, long-established conditions of generally acknowledged though limited value: because his eye is constantly ranging for new possibilities, stable conditions have an air of impending suffocation. He seizes hold of new objects and new ways with eager intensity, sometimes with extraordinary enthusiasm, only to abandon them cold-bloodedly, without regard and apparently without remembrance, as soon as their range becomes clearly defined and a promise of any considerable future development no longer clings to them. As long as a possibility exists, the intuitive is bound to it with thongs of fate. It is as though his whole life went out into the new situation. One gets the impression, which he himself shares, that he has just reached the definitive turning point in his life, and that from now on nothing else can seriously engage his thought and feeling. However reasonable and opportune it may be, and although every conceivable argument speaks in favour of stability, a day will come when nothing will deter him from regarding as a prison, the self-same situation that seemed to promise him freedom and deliverance, and from acting accordingly. Neither reason nor feeling can restrain or discourage him from a new possibility, even though it may run counter to convictions hitherto unquestioned. Thinking and feeling, the indispensable components of conviction, are, with him, inferior functions, possessing no decisive weight; hence they lack the power to offer any lasting. resistance to the force of intuition. And yet these are the only functions that are capable of creating any effectual compensation to the supremacy of intuition, since they can provide the intuitive with that judgment in which his type is altogether lacking. The morality of the intuitive is governed neither by intellect nor by feeling; he has his own characteristic morality, which consists in a loyalty to his intuitive view of things and a voluntary submission to its authority, Consideration for the welfare of his neighbours is weak. No solid argument hinges upon their well-being any more than upon his own. Neither can we detect in him any great respect for his neighbour's convictions and customs; in fact, he is not infrequently put down as an immoral and ruthless adventurer. Since his intuition is largely concerned with outer objects, scenting out external possibilities, he readily applies himself to callings wherein he may expand his abilities in many directions. Merchants, contractors, speculators, agents, politicians, etc., commonly belong to this type.

Whenever intuition predominates, a particular and unmistakable psychology appears. Because intuition is oriented by the object, a decided dependence on external situations is discernible, but it has an altogether different character from the sensation type's dependence. The intuitive is never found among generally recognized stable values but is always present where possibilities exist. They have a keen nose for things in development that are pregnant with future promise. They can never exist in stable, long-established conditions of generally acknowledged though limited value: because their eye constantly searches for new possibilities, stable conditions feel suffocating. They seize new objects and new paths with eager intensity, sometimes with extraordinary enthusiasm, only to abandon them cold-bloodedly, without regard and apparently without memory, as soon as their scope becomes clearly defined and no promise of considerable future development remains. As long as a possibility exists, the intuitive is bound to it by fate. It's as though their whole life flows into the new situation. One gets the impression—which they share—that they've just reached the definitive turning point in their life and that from now on nothing else can seriously engage their thoughts and feelings. However reasonable and opportune it may be, and though every conceivable argument favors stability, a day will come when nothing will stop them from regarding as a prison the very situation that seemed to promise freedom and deliverance, and acting accordingly. Neither reason nor feeling can restrain or discourage them from a new possibility, even if it contradicts previously unquestioned convictions. Thinking and feeling, the indispensable components of conviction, are for them inferior functions with no decisive weight; hence they lack the power to offer lasting resistance to intuition's force. Yet these are the only functions capable of creating effective compensation to intuition's supremacy, since they can provide the intuitive with the judgment their type altogether lacks. The intuitive's morality is governed neither by intellect nor by feeling; they have their own characteristic morality, which consists in loyalty to their intuitive view of things and voluntary submission to its authority. Consideration for others' welfare is weak. No solid argument rests on others' well-being any more than on their own. We can't detect in them any great respect for others' convictions and customs; in fact, they're not infrequently viewed as immoral and ruthless adventurers. Since their intuition is largely concerned with outer objects, sensing out external possibilities, they readily apply themselves to professions where they can expand their abilities in many directions. Merchants, contractors, speculators, agents, politicians, etc., commonly belong to this type.

Apparently this type is more prone to favour women than men; in which case, however, the intuitive activity reveals itself not so much in the professional as in the social sphere. Such women understand the art of utilizing every social opportunity; they establish right social connections; they seek out lovers with possibilities only to abandon everything again for the sake of a new possibility.

Apparently this type appears more among women than men; in which case, however, the intuitive activity reveals itself less in the professional sphere than in the social sphere. Such people understand the art of utilizing every social opportunity; they establish favorable social connections; they seek out partners with possibilities only to abandon everything again for the sake of a new possibility.

It is at once clear, both from the standpoint of political economy and on grounds of general culture, that such a type is uncommonly important. If well-intentioned, with an orientation to life not purely egoistical, he may render exceptional service as the promoter, if not the initiator of every kind of promising enterprise. He is the natural advocate of every minority that holds the seed of future promise. Because of his capacity, when orientated more towards men than things, to make an intuitive diagnosis of their abilities and range of usefulness, he can also 'make' men. His capacity to inspire his fellow-men with courage, or to kindle enthusiasm for something new, is unrivalled, although he may have forsworn it by the morrow. The more powerful and vivid his intuition, the more is his subject fused and blended with the divined possibility. He animates it; he presents it in plastic shape and with convincing fire; he almost embodies it. It is not a mere histrionic display, but a fate.

It's immediately clear, from both economic and cultural standpoints, that such a type is uncommonly important. If well-intentioned, with a life orientation not purely self-centered, they may render exceptional service as the promoter, if not initiator, of every kind of promising enterprise. They're the natural advocate of every minority holding the seeds of future promise. Because of their capacity, when oriented more toward people than things, to make an intuitive diagnosis of others' abilities and potential usefulness, they can also "make" people—discover and develop talent. Their capacity to inspire others with courage or kindle enthusiasm for something new is unrivaled, though they may have abandoned it by tomorrow. The more powerful and vivid their intuition, the more they fuse and blend with the divined possibility. They animate it; they present it in vivid form and with convincing passion; they almost embody it. It's not mere theatrical performance but a calling.

This attitude has immense dangers -- all too easily the intuitive may squander his life. He spends himself animating men and things, spreading around him an abundance of life -- a life, however, which others live, not he. Were he able to rest with the actual thing, he would gather the fruit of his labours; yet all too soon must he be running after some fresh possibility, quitting his newly planted field, while others reap the harvest. In the end he goes empty away. But when the intuitive lets things reach such a pitch, he also has the unconscious against him. The unconscious of the intuitive has a certain similarity with that of the sensation-type. Thinking and feeling, being relatively repressed, produce infantile and archaic thoughts and feelings in the unconscious, which may be compared with those of the countertype. They likewise come to the surface in the form of intensive projections, and are just as absurd as those of the sensation-type, only to my mind they lack the other's mystical character; they are chiefly concerned with quasi-actual things, in the nature of sexual, financial, and other hazards, as, for instance, suspicions of approaching illness. This difference appears to be due to a repression of the sensations of actual things. These latter usually command attention in the shape of a sudden entanglement with a most unsuitable woman, or, in the case of a woman, with a thoroughly unsuitable man; and this is simply the result of their unwitting contact with the sphere of archaic sensations. But its consequence is an unconsciously compelling tie to an object of incontestable futility. Such an event is already a compulsive symptom, which is also thoroughly characteristic of this type.

This attitude has immense dangers—all too easily the intuitive may squander their life. They spend themselves animating people and projects, spreading around them an abundance of life—a life, however, that others live, not they. If they could stay with the actual thing, they would gather the fruits of their labors; yet all too soon they must run after some fresh possibility, abandoning their newly planted field while others reap the harvest. In the end they come away empty-handed. But when the intuitive lets things reach this point, they also have the unconscious against them. The intuitive's unconscious has certain similarities with that of the sensation type. Thinking and feeling, being relatively repressed, produce undeveloped and archaic thoughts and feelings in the unconscious, which may be compared with those of the opposite type. They likewise surface as intense projections and are just as absurd as those of the sensation type, though in my view they lack the sensation type's mystical character; they're chiefly concerned with quasi-concrete things—sexual, financial, and other risks, such as suspicions of approaching illness. This difference appears due to repression of sensations of actual things. These latter usually demand attention in the form of sudden entanglement with a most unsuitable partner—simply the result of their unwitting contact with the sphere of archaic sensations. But its consequence is an unconsciously compelling tie to an object of undeniable futility. Such an event is already a compulsive symptom, thoroughly characteristic of this type.

In common with the sensation-type, he claims a similar freedom and exemption from all restraint, since he suffers no submission of his decisions to rational judgment, relying entirely upon the perception of chance, possibilities. He rids himself of the restrictions of reason, only to fall a victim to unconscious neurotic compulsions in the form of oversubtle, negative reasoning, hair-splitting dialectics, and a compulsive tie to the sensation of the object. His conscious attitude, both to the sensation and the sensed object, is one of sovereign superiority and disregard. Not that he means to be inconsiderate or superior -- he simply does not see the object that everyone else sees; his oblivion is similar to that of the sensation-type -- only, with the latter, the soul of the object is missed. For this oblivion the object sooner or later takes revenge in the form of hypochondriacal, compulsive ideas, phobias, and every imaginable kind of absurd bodily sensation.

Like the sensation type, they claim similar freedom and exemption from all restraint, since they allow no submission of their decisions to rational judgment, relying entirely on perception of chance possibilities. They rid themselves of reason's restrictions, only to fall victim to unconscious compulsions in the form of excessively subtle negative reasoning, hair-splitting dialectics, and a compulsive tie to the object's sensory aspects. Their conscious attitude toward both sensation and the sensed object is one of sovereign superiority and disregard. Not that they mean to be inconsiderate or superior—they simply don't see the object everyone else sees; their oblivion is similar to the sensation type's—only with the latter, the object's soul is missed. For this oblivion, the object sooner or later takes revenge in the form of health anxieties, compulsive ideas, phobias, and every imaginable kind of absurd bodily sensation.

I call the two preceding types irrational for reasons already referred to; namely, because their commissions and omissions are based not upon reasoned judgment but upon the absolute intensity of perception. Their perception is concerned with simple happenings, where no selection has been exercised by the judgment. In this respect both the latter types have a considerable superiority over the two judging types. The objective occurrence is both law-determined and accidental. In so far as it is law-determined, it is accessible to reason; in so far as it is accidental, it is not. One might reverse it and say that we apply the term law-determined to the occurrence appearing so to our reason, and where its regularity escapes us we call it accidental. The postulate of a universal lawfulness remains a postulate of reason only; in no sense is it a postulate of our functions of perception. Since these are in no way grounded upon the principle of reason and its postulates, they are, of their very nature, irrational. Hence my term 'irrational' corresponds with the nature of the perception-types. But merely because they subordinate judgment to perception, it would be quite incorrect to regard these types as unreasonable. They are merely in a high degree empirical; they are grounded exclusively upon experience, so exclusively, in fact, that as a rule, their judgment cannot keep pace with their experience. But the functions of judgment are none the less present, although they eke out a largely unconscious existence. But, since the unconscious, in spite of its separation from the conscious subject, is always reappearing on the scene, the actual life of the irrational types exhibits striking judgments and acts of choice, which take the form of apparent sophistries, cold-hearted criticisms, and an apparently purposeful selection of persons and situations. These traits have a rather infantile, or even primitive, stamp; at times they are astonishingly naive, but at times also inconsiderate, crude, or outrageous. To the rationally orientated mind, the real character of such people might well appear rationalistic and purposeful in the bad sense. But this judgment would be valid only for their unconscious, and, therefore, quite incorrect for their conscious psychology, which is entirely orientated by perception, and because of its irrational nature is quite unintelligible to the rational judgment. Finally, it may even appear to a rationally orientated mind that such an assemblage of accidentals, hardly deserves the name 'psychology.' The irrational type balances this contemptuous judgment with an equally poor impression of the rational; for he sees him as something only half alive, whose only aim in life consists in fastening the fetters of reason upon everything living, and wringing his own neck with criticisms. Naturally, these are gross extremes; but they occur.

I call the two preceding types non-rational for reasons already given: their actions and omissions are based not on reasoned judgment but on perception's absolute intensity. Their perception concerns simple happenings where judgment has exercised no selection. In this respect, both perception types have considerable superiority over the two judging types. Objective occurrences are both law-governed and accidental. Insofar as they're law-governed, they're accessible to reason; insofar as they're accidental, they're not. One might reverse this and say we apply the term "law-governed" to occurrences appearing so to our reason, and where regularity escapes us we call it accidental. The postulate of universal lawfulness remains a postulate of reason only; it's in no sense a postulate of our perceptual functions. Since these aren't grounded in reason's principles and postulates, they are, by their very nature, non-rational. Hence my term "non-rational" corresponds with the perception types' nature. But merely because they subordinate judgment to perception, it would be quite incorrect to regard these types as unreasonable. They're merely highly empirical; they're grounded exclusively on experience, so exclusively that their judgment typically can't keep pace with their experience. But the judging functions are nonetheless present, though they lead a largely unconscious existence. Since the unconscious, despite its separation from the conscious self, always reappears, the actual life of non-rational types exhibits striking judgments and choices that take the form of apparent sophistries, cold-hearted criticisms, and seemingly purposeful selection of people and situations. These traits have a rather undeveloped, even archaic quality; at times they're astonishingly naive, but at times also inconsiderate, crude, or outrageous. To the rationally oriented mind, such people's real character might well appear calculating and purposeful in a negative sense. But this judgment would be valid only for their unconscious and therefore quite incorrect for their conscious psychology, which is entirely oriented by perception and, because of its non-rational nature, quite incomprehensible to rational judgment. Finally, it may even seem to a rationally oriented mind that such an assemblage of accidents hardly deserves the name "psychology." The non-rational type balances this contemptuous judgment with an equally poor impression of the rational type, seeing them as only half alive, whose sole aim in life is to fasten reason's fetters on everything living and strangle themselves with self-criticism. Naturally, these are gross extremes; but they occur.

The same holds good for all the psychic functions: they have a subject which is just as indispensable as the object. It is characteristic of our present extraverted valuation that the word 'subjective' occasionally rings almost like a reproach or blemish; but in every case the epithet 'merely subjective' means a dangerous weapon of offence, destined for that daring head, that is not unceasingly convinced of the unconditioned superiority of the object. We must, therefore, be quite clear as to what meaning the term 'subjective' carries in this investigation. As the subjective factor, then, I understand that psychological action or reaction which, when merged with the effect of the object, makes a new psychic fact. Now, in so far as the subjective factor, since oldest times and among all peoples, remains in a very large measure identical with itself -- since elementary perceptions and cognitions are almost universally the same -- it is a reality that is just as firmly established as the outer object. If this were not so, any sort of permanent and essentially changeless reality would be altogether inconceivable, and any understanding with posterity would be a matter of impossibility. Thus far, therefore, the subjective factor is something that is just as much a fact as the extent of the sea and the radius of the earth. Thus far, also, the subjective factor claims the whole value of a world-determining power which can never, under any circumstances, be excluded from our calculations. It is the other world-law, and the man who is based upon it has a foundation just as secure, permanent, and valid, as the man who relies upon the object. But, just as the object and objective data remain by no means always the same, inasmuch as they are both perishable and subject to chance, the subjective factor is similarly liable to variability and individual hazard. Hence its value is also merely relative. The excessive development of the introverted standpoint in consciousness, for instance, does not lead to a better or sounder application of the subjective factor, but to an artificial subjectification of consciousness, which can hardly escape the reproach 'merely subjective'. For, as a countertendency to this morbid subjectification, there ensues a desubjectification of consciousness in the form of an exaggerated extraverted attitude which richly deserves Weininger's description "misautic". Inasmuch as the introverted attitude is based upon a universally present, extremely real, and absolutely indispensable condition of psychological adaptation, such expressions as 'philautic', 'egocentric', and the like are both objectionable and out of place, since they foster the prejudice that it is invariably a question of the beloved ego. Nothing could be more absurd than such an assumption. Yet one is continually meeting it when examining the judgments of the extravert upon the introvert. Not, of course, that I wish to ascribe such an error to individual extraverts; it is rather the present generally accepted extraverted view which is by no means restricted to the extraverted type; for it finds just as many representatives in the ranks of the other type, albeit very much against its own interest. The reproach of being untrue to his own kind is justly levelled at the latter, whereas, this, at least, can never be charged against the former.

The same holds true for all psychological functions: they have a subject that is just as essential as the object. It's characteristic of our present extraverted culture that the word "subjective" often sounds like a criticism. The phrase "merely subjective" is wielded as a weapon against anyone not entirely convinced of the object's superiority. We must be clear about what "subjective" means in this investigation. By subjective factor, I mean the psychological action or reaction that merges with the object's effect to create a new psychic reality. The subjective factor has remained largely constant across all times and peoples—elementary perceptions and cognitions are nearly universal. It is a reality as firmly established as any external object. Without this constancy, no permanent reality would be conceivable, and no understanding across generations would be possible. The subjective factor is as much a fact as the extent of the sea or the radius of the earth. It has the full value of a world-determining power that can never be excluded from our understanding. It is an alternative world-law, and those who base themselves upon it have a foundation as secure and valid as those who rely on objects. However, just as objects are perishable and subject to chance, the subjective factor is also liable to variability and individual hazard. Its value is therefore relative. Excessive development of the introverted standpoint doesn't lead to better application of the subjective factor, but to an artificial subjectification of consciousness that deserves the reproach "merely subjective." As a counter-tendency to this unhealthy subjectification, consciousness becomes de-subjectified through an exaggerated extraverted attitude—what Weininger called "misautic" (self-hating). Since the introverted attitude is based on a universally present and indispensable condition of psychological adaptation, terms like "self-loving," "egocentric," and similar expressions are objectionable. They foster the prejudice that introversion is always about the beloved ego. Nothing could be more absurd. Yet this assumption constantly appears in extraverted judgments of introverts. I don't mean to ascribe this error to individual extraverts—it's rather a generally accepted extraverted viewpoint not restricted to the extraverted type. Many introverts hold this view against their own interests, deserving the reproach of being untrue to their own nature.

The introverted attitude is normally governed by the psychological structure, theoretically determined by heredity, but which to the subject is an ever present subjective factor. This must not be assumed, however, to be simply identical with the subject's ego, an assumption that is certainly implied in the above mentioned designations of Weininger; it is rather the psychological structure of the subject that precedes any development of the ego. The really fundamental subject, the Self, is far more comprehensive than the ego, because the former also embraces the unconscious, while the latter is essentially the focal point of consciousness. Were the ego identical with the Self, it would be unthinkable that we should be able to appear in dreams in entirely different forms and with entirely different meanings. But it is a characteristic peculiarity of the introvert, which, moreover, is as much in keeping with his own inclination as with the general bias, that he tends to confuse his ego with the Self, and to exalt his ego to the position of subject of the psychological process, thus effecting that morbid subjectification of consciousness, mentioned above, which so alienates him from the object.

The introverted attitude is normally governed by the psychological structure—theoretically determined by heredity but experienced as an ever-present subjective factor. This structure must not be confused with the ego, though Weininger's terms imply this confusion. It is rather the psychological structure that exists before the ego develops. The truly fundamental subject—the Self—is far more comprehensive than the ego. The Self embraces the unconscious, while the ego is essentially the focal point of consciousness. If ego and Self were identical, we couldn't appear in dreams in entirely different forms with different meanings. A characteristic peculiarity of introverts—in keeping with both their inclination and general cultural bias—is their tendency to confuse ego with Self. They exalt the ego to the position of subject of the psychological process, creating that unhealthy subjectification of consciousness that alienates them from objects.

The psychological structure is the same. Semon has termed it 'mneme', whereas I call it the 'collective unconscious'. The individual Self is a portion, or excerpt, or representative, of something universally present in all living creatures, and, therefore, a correspondingly graduated kind of psychological process, which is born anew in every creature. Since earliest times, the inborn manner of acting has been called instinct, and for this manner of psychic apprehension of the object I have proposed the term archetype. I may assume that what is understood by instinct is familiar to everyone. It is another matter with the archetype. This term embraces the same idea as is contained in 'primordial image' (an expression borrowed from Jakob Burckhardt), and as such I have described it in Chapter xi of this book. I must here refer the reader to that chapter, in particular to the definition of 'image'.

This psychological structure is universal. Semon called it "mneme"; I call it the "collective unconscious." The individual Self is a portion or representative of something universally present in all living creatures—a psychological process born anew in every being. Since earliest times, this inborn manner of acting has been called instinct. For this manner of psychic apprehension of objects, I propose the term "archetype." Everyone is familiar with instinct. The archetype requires more explanation. This term embraces the same idea as "primordial image" (an expression borrowed from Jakob Burckhardt), which I describe in Chapter XI of this book. I refer readers to that chapter, particularly to the definition of "image."

The archetype is a symbolical formula, which always begins to function whenever there are no conscious ideas present, or when such as are present are impossible upon intrinsic or extrinsic grounds. The contents of the collective unconscious are represented in consciousness in the form of pronounced tendencies, or definite ways of looking at things. They are generally regarded by the individual as being determined by the object-incorrectly, at bottom-since they have their source in the unconscious structure of the psyche, and are only released by the operation of the object. These subjective tendencies and ideas are stronger than the objective influence; because their psychic value is higher, they are superimposed upon all impressions. Thus, just as it seems incomprehensible to the introvert that the object should always be decisive, it remains just as enigmatic to the extravert how a subjective standpoint can be superior to the objective situation. He reaches the unavoidable conclusion that the introvert is either a conceited egoist or a fantastic doctrinaire. Recently he seems to have reached the conclusion that the introvert is constantly influenced by an unconscious power-complex. The introvert unquestionably exposes himself to this prejudice; for it cannot be denied that his definite and highly generalized mode of expression, which apparently excludes every other view from the outset, lends a certain countenance to this extraverted opinion. Furthermore, the very decisiveness and inflexibility of the subjective judgment, which is superordinated to all objective data, is alone sufficient to create the impression of a strong egocentricity. The introvert usually lacks the right argument in presence of this prejudice; for he is just as unaware of the unconscious, though thoroughly sound presuppositions of his subjective judgment, as he is of his subjective perceptions. In harmony with the style of the times, he looks without, instead of behind his own consciousness for the answer. Should he become neurotic, it is the sign of a more or less complete unconscious identity of the ego with the Self, whereupon the importance of the Self is reduced to nil, while the ego becomes inflated beyond reason. The undeniable, world-determining power of the subjective factor then becomes concentrated in the ego, developing an immoderate power claim and a downright foolish egocentricity. Every psychology which reduces the nature of man to unconscious power instinct springs from this foundation. For example, Nietzsche's many faults in taste owe their existence to this subjectification of consciousness.

The archetype is a symbolic formula that begins functioning whenever no conscious ideas are present, or when present ideas are impossible for internal or external reasons. Contents of the collective unconscious appear in consciousness as pronounced tendencies or definite ways of viewing things. Individuals generally regard these as determined by objects—incorrectly, since they originate in the unconscious structure of the psyche and are merely triggered by objects. These subjective tendencies and ideas are stronger than objective influences because their psychic value is higher, superimposing themselves on all impressions. Just as the introvert finds it incomprehensible that objects should always be decisive, the extravert finds it equally enigmatic how a subjective standpoint can be superior to objective situations. The extravert concludes that the introvert must be either a conceited egoist or a dogmatic theorist. More recently, extraverts have concluded that introverts are constantly influenced by an unconscious power complex. The introvert admittedly invites this prejudice—their definite and highly generalized mode of expression, which seems to exclude all other views from the start, lends support to this extraverted opinion. Furthermore, the decisiveness and inflexibility of subjective judgment, which supersedes all objective data, is enough to create an impression of strong egocentricity. The introvert usually lacks the right argument against this prejudice, being as unaware of the unconscious (though sound) presuppositions of their subjective judgment as they are of their subjective perceptions. In keeping with contemporary style, they look outward rather than inward for answers. When introverts develop psychological distress, it signals a more or less complete unconscious identification of ego with Self. The Self's importance is reduced to nothing while the ego inflates beyond reason. The undeniable world-determining power of the subjective factor becomes concentrated in the ego, developing excessive power claims and absurd egocentricity. Every psychology that reduces human nature to unconscious power instincts springs from this foundation. For example, Nietzsche's many lapses in taste owe their existence to this subjectification of consciousness.

The superior position of the subjective factor in consciousness involves an inferiority of the objective factor. The object is not given that importance which should really belong to it. Just as it plays too great a role in the extraverted attitude, it has too little to say in the introverted. To the extent that the introvert's consciousness is subjectified, thus bestowing undue importance upon the ego, the object is placed in a position which in time becomes quite untenable. The object is a factor of undeniable power, while the ego is something very restricted and transitory. It would be a very different matter if the Self opposed the object. Self and world are commensurable factors; hence a normal introverted attitude is just as valid, and has as good a right to existence, as a normal extraverted attitude. But, if the ego has usurped the claims of the subject, a compensation naturally develops under the guise of an unconscious reinforcement of the influence of the object. Such a change eventually commands attention, for often, in spite of a positively convulsive attempt to ensure the superiority of the ego, the object and objective data develop an overwhelming influence, which is all the more invincible because it seizes upon the individual unawares, thus effecting an irresistible invasion of consciousness. As a result of the ego's defective relation to the object -- for a will to command is not adaptation -- a compensatory relation to the object develops in the unconscious, which makes itself felt in consciousness as an unconditional and irrepressible tie to the object. The more the ego seeks to secure every possible liberty, independence, superiority, and freedom from obligations, the deeper does it fall into the slavery of objective facts. The subject's freedom of mind is chained to an ignominious financial dependence, his unconcernedness of action suffers now and again, a distressing collapse in the face of public opinion, his moral superiority gets swamped in inferior relationships, and his desire to dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. The chief concern of the unconscious in such a case is the relation to the object, and it affects this in a way that is calculated to bring both the power illusion and the superiority phantasy to utter ruin. The object assumes terrifying dimensions, in spite of conscious depreciation. Detachment from, and command of, the object are, in consequence, pursued by the ego still more violently. Finally, the ego surrounds itself by a regular system of safeguards (Adler has ably depicted these) which shall at least preserve the illusion of superiority. But, therewith, the introvert severs himself completely from the object, and either squanders his energy in defensive measures or makes fruitless attempts to impose his power upon the object and successfully assert himself. But these efforts are constantly being frustrated by the overwhelming impressions he receives from the object. It continually imposes itself upon him against his will; it provokes in him the most disagreeable and obstinate affects, persecuting him at every step. An immense, inner struggle is constantly required of him, in order to 'keep going.' Hence Psychoasthenia is his typical form of neurosis, a malady which is characterized on the one hand by an extreme sensitiveness, and on the other by a great liability to exhaustion and chronic fatigue.

The superior position of the subjective factor in consciousness necessarily involves an inferiority of the objective factor. The object is not given the importance it deserves. Just as objects play too large a role in the extraverted attitude, they have too little influence in the introverted attitude. When the introvert's consciousness becomes subjectified, bestowing excessive importance on the ego, the object is placed in an ultimately untenable position. The object possesses undeniable power, while the ego is restricted and transitory. It would be different if the Self—not the ego—opposed the object. Self and world are commensurable factors, so a normal introverted attitude is as valid and has as much right to existence as a normal extraverted attitude. But when the ego usurps the subject's role, compensation develops through unconscious reinforcement of the object's influence. This change eventually becomes undeniable—despite desperate attempts to ensure ego superiority, the object and objective data develop overwhelming influence, seizing the individual unawares and effecting an irresistible invasion of consciousness. Because the ego's relation to objects is defective (a will to command is not adaptation), a compensatory relation to objects develops in the unconscious, appearing in consciousness as an unconditional and irrepressible attachment to objects. The more the ego seeks liberty, independence, superiority, and freedom from obligations, the deeper it falls into slavery to objective facts. Freedom of mind becomes chained to humiliating financial dependence; carefree action collapses distressingly before public opinion; moral superiority drowns in inferior relationships; the desire to dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. The unconscious's chief concern becomes the relation to objects, orchestrating events to bring both power illusions and superiority fantasies to complete ruin. Objects assume terrifying dimensions despite conscious depreciation. Detachment from and control over objects are consequently pursued by the ego even more violently. The ego surrounds itself with elaborate safeguards (Adler has ably described these) to preserve at least the illusion of superiority. But the introvert thereby severs themselves completely from objects, either squandering energy in defensive measures or making fruitless attempts to impose power on objects. These efforts are constantly frustrated by overwhelming impressions from objects. Objects continually impose themselves against the introvert's will, provoking disagreeable and obstinate emotions, persecuting them at every step. An immense inner struggle is constantly required just to "keep going." Psychoasthenia is the typical form of psychological distress for this condition—characterized by extreme sensitivity on one hand and great susceptibility to exhaustion and chronic fatigue on the other.

An analysis of the personal unconscious yields an abundance of power phantasies coupled with fear of the dangerously animated objects, to which, as a matter of fact, the introvert easily falls a victim. For a peculiar cowardliness develops from this fear of the object; he shrinks from making either himself or his opinion effective, always dreading an intensified influence on the part of the object. He is terrified of impressive affects in others, and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under hostile influence. For objects possess terrifying and powerful qualities for him-qualities which he cannot consciously discern in them, but which, through his unconscious perception, he cannot choose but believe in. Since his conscious relation to the object is relatively repressed, its exit is by way of the unconscious, where it becomes loaded with the qualities of the unconscious. These qualities are primarily infantile and archaic. His relation to the object, therefore, becomes correspondingly primitive, taking on all those peculiarities which characterize the primitive objectrelationship. Now it seems as though objects possessed magical powers. Strange, new objects excite fear and distrust, as though concealing unknown dangers; objects long rooted and blessed by tradition are attached to his soul as by invisible threads; every change has a disturbing, if not actually dangerous aspect, since its apparent implication is a magical animation of the object. A lonely island where only what is permitted to move moves, becomes an ideal. Auch Einer, the novel by F. Th. Vischer, gives a rich insight into this side of the introvert's psychology, and at the same time shows the underlying symbolism of the collective unconscious, which in this description of types I am leaving on one side, since it is a universal phenomenon with no especial connection with types.

Analysis of the personal unconscious reveals abundant power fantasies coupled with fear of dangerously animated objects, to which the introvert easily falls victim. A peculiar fearfulness develops from this fear of objects—they shrink from making themselves or their opinions effective, always dreading intensified influence from objects. They are terrified of strong emotions in others and are hardly ever free from the dread of falling under hostile influence. Objects possess terrifying and powerful qualities for them—qualities they cannot consciously discern but which, through unconscious perception, they cannot help believing in. Since their conscious relation to objects is relatively repressed, the relationship finds expression through the unconscious, where it becomes loaded with unconscious qualities. These qualities are primarily undeveloped and archaic. Their relation to objects therefore becomes correspondingly primal, taking on all the peculiarities that characterize early human-object relationships. Objects seem to possess magical powers. Strange, new objects excite fear and distrust, as if concealing unknown dangers; traditional objects blessed by time are attached to their soul by invisible threads; every change has a disturbing, even dangerous aspect, as if implying a magical animation of objects. A lonely island where only what is permitted to move moves becomes an ideal. The novel "Auch Einer" by F. Th. Vischer gives rich insight into this aspect of introverted psychology, while also showing the underlying symbolism of the collective unconscious—which I'm leaving aside in this description of types since it's a universal phenomenon with no special connection to types.

When describing extraverted thinking, I gave a brief characterization of introverted thinking, to which at this stage I must make further reference. Introverted thinking is primarily orientated by the subjective factor. At the least, this subjective factor is represented by a subjective feeling of direction, which, in the last resort, determines judgment. Occasionally, it is a more or less finished image, which to some extent, serves as a standard. This thinking may be conceived either with concrete or with abstract factors, but always at the decisive points it is orientated by subjective data. Hence, it does not lead from concrete experience back again into objective things, but always to the subjective content, External facts are not the aim and origin of this thinking, although the introvert would often like to make it so appear. It begins in the subject, and returns to the subject, although it may undertake the widest flights into the territory of the real and the actual. Hence, in the statement of new facts, its chief value is indirect, because new views rather than the perception of new facts are its main concern. It formulates questions and creates theories; it opens up prospects and yields insight, but in the presence of facts it exhibits a reserved demeanour. As illustrative examples they have their value, but they must not prevail. Facts are collected as evidence or examples for a theory, but never for their own sake. Should this latter ever occur, it is done only as a compliment to the extraverted style. For this kind of thinking facts are of secondary importance; what, apparently, is of absolutely paramount importance is the development and presentation of the subjective idea, that primordial symbolical image standing more or less darkly before the inner vision. Its aim, therefore, is never concerned with an intellectual reconstruction of concrete actuality, but with the shaping of that dim image into a resplendent idea. Its desire is to reach reality; its goal is to see how external facts fit into, and fulfil, the framework of the idea; its actual creative power is proved by the fact that this thinking can also create that idea which, though not present in the external facts, is yet the most suitable, abstract expression of them. Its task is accomplished when the idea it has fashioned seems to emerge so inevitably from the external facts that they actually prove its validity.

When describing extraverted thinking, I gave a brief characterization of introverted thinking, to which I must now return. Introverted thinking is primarily oriented by the subjective factor. At minimum, this subjective factor appears as a subjective sense of direction that ultimately determines judgment. Occasionally, it's a more or less complete image that serves as a standard. This thinking may deal with concrete or abstract factors, but at decisive points it's always oriented by subjective data. It doesn't lead from concrete experience back to objective things, but always to subjective content. External facts are not the aim and origin of this thinking, although introverts often want to make it appear so. It begins in the subject and returns to the subject, even when it undertakes the widest flights into the territory of the real and actual. In stating new facts, its chief value is indirect, because new perspectives rather than new facts are its main concern. It formulates questions and creates theories; it opens up prospects and yields insight, but exhibits a reserved demeanor toward facts. Facts have value as illustrative examples, but they must not dominate. Facts are collected as evidence or examples for a theory, never for their own sake. If facts are ever collected for themselves, it's done only as a concession to the extraverted style. For this thinking, facts are of secondary importance; what appears paramount is the development and presentation of the subjective idea—that primordial symbolic image standing more or less dimly before inner vision. Its aim is never concerned with intellectually reconstructing concrete reality, but with shaping that dim image into a luminous idea. It desires to reach reality; its goal is to see how external facts fit into and fulfill the framework of the idea. Its creative power is proven by the fact that it can create an idea that, though not present in external facts, is nevertheless the most suitable abstract expression of them. Its task is accomplished when the idea it has fashioned seems to emerge so inevitably from external facts that they actually prove its validity.

But just as little as it is given to extraverted thinking to wrest a really sound inductive idea from concrete facts or ever to create new ones, does it lie in the power of introverted thinking to translate its original image into an idea adequately adapted to the facts. For, as in the former case the purely empirical heaping together of facts paralyses thought and smothers their meaning, so in the latter case introverted thinking shows a dangerous tendency to coerce facts into the shape of its image, or by ignoring them altogether, to unfold its phantasy image in freedom. In such a case, it will be impossible for the presented idea to deny its origin from the dim archaic image. There will cling to it a certain mythological character that we are prone to interpret as 'originality', or in more pronounced cases' as mere whimsicality; since its archaic character is not transparent as such to specialists unfamiliar with mythological motives. The subjective force of conviction inherent in such an idea is usually very great; its power too is the more convincing, the less it is influenced by contact with outer facts. Although to the man who advocates the idea, it may well seem that his scanty store of facts were the actual ground and source of the truth and validity of his idea, yet such is not the case, for the idea derives its convincing power from its unconscious archetype, which, as such, has universal validity and everlasting truth. Its truth, however, is so universal and symbolic, that it must first enter into the recognized and recognizable knowledge of the time, before it can become a practical truth of any real value to life. What sort of a causality would it be, for instance, that never became perceptible in practical causes and practical results?

Just as extraverted thinking cannot wrest sound inductive ideas from concrete facts or create new ones, introverted thinking cannot translate its original image into an idea adequately adapted to facts. While purely empirical accumulation of facts paralyzes thought and smothers meaning in the former case, introverted thinking shows a dangerous tendency to coerce facts into the shape of its image—or, ignoring facts altogether, to unfold its fantasy image in complete freedom. In such cases, the presented idea cannot deny its origin from the dim archaic image. A certain mythological character clings to it, which we're prone to interpret as "originality"—or in more pronounced cases, as mere whimsicality, since its archaic character isn't transparent to specialists unfamiliar with mythological motifs. The subjective force of conviction inherent in such ideas is usually very great; their power is more convincing the less they're influenced by contact with external facts. Though advocates of such ideas may believe their scanty store of facts provides the actual ground and source of the idea's truth and validity, this isn't the case—the idea derives its convincing power from its unconscious archetype, which possesses universal validity and everlasting truth. However, its truth is so universal and symbolic that it must first enter into the recognized knowledge of the time before becoming a practical truth of real value to life. What sort of causality would it be that never became perceptible in practical causes and results?

This thinking easily loses itself in the immense truth of the subjective factor. It creates theories for the sake of theories, apparently with a view to real or at least possible facts, yet always with a distinct tendency to go over from the world of ideas into mere imagery. Accordingly many intuitions of possibilities appear on the scene, none of which however achieve any reality, until finally images are produced which no longer express anything externally real, being 'merely' symbols of the simply unknowable. It is now merely a mystical thinking and quite as unfruitful as that empirical thinking whose sole operation is within the framework of objective facts.

This thinking easily loses itself in the immense truth of the subjective factor. It creates theories for their own sake, apparently with a view to real or at least possible facts, yet always with a distinct tendency to move from the world of ideas into mere imagery. Many intuitions of possibilities appear, none of which achieve any reality, until finally images are produced that no longer express anything externally real, being merely symbols of the unknowable. It becomes merely mystical thinking, as unfruitful as empirical thinking that operates solely within the framework of objective facts.

Whereas the latter sinks to the level of a mere presentation of facts, the former evaporates into a representation of the unknowable, which is even beyond everything that could be expressed in an image. The presentation of facts has a certain incontestable truth, because the subjective factor is excluded and the facts speak for themselves. Similarly, the representing of the unknowable has also an immediate, subjective, and convincing power, because it is demonstrable from its own existence. The former says 'Est, ergo est' ('It is ; therefore it is') ; while the latter says 'Cogito, ergo cogito' (' I think ; therefore I think'). In the last analysis, introverted thinking arrives at the evidence of its own subjective being, while extraverted thinking is driven to the evidence of its complete identity with the objective fact. For, while the extravert really denies himself in his complete dispersion among objects, the introvert, by ridding himself of each and every content, has to content himself with his mere existence. In both cases the further development of life is crowded out of the domain of thought into the region of other psychic functions which had hitherto existed in relative unconsciousness. The extraordinary impoverishment of introverted thinking in relation to objective facts finds compensation in an abundance of unconscious facts. Whenever consciousness, wedded to the function of thought, confines itself within the smallest and emptiest circle possible -- though seeming to contain the plenitude of divinity -- unconscious phantasy becomes proportionately enriched by a multitude of archaically formed facts, a veritable pandemonium of magical and irrational factors, wearing the particular aspect that accords with the nature of that function which shall next relieve the thought-function as the representative of life. If this should be the intuitive function, the 'other side' will be viewed with the eyes of a Kubin or a Meyrink. If it is the feeling-function, there arise quite unheard of and fantastic feeling-relations, coupled with feeling-judgments of a quite contradictory and unintelligible character. If the sensation-function, then the senses discover some new and never-before-experienced possibility, both within and without the body. A closer investigation of such changes can easily demonstrate the reappearance of primitive psychology with all its characteristic features. Naturally, the thing experienced is not merely primitive but also symbolic; in fact, the older and more primeval it appears, the more does it represent the future truth: since everything ancient in our unconscious means the coming possibility.

While empirical thinking sinks to mere presentation of facts, mystical thinking evaporates into representation of the unknowable, which is beyond even what could be expressed in images. The presentation of facts has incontestable truth because the subjective factor is excluded and facts speak for themselves. Similarly, representation of the unknowable has immediate, subjective, and convincing power because it's demonstrable from its own existence. The former says "Est, ergo est" ("It is; therefore it is"); the latter says "Cogito, ergo cogito" ("I think; therefore I think"). Ultimately, introverted thinking arrives at evidence of its own subjective being, while extraverted thinking is driven to evidence of its complete identity with objective facts. The extravert denies themselves through complete dispersion among objects, while the introvert, by ridding themselves of all content, must content themselves with mere existence. In both cases, life's further development is crowded out of the domain of thought into the region of other psychic functions that had existed in relative unconsciousness. The extraordinary impoverishment of introverted thinking in relation to objective facts finds compensation in an abundance of unconscious facts. When consciousness, wedded to the function of thought, confines itself to the smallest and emptiest circle possible—though seeming to contain divine plenitude—unconscious fantasy becomes proportionately enriched by a multitude of archaically formed facts, a veritable chaos of magical and non-rational factors. These factors wear the particular aspect that accords with whatever function will next relieve the thought-function as life's representative. If this is the intuitive function, the "other side" will be viewed with the eyes of a Kubin or a Meyrink. If it's the feeling function, quite unheard-of and fantastic feeling-relations arise, coupled with contradictory and unintelligible feeling-judgments. If it's the sensation function, the senses discover new and never-before-experienced possibilities within and without the body. Closer investigation of such changes easily demonstrates the reappearance of primal psychology with all its characteristic features. Naturally, what's experienced is not merely primal but also symbolic; in fact, the older and more primeval it appears, the more it represents future truth—since everything ancient in our unconscious means coming possibility.

Under ordinary circumstances, not even the transition to the 'other side' succeeds -- still less the redeeming journey through the unconscious. The passage across is chiefly prevented by conscious resistance to any subjection of the ego to the unconscious reality and to the determining reality of the unconscious object. The condition is a dissociation-in other words, a neurosis having the character of an inner wastage with increasing brain-exhaustion -- a psychoasthenia, in fact.

Under ordinary circumstances, not even the transition to the "other side" succeeds—much less the redeeming journey through the unconscious. The passage is chiefly prevented by conscious resistance to any subjection of the ego to unconscious reality and to the determining reality of the unconscious object. The condition is a dissociation—in other words, psychological distress characterized by inner depletion with increasing mental exhaustion: psychoasthenia.

Just as Darwin might possibly represent the normal extraverted thinking type, so we might point to Kant as a counter-example of the normal introverted thinking type. The former speaks with facts; the latter appeals to the subjective factor. Darwin ranges over the wide fields of objective facts, while Kant restricts himself to a critique of knowledge in general. But suppose a Cuvier be contrasted with a Nietzsche: the antithesis becomes even sharper.

Just as Darwin might represent the normal extraverted thinking type, Kant serves as a counter-example of the normal introverted thinking type. The former speaks with facts; the latter appeals to the subjective factor. Darwin ranges over wide fields of objective facts, while Kant restricts himself to a critique of knowledge in general. But contrast Cuvier with Nietzsche: the antithesis becomes even sharper.

The introverted thinking type is characterized by a priority of the thinking I have just described. Like his extraverted parallel, he is decisively influenced by ideas; these, however, have their origin, not in the objective data but in the subjective foundation. Like the extravert, he too will follow his ideas, but in the reverse direction: inwardly not outwardly. Intensity is his aim, not extensity. In these fundamental characters he differs markedly, indeed quite unmistakably from his extraverted parallel. Like every introverted type, he is almost completely lacking in that which distinguishes his counter type, namely, the intensive relatedness to the object. In the case of a human object, the man has a distinct feeling that he matters only in a negative way, i.e., in milder instances he is merely conscious of being superfluous, but with a more extreme type he feels himself warded off as something definitely disturbing. This negative relation to the object-indifference, and even aversion-characterizes every introvert; it also makes a description of the introverted type in general extremely difficult. With him, everything tends to disappear and get concealed. His judgment appears cold, obstinate, arbitrary, and inconsiderate, simply because he is related less to the object than the subject. One can feel nothing in it that might possibly confer a higher value upon the object; it always seems to go beyond the object, leaving behind it a flavour of a certain subjective superiority. Courtesy, amiability, and friendliness may be present, but often with a particular quality suggesting a certain uneasiness, which betrays an ulterior aim, namely, the disarming of an opponent, who must at all costs be pacified and set at ease lest he prove a disturbing- element. In no sense, of course, is he an opponent, but, if at all sensitive, he will feel somewhat repelled, perhaps even depreciated. Invariably the object has to submit to a certain neglect; in worse cases it is even surrounded with quite unnecessary measures of precaution. Thus it happens that this type tends to disappear behind a cloud of misunderstanding, which only thickens the more he attempts to assume, by way of compensation and with the help of his inferior functions, a certain mask of urbanity, which often presents a most vivid contrast to his real nature.

The introverted thinking type is characterized by priority of the thinking I've just described. Like their extraverted parallel, they're decisively influenced by ideas; however, these ideas originate not in objective data but in the subjective foundation. Like extraverts, they too follow ideas, but in reverse direction: inwardly not outwardly. Intensity is their aim, not extensity. In these fundamental characteristics they differ markedly, indeed unmistakably, from their extraverted parallel. Like every introverted type, they almost completely lack what distinguishes their countertype: intensive relatedness to objects. When dealing with another person, that person has a distinct feeling of mattering only negatively—in milder instances feeling merely superfluous, but with more extreme types feeling actively warded off as something disturbing. This negative relation to objects—indifference and even aversion—characterizes every introvert; it also makes describing the introverted type extremely difficult. Everything tends to disappear and get concealed. Their judgment appears cold, obstinate, arbitrary, and inconsiderate, simply because they're related more to the subject than the object. One can feel nothing in it that might confer higher value on the object; it always seems to go beyond the object, leaving behind a flavor of subjective superiority. Courtesy, amiability, and friendliness may be present, but often with a quality suggesting uneasiness, betraying an ulterior aim: disarming an opponent who must be pacified and set at ease lest they prove disturbing. Of course, the other person is no opponent, but if at all sensitive, they'll feel somewhat repelled, perhaps even depreciated. Invariably, objects must submit to a certain neglect; in worse cases they're even surrounded with unnecessary measures of precaution. Thus this type tends to disappear behind a cloud of misunderstanding, which only thickens when they attempt, by way of compensation and with inferior functions, to assume a mask of civility that often presents vivid contrast to their real nature.

Although in the extension of his world of ideas he shrinks from no risk, however daring, and never even considers the possibility that such a world might also be dangerous, revolutionary, heretical, and wounding to feeling, he is none the less a prey to the liveliest anxiety, should it ever chance to become objectively real. That goes against the grain. When the time comes for him to transplant his ideas into the world, his is by no means the air of an anxious mother solicitous for her children's welfare; he merely exposes them, and is often extremely annoyed when they fail to thrive on their own account. The decided lack he usually displays in practical ability, and his aversion from any sort of re[accent]clame assist in this attitude. If to his eyes his product appears subjectively correct and true, it must also be so in practice, and others have simply got to bow to its truth. Hardly ever will he go out of his way to win anyone's appreciation of it, especially if it be anyone of influence. And, when he brings himself to do so, he is usually so extremely maladroit that he merely achieves the opposite of his purpose. In his own special province, there are usually awkward experiences with his colleagues, since he never knows how to win their favour; as a rule he only succeeds in showing them how entirely superfluous they are to him. In the pursuit of his ideas he is generally stubborn, head-strong, and quite unamenable to influence. His suggestibility to personal influences is in strange contrast to this. An object has only to be recognized as apparently innocuous for such a type to become extremely accessible to really inferior elements. They lay hold of him from the unconscious. He lets himself be brutalized and exploited in the most ignominious way, if only he can be left undisturbed in the pursuit of his ideas. He simply does not see when he is being plundered behind his back and wronged in practical ways: this is because his relation to the object is such a secondary matter that lie is left without a guide in the purely objective valuation of his product. In thinking out his problems to the utmost of his ability, he also complicates them, and constantly becomes entangled in every possible scruple. However clear to himself the inner structure of his thoughts may be, he is not in the least clear where and how they link up with the world of reality. Only with difficulty can he persuade himself to admit that what is clear to him may not be equally clear to everyone. His style is usually loaded and complicated by all sorts of accessories, qualifications, saving clauses, doubts, etc., which spring from his exacting scrupulousness. His work goes slowly and with difficulty. Either he is taciturn or he falls among people who cannot understand him; whereupon he proceeds to gather further proof of the unfathomable stupidity of man. If he should ever chance to be understood, he is credulously liable to overestimate. Ambitious women have only to understand how advantage may be taken of his uncritical attitude towards the object to make an easy prey of him; or he may develop into a misanthropic bachelor with a childlike heart. Then, too, his outward appearance is often gauche, as if he were painfully anxious to escape observation; or he may show a remarkable unconcern, an almost childlike naivete. In his own particular field of work he provokes violent contradiction, with which he has no notion how to deal, unless by chance he is seduced by his primitive affects into biting and fruitless polemics. By his wider circle he is counted inconsiderate and domineering. But the better one knows him, the more favourable one's judgment becomes, and his nearest friends are well aware how to value his intimacy. To people who judge him from afar he appears prickly, inaccessible, haughty; frequently he may even seem soured as a result of his anti-social prejudices. He has little influence as a personal teacher, since the mentality of his pupils is strange to him. Besides, teaching has, at bottom, little interest for him, except when it accidentally provides him with a theoretical problem. He is a poor teacher, because while teaching his thought is engaged with the actual material, and will not be satisfied with its mere presentation.

Although in extending their world of ideas they shrink from no risk, however daring, and never consider that such a world might be dangerous, revolutionary, heretical, and wounding to feeling, they're nonetheless prey to the liveliest anxiety should their ideas ever become objectively real. That goes against the grain. When the time comes to transplant ideas into the world, they don't show an anxious parent's solicitude; they merely expose the ideas and are often extremely annoyed when they fail to thrive on their own. Their usual lack of practical ability and aversion to any sort of publicity assist this attitude. If their product appears subjectively correct and true, it must also be so in practice, and others simply must bow to its truth. They'll hardly ever go out of their way to win anyone's appreciation, especially anyone influential. When they do bring themselves to try, they're usually so maladroit that they achieve the opposite of their purpose. In their own field, there are usually awkward experiences with colleagues, since they never know how to win favor; they typically only succeed in showing how entirely superfluous others are to them. In pursuing ideas they're generally stubborn, headstrong, and quite unamenable to influence. Their suggestibility to personal influences is in strange contrast to this. An object need only be recognized as apparently innocuous for such a type to become extremely accessible to really inferior elements. These lay hold from the unconscious. They let themselves be brutalized and exploited in the most shameful ways, if only they can be left undisturbed in pursuing their ideas. They simply don't see when they're being plundered behind their back and wronged in practical ways—their relation to objects is so secondary that they're left without a guide in objectively valuing their product. In thinking out problems to the utmost, they also complicate them, constantly becoming entangled in every possible scruple. However clear the inner structure of their thoughts may be to themselves, they're not at all clear where and how thoughts link up with reality. Only with difficulty can they admit that what's clear to them may not be equally clear to everyone. Their style is usually loaded and complicated by all sorts of qualifications, saving clauses, doubts, etc., which spring from exacting scrupulousness. Their work goes slowly and with difficulty. Either they're taciturn or they fall among people who can't understand them, whereupon they gather further proof of humanity's unfathomable stupidity. If they should ever be understood, they're credulously liable to overestimate. Ambitious people need only understand how to take advantage of their uncritical attitude toward objects to make easy prey of them; or they may develop into misanthropic loners with childlike hearts. Their outward appearance is often awkward, as if painfully anxious to escape observation; or they may show remarkable unconcern, an almost childlike naiveté. In their particular field they provoke violent contradiction, with which they have no notion how to deal, unless by chance seduced by primal emotions into biting and fruitless polemics. By wider circles they're counted inconsiderate and domineering. But the better one knows them, the more favorable one's judgment becomes, and their nearest friends well know how to value their intimacy. To people who judge from afar they appear prickly, inaccessible, haughty; frequently they may even seem embittered as a result of antisocial attitudes. They have little influence as personal teachers, since their pupils' mentality is strange to them. Besides, teaching has little interest for them except when it accidentally provides a theoretical problem. They're poor teachers because while teaching, their thought is engaged with the actual material and won't be satisfied with mere presentation.

With the intensification of his type, his convictions become all the more rigid and unbending. Foreign influences are eliminated; he becomes more unsympathetic to his peripheral world, and therefore more dependent upon his intimates. His expression becomes more personal and inconsiderate and his ideas more profound, but they can no longer be adequately expressed in the material at hand. This lack is replaced by emotivity and susceptibility. The foreign influence, brusquely declined from without, reaches him from within, from the side of the unconscious, and he is obliged to collect evidence against it and against things in general which to outsiders seems quite superfluous. Through the subjectification of consciousness occasioned by his defective relationship to the object, what secretly concerns his own person now seems to him of chief importance. And he begins to confound his subjective truth with his own person. Not that he will attempt to press anyone personally with his convictions, but he will break out with venomous and personal retorts against every criticism, however just. Thus in every respect his isolation gradually increases. His originally fertilizing ideas become destructive, because poisoned by a kind of sediment of bitterness. His struggle against the influences emanating from the unconscious increases with his external isolation, until gradually this begins to cripple him. A still greater isolation must surely protect him from the unconscious influences, but as a rule this only takes him deeper into the conflict which is destroying him within.

With intensification of their type, convictions become increasingly rigid and unbending. Foreign influences are eliminated; they become more unsympathetic to their peripheral world, therefore more dependent on intimates. Expression becomes more personal and inconsiderate; ideas more profound, but no longer adequately expressible in available material. This lack is replaced by emotionality and susceptibility. The foreign influence, brusquely declined from without, reaches them from within, from the unconscious side, and they're obliged to collect evidence against it and against things in general—which to outsiders seems quite superfluous. Through the subjectification of consciousness occasioned by defective relationship to objects, what secretly concerns their own person now seems of chief importance. They begin to confound their subjective truth with their own person. Not that they'll attempt to press anyone personally with convictions, but they'll break out with venomous and personal retorts against every criticism, however just. Thus in every respect their isolation gradually increases. Originally fertilizing ideas become destructive, poisoned by a kind of sediment of bitterness. Their struggle against influences emanating from the unconscious increases with external isolation, until this begins to cripple them. Still greater isolation might protect them from unconscious influences, but as a rule this only takes them deeper into the conflict destroying them within.

The thinking of the introverted type is positive and synthetic in the development of those ideas which in ever increasing measure approach the eternal validity of the primordial images. But, when their connection with objective experience begins to fade, they become mythological and untrue for the present situation. Hence this thinking holds value only for its contemporaries, just so long as it also stands in visible and understandable connection with the known facts of the time. But, when thinking becomes mythological, its irrelevancy grows until finally it gets lost in itself. The relatively unconscious functions of feeling, intuition, and sensation, which counterbalance introverted thinking, are inferior in quality and have a primitive, extraverted character, to which all the troublesome objective influences this type is subject to must be ascribed. The various measures of self-defence, the curious protective obstacles with which such people are wont to surround themselves, are sufficiently familiar, and I may, therefore, spare myself a description of them. They all serve as a defence against 'magical' influences; a vague dread of the other sex also belongs to this category.

The thinking of the introverted type is positive and synthetic in developing ideas that increasingly approach the eternal validity of primordial images. But when their connection with objective experience begins to fade, they become mythological and untrue for the present situation. This thinking holds value for its contemporaries only so long as it maintains visible and understandable connection with the known facts of the time. When thinking becomes mythological, its irrelevance grows until finally it loses itself. The relatively unconscious functions of feeling, intuition, and sensation that counterbalance introverted thinking are inferior in quality and have a primal, extraverted character—to which all the troublesome objective influences this type experiences must be ascribed. The various self-defense measures, the curious protective obstacles with which such people surround themselves, are sufficiently familiar that I may spare a description. They all serve as defense against "magical" influences; a vague dread of the other sex also belongs to this category.

Introverted feeling is determined principally by the subjective factor. This means that the feeling-judgment differs quite as essentially from extraverted feeling as does the introversion of thinking from extraversion. It is unquestionably difficult to give an intellectual presentation of the introverted feeling process, or even an approximate description of it, although the peculiar character of this kind of feeling simply stands out as soon as one becomes aware of it at all. Since it is primarily controlled by subjective preconditions, and is only secondarily concerned with the object, this feeling appears much less upon the surface and is, as a rule, misunderstood. It is a feeling which apparently depreciates the object; hence it usually becomes noticeable in its negative manifestations. The existence of a positive feeling can be inferred only indirectly, as it were. Its aim is not so much to accommodate to the objective fact as to stand above it, since its whole unconscious effort is to give reality to the underlying images. It is, as it were, continually seeking an image which has no existence in reality, but of which it has had a sort of previous vision. From objects that can never fit in with its aim it seems to glide unheedingly away. It strives after an inner intensity, to which at the most, objects contribute only an accessory stimulus. The depths of this feeling can only be divined -- they can never be clearly comprehended. It makes men silent and difficult of access; with the sensitiveness of the mimosa, it shrinks from the brutality of the object, in order to expand into the depths of the subject. It puts forward negative feeling-judgments or assumes an air of profound indifference, as a measure of self-defence.

Introverted feeling is determined principally by the subjective factor. This means that feeling-judgment differs as essentially from extraverted feeling as introverted thinking differs from extraverted thinking. It's unquestionably difficult to give an intellectual presentation of the introverted feeling process, or even an approximate description, although this feeling's peculiar character stands out clearly once one becomes aware of it. Since it's primarily controlled by subjective preconditions and only secondarily concerned with objects, this feeling appears much less on the surface and is, as a rule, misunderstood. It's a feeling that apparently depreciates objects; hence it usually becomes noticeable in its negative manifestations. The existence of positive feeling can be inferred only indirectly. Its aim is not so much to accommodate to objective facts as to stand above them, since its whole unconscious effort is to give reality to underlying images. It continually seeks an image that has no existence in reality, but of which it has had a sort of previous vision. From objects that can never fit its aim, it seems to glide away unheeding. It strives after an inner intensity to which, at most, objects contribute only an accessory stimulus. The depths of this feeling can only be sensed—never clearly comprehended. It makes people silent and difficult to access; with extreme sensitivity, it shrinks from the harshness of objects in order to expand into the depths of the subject. It puts forward negative feeling-judgments or assumes an air of profound indifference as a measure of self-defense.

Primordial images are, of course, just as much idea as feeling. Thus, basic ideas such as God, freedom, immortality are just as much feeling-values as they are significant as ideas. Everything, therefore, that has been said of the introverted thinking refers equally to introverted feeling, only here everything is felt while there it was thought. But the fact that thoughts can generally be expressed more intelligibly than feelings demands a more than ordinary descriptive or artistic capacity before the real wealth of this feeling can be even approximately presented or communicated to the outer world. Whereas subjective thinking, on account of its unrelatedness, finds great difficulty in arousing an adequate understanding, the same, though in perhaps even higher degree, holds good for subjective feeling. In order to communicate with others it has to find an external form which is not only fitted to absorb the subjective feeling in a satisfying expression, but which must also convey it to one's fellowman in such a way that a parallel process takes place in him. Thanks to the relatively great internal (as well as external) similarity of the human being, this effect can actually be achieved, although a form acceptable to feeling is extremely difficult to find, so long as it is still mainly orientated by the fathomless store of primordial images. But, when it becomes falsified by an egocentric attitude, it at once grows unsympathetic, since then its major concern is still with the ego. Such a case never fails to create an impression of sentimental self-love, with its constant effort to arouse interest and even morbid self-admiration just as the subjectified consciousness of the introverted thinker, striving after an abstraction of abstractions, only attains a supreme intensity of a thought-process in itself quite empty, so the intensification of egocentric feeling only leads to a contentless passionateness, which merely feels itself. This is the mystical, ecstatic stage, which prepares the way over into the extraverted functions repressed by feeling, just as introverted thinking is pitted against a primitive feeling, to which objects attach themselves with magical force, so introverted feeling is counterbalanced by a primitive thinking, whose concretism and slavery to facts passes all bounds. Continually emancipating itself from the relation to the object, this feeling creates a freedom, both of action and of conscience, that is only answerable to the subject, and that may even renounce all traditional values. But so much the more does unconscious thinking fall a victim to the power of objective facts.

Primordial images are, of course, as much idea as feeling. Thus, basic ideas such as God, freedom, and immortality are as much feeling-values as they are significant ideas. Everything said about introverted thinking applies equally to introverted feeling, only here everything is felt while there it was thought. But since thoughts can generally be expressed more intelligibly than feelings, this demands more than ordinary descriptive or artistic capacity before the real wealth of this feeling can be even approximately presented or communicated to the outer world. Whereas subjective thinking, due to its unrelatedness, finds great difficulty in arousing adequate understanding, the same holds true—perhaps to an even higher degree—for subjective feeling. To communicate with others, it must find an external form not only fitted to absorb the subjective feeling in satisfying expression, but which must also convey it to others in such a way that a parallel process takes place in them. Thanks to the relatively great internal (and external) similarity of human beings, this effect can actually be achieved, although a form acceptable to feeling is extremely difficult to find so long as it's mainly oriented by the fathomless store of primordial images. But when it becomes falsified by an egocentric attitude, it immediately grows unsympathetic, since then its major concern is the ego. Such cases never fail to create an impression of sentimental self-love, with constant effort to arouse interest and even unhealthy self-admiration. Just as the subjectified consciousness of the introverted thinker, striving after an abstraction of abstractions, only attains supreme intensity of an essentially empty thought-process, so intensification of egocentric feeling only leads to contentless passionateness that merely feels itself. This is the mystical, ecstatic stage that prepares the way to the extraverted functions repressed by feeling. Just as introverted thinking is opposed by primal feeling to which objects attach themselves with magical force, introverted feeling is counterbalanced by primal thinking whose concreteness and slavery to facts passes all bounds. Continually emancipating itself from the relation to objects, this feeling creates a freedom of action and conscience that's only answerable to the subject and may even renounce all traditional values. But all the more does unconscious thinking fall victim to the power of objective facts.

It is principally among women that I have found the priority of introverted feeling. The proverb 'Still waters run deep' is very true of such women. They are mostly silent, inaccessible, and hard to understand; often they hide behind a childish or banal mask, and not infrequently their temperament is melancholic. They neither shine nor reveal themselves. Since they submit the control of their lives to their subjectively orientated feeling, their true motives generally remain concealed. Their outward demeanour is harmonious and inconspicuous; they reveal a delightful repose, a sympathetic parallelism, which has no desire to affect others, either to impress, influence, or change them in any way. Should this outer side be somewhat emphasized, a suspicion of neglectfulness and coldness may easily obtrude itself, which not seldom increases to a real indifference for the comfort and well-being of others. One distinctly feels the movement of feeling away from the object. With the normal type, however, such an event only occurs when the object has in some way too strong an effect. The harmonious feeling atmosphere rules only so long as the object moves upon its own way with a moderate feeling intensity, and makes no attempt to cross the other's path. There is little effort to accompany the real emotions of the object, which tend to be damped and rebuffed, or to put it more aptly, are 'cooled off' by a negative feeling-judgment. Although one may find a constant readiness for a peaceful and harmonious companionship, the unfamiliar object is shown no touch of amiability, no gleam of responding warmth, but is met by a manner of apparent indifference or repelling coldness.

I have found the priority of introverted feeling principally among women. The proverb "Still waters run deep" is very true of such women. They're mostly silent, inaccessible, and hard to understand; often they hide behind a childish or banal mask, and not infrequently their temperament is melancholic. They neither shine nor reveal themselves. Since they submit control of their lives to their subjectively oriented feeling, their true motives generally remain concealed. Their outward demeanor is harmonious and inconspicuous; they reveal a delightful repose, a sympathetic parallelism that has no desire to affect others—to impress, influence, or change them in any way. Should this outer side be somewhat emphasized, a suspicion of neglectfulness and coldness may easily arise, which not seldom increases to real indifference for the comfort and well-being of others. One distinctly feels the movement of feeling away from objects. With the normal type, however, this only occurs when objects have in some way too strong an effect. The harmonious feeling atmosphere prevails only so long as objects move upon their own way with moderate feeling intensity and make no attempt to cross the other's path. There's little effort to accompany the real emotions of objects, which tend to be damped and rebuffed, or more aptly, "cooled off" by negative feeling-judgment. Although one may find constant readiness for peaceful and harmonious companionship, unfamiliar objects are shown no touch of amiability, no gleam of responding warmth, but are met by a manner of apparent indifference or repelling coldness.

One may even be made to feel the superfluousness of one's own existence. In the presence of something that might carry one away or arouse enthusiasm, this type observes a benevolent neutrality, tempered with an occasional trace of superiority and criticism that soon takes the wind out of the sails of a sensitive object. But a stormy emotion will be brusquely rejected with murderous coldness, unless it happens to catch the subject from the side of the unconscious, i.e. unless, through the animation of some primordial image, feeling is, as it were, taken captive. In which event such a woman simply feels a momentary laming, invariably producing, in due course, a still more violent resistance, which reaches the object in his most vulnerable spot. The relation to the object is, as far as possible, kept in a secure and tranquil middle state of feeling, where passion and its intemperateness are resolutely proscribed. Expression of feeling, therefore, remains niggardly and, when once aware of it at all, the object has a permanent sense of his undervaluation. Such, however, is not always the case, since very often the deficit remains unconscious; whereupon the unconscious feeling-claims gradually produce symptoms which compel a more serious attention.

One may even be made to feel the superfluousness of one's own existence. In the presence of something that might carry one away or arouse enthusiasm, this type observes a benevolent neutrality, tempered with an occasional trace of superiority and criticism that soon deflates sensitive others. But a stormy emotion will be brusquely rejected with murderous coldness, unless it happens to catch the subject from the unconscious side—unless, through animation of some primordial image, feeling is taken captive. In that event such a woman simply feels a momentary paralysis, invariably producing in due course an even more violent resistance that reaches the other person in their most vulnerable spot. The relation to objects is, as far as possible, kept in a secure and tranquil middle state of feeling, where passion and its intemperance are resolutely prohibited. Expression of feeling therefore remains meager, and once aware of it at all, others have a permanent sense of being undervalued. However, this isn't always the case, since very often the deficit remains unconscious; whereupon unconscious feeling-claims gradually produce symptoms that compel more serious attention.

A superficial judgment might well be betrayed, by a rather cold and reserved demeanour, into denying all feeling to this type. Such a view, however, would be quite false; the truth is, her feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop into the depth. Whereas, for instance, an extensive feeling of sympathy can express itself in both word and deed at the right place, thus quickly ridding itself of its impression, an intensive sympathy, because shut off from every means of expression, gains a passionate depth that embraces the misery of a world and is simply benumbed. It may possibly make an extravagant irruption, leading to some staggering act of an almost heroic character, to which, however, neither the object nor the subject can find a right relation. To the outer world, or to the blind eyes of the extravert, this sympathy looks like coldness, for it does nothing visibly, and an extraverted consciousness is unable to believe in invisible forces.

A superficial judgment might be misled by her rather cold and reserved demeanor into denying this type has any feeling at all. Such a view would be completely false; the truth is, her feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop into depth. An extensive feeling of sympathy can express itself in both word and deed at the right moment, thus quickly releasing its emotional charge. By contrast, intensive sympathy, shut off from every means of expression, gains a passionate depth that embraces the world's suffering and becomes simply paralyzed by its magnitude. This accumulated feeling may suddenly erupt, leading to some dramatic act of almost heroic character. Yet neither she nor the recipient can find a proper relationship to it afterward. To the outer world, or to the unseeing eyes of the extravert, this sympathy appears as coldness, because it does nothing visible. An extraverted consciousness cannot believe in invisible forces.

Such misunderstanding is a characteristic occurrence in the life of this type, and is commonly registered as a most weighty argument against any deeper feeling relation with the object. But the underlying, real object of this feeling is only dimly divined by the normal type. It may possibly express its aim and content in a concealed religiosity anxiously shielded, from profane eyes, or in intimate poetic forms equally safeguarded from surprise; not without a secret ambition to bring about some superiority over the object by such means. Women often express much of it in their children, letting their passionateness flow secretly into them.

This type of misunderstanding happens characteristically throughout their life. It becomes registered as powerful evidence against developing any deeper feeling relationship with the object. But the true, underlying object of their feeling remains only dimly perceived by more typical people. This deep feeling may express its aim and content through a concealed religiosity, anxiously shielded from profane eyes. Or it may emerge in intimate poetic forms, equally protected from intrusion. Often there is a secret ambition to achieve some superiority over the object through these means. Women often express much of this passionate feeling through their children, letting their intensity flow secretly into them.

Although in the normal type, the tendency, above alluded to, to overpower or coerce the object once openly and visibly with the thing secretly felt, rarely plays a disturbing role, and never leads to a serious attempt in this direction, some trace of it, none the less, leaks through into the personal effect upon the object, in the form of a domineering influence often difficult to define. It is sensed as a sort of stifling or oppressive feeling which holds the immediate circle under a spell. It gives a woman of this type a certain mysterious power that may prove terribly fascinating to the extraverted man, for it touches his unconscious. This power is derived from the deeply felt, unconscious images; consciousness, however, readily refers it to the ego, whereupon the influence becomes debased into personal tyranny. But, wherever the unconscious subject is identified with the ego, the mysterious power of the intensive feeling is also transformed into banal and arrogant ambition, vanity, and petty tyranny. This produces a type of woman most regrettably distinguished by her unscrupulous ambition and mischievous cruelty. But this change in the picture leads also to neurosis.

In the healthy type, the tendency to dominate the object with their hidden feelings rarely causes problems and never leads to serious attempts at control. Nevertheless, some trace of it leaks through as a domineering influence that is difficult to define. Others sense it as a stifling or oppressive feeling that holds their inner circle under a spell. This gives a woman of this type a certain mysterious power that can prove terribly fascinating to the extraverted man, because it touches his unconscious. This power derives from deeply felt unconscious images. However, consciousness readily attributes it to the ego, at which point the influence degrades into personal tyranny. Whenever the unconscious subject becomes identified with the ego, the mysterious power of intensive feeling transforms into banal ambition, arrogance, vanity, and petty tyranny. This produces a type of woman distinguished by unscrupulous ambition and destructive cruelty. This transformation also leads to psychological distress.

So long as the ego feels itself housed, as it were, beneath the heights of the unconscious subject, and feeling reveals something higher and mightier than the ego, the type is normal. The unconscious thinking is certainly archaic, yet its reductions may prove extremely helpful in compensating the occasional inclinations to exalt the ego into the subject. But, whenever this does take place by dint of complete suppression of the unconscious reductive thinking-products, the unconscious thinking goes over into opposition and becomes projected into objects. Whereupon the now egocentric subject comes to feel the power and importance of the depreciated object. Consciousness begins to feel 'what others think'. Naturally, others are thinking, all sorts of baseness, scheming evil, and contriving all sorts of plots, secret intrigues, etc. To prevent this, the subject must also begin to carry out preventive intrigues, to suspect and sound others, to make subtle combinations. Assailed by rumours, he must make convulsive efforts to convert, if possible, a threatened inferiority into a superiority. Innumerable secret rivalries develop, and in these embittered struggles not only will no base or evil means be disdained, but even virtues will be misused and tampered with in order to play the trump card. Such a development must lead to exhaustion. The form of neurosis is neurasthenic rather than hysterical; in the case of women we often find severe collateral physical states, as for instance anæmia and its sequelæ.

As long as the ego recognizes itself as subordinate to the unconscious subject, and feeling reveals something greater than the ego itself, the type remains psychologically healthy. The unconscious thinking is certainly primitive, yet its critical reductions can help compensate for any tendency to inflate the ego into the subject. But when ego inflation does occur through complete suppression of these unconscious critical thoughts, the unconscious thinking turns oppositional and becomes projected onto external objects. The now egocentric subject begins to experience the power and importance of the previously devalued object world. Consciousness becomes preoccupied with "what others think." Naturally, these others are thinking all sorts of base thoughts, scheming evil, and plotting secret intrigues. To prevent this, the person must begin their own preventive schemes—suspecting others, testing them, making subtle calculations. Besieged by rumors, they make desperate efforts to convert a threatened inferiority into superiority. Countless secret rivalries develop, and in these bitter struggles, not only are base methods employed, but even virtues are exploited and distorted to gain advantage. Such a development inevitably leads to exhaustion. The resulting psychological distress takes the form of chronic exhaustion rather than anxiety disorder; in women this often includes severe physical symptoms such as anemia and its consequences.

Both the foregoing types are rational, since they are founded upon reasoning, judging functions. Reasoning judgment is based not merely upon objective, but also upon subjective, data. But the predominance of one or other factor, conditioned by a psychic disposition often existing from early youth, deflects the reasoning function. For a judgment to be really reasonable it should have equal reference to both the objective and the subjective factors, and be able to do justice to both. This, however, would be an ideal case, and would presuppose a uniform development of both extraversion and introversion. But either movement excludes the other, and, so long as this dilemma persists, they cannot possibly exist side by, side, but at the most successively. Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, an ideal reason is impossible. A rational type has always a typical reasonal variation. Thus, the introverted rational types unquestionably have a reasoning judgment, only it is a judgment whose leading note is subjective. The laws of logic are not necessarily deflected, since its onesidedness lies in the premise. The premise is the predominance of the subjective factor existing beneath every conclusion and colouring every judgment. Its superior value as compared with the objective factor is self-evident from the beginning. As already stated, it is not just a question of value bestowed, but of a natural disposition existing before all rational valuation. Hence, to the introvert rational judgment necessarily appears to have many nuances which differentiate it from that of the extravert. Thus, to the introvert, to mention the most general instance, that chain of reasoning which leads to the subjective factor appears rather more reasonable than that which leads to the object. This difference, which in the individual case is practically insignificant, indeed almost unnoticeable, effects unbridgeable oppositions in the gross; these are the more irritating, the less we are aware of the minimal standpoint displacement produced by the psychological premise in the individual case. A capital error regularly creeps in here, for one labours to prove a fallacy in the conclusion, instead of realizing the difference of the psychological premise. Such a realization is a difficult matter for every rational type, since it undermines the apparent, absolute validity of his own principle, and delivers him over to its antithesis, which certainly amounts to a catastrophe.

Both types just described are rational, since they are based on reasoning and judging functions. Rational judgment draws on both objective data and subjective data. However, the predominance of one factor over the other—conditioned by a psychological disposition often present from early childhood—deflects the reasoning function. For a judgment to be truly reasonable, it should give equal weight to both objective and subjective factors. This, however, would be an ideal case requiring equally developed extraversion and introversion. But each attitude excludes the other. As long as this dilemma persists, they cannot exist simultaneously—only successively. Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, perfectly balanced reason is impossible. Every rational type has a characteristic variation in their reasoning. Thus, introverted rational types unquestionably exercise reasoning judgment—but it is judgment whose dominant note is subjective. The laws of logic are not necessarily violated, since the one-sidedness lies in the premise. The premise is the predominance of the subjective factor underlying every conclusion and coloring every judgment. Its superior value compared to the objective factor is self-evident from the start. As already stated, this is not merely a question of assigned value, but of a natural disposition existing before any rational evaluation. Hence, rational judgment necessarily appears quite different to the introvert than to the extravert. To the introvert, a chain of reasoning leading toward the subjective factor appears more reasonable than one leading toward the object. This difference—practically insignificant in individual cases, almost unnoticeable—creates unbridgeable oppositions on a larger scale. These oppositions become more irritating the less we are aware of the minimal shift in perspective produced by the psychological premise in each individual case. A major error regularly occurs here: people try to prove a logical fallacy in the conclusion, instead of recognizing the difference in psychological premise. Such recognition is difficult for every rational type, since it undermines the apparent absolute validity of their own principle and exposes them to its opposite—which amounts to a catastrophe.

Almost more even than the extraverted is the introverted type subject to misunderstanding: not so much because the extravert is a more merciless or critical adversary, than he himself can easily be, but because the style of the epoch in which he himself participates is against him. Not in relation to the extraverted type, but as against our general accidental world-philosophy, he finds himself in the minority, not of course numerically, but from the evidence of his own feeling. In so far as he is a convinced participator in the general style, he undermines his own foundations, since the present style, with its almost exclusive acknowledgment of the visible and the tangible, is opposed to his principle. Because of its invisibility, he is obliged to depreciate the subjective factor, and to force himself to join in the extraverted overvaluation of the object. He himself sets the subjective factor at too low a value, and his feelings of inferiority are his chastisement for this sin. Little wonder, therefore, that it is precisely our epoch, and particularly those movements which are somewhat ahead of the time, that reveal the subjective factor in every kind of exaggerated, crude and grotesque form of expression. I refer to the art of the present day.

The introverted type is subject to even more misunderstanding than the extraverted type. This isn't because extraverts are more merciless critics—introverts can be equally harsh. Rather, it's because the cultural zeitgeist works against the introverted principle. The introverted type finds themselves in the minority—not numerically, but in terms of cultural validation. The minority status exists not relative to the extraverted type itself, but relative to our prevailing worldview. When introverts fully participate in this cultural zeitgeist, they undermine their own psychological foundations. The present culture almost exclusively acknowledges the visible and tangible, which opposes the introverted principle. Because subjective factors are invisible, introverts feel obliged to depreciate them. They force themselves to join in the extraverted overvaluation of the object. Introverts thus set the subjective factor at too low a value, and their feelings of inferiority are punishment for this betrayal. Little wonder, then, that our era—particularly cultural movements somewhat ahead of their time—reveals the subjective factor in exaggerated, crude, and grotesque forms. I refer to the art of the present day.

The undervaluation of his own principle makes the introvert egotistical, and forces upon him the psychology of the oppressed. The more egotistical he becomes, the stronger his impression grows that these others, who are apparently able, without qualms, to conform with the present style, are the oppressors against whom he must guard and protect himself. He does not usually perceive that he commits his capital mistake in not depending upon the subjective factor with that same loyalty and devotion with which the extravert follows the object By the undervaluation of his own principle, his penchant towards egoism becomes unavoidable, which, of course, richly deserves the prejudice of the extravert. Were he only to remain true to his own principle, the judement of 'egoist' would be radically false; for the justification of his attitude would be established by its general efficacy, and all misunderstandings dissipated.

When introverts undervalue their own orienting principle, they become egotistical and adopt the psychology of the oppressed. The more egotistical they become, the more they see others—who seem to conform effortlessly to prevailing social expectations—as oppressors to guard against. Introverts usually fail to recognize their fundamental mistake: not relying on the subjective factor with the same loyalty and dedication that extraverts give to the object. This undervaluation of their own principle makes a tendency toward egoism inevitable, which naturally reinforces the extravert's prejudice against them. If introverts would simply remain true to their own principle, the charge of "egoist" would be radically false, because the general effectiveness of their approach would justify it and dissolve all misunderstandings.

Sensation, which in obedience to its whole nature is concerned with the object and the objective stimulus, also undergoes a considerable modification in the introverted attitude. It, too, has a subjective factor, for beside the object sensed there stands a sensing subject, who contributes his subjective disposition to the objective stimulus. In the introverted attitude sensation is definitely based upon the subjective portion of perception. What is meant by this finds its best illustration in the reproduction of objects in art. When, for instance, several painters undertake to paint one and the same landscape, with a sincere attempt to reproduce it faithfully, each painting will none the less differ from the rest, not merely by virtue of a more or less developed ability, but chiefly because of a different vision; there will even appear in some of the paintings a decided psychic variation, both in general mood and in treatment of colour and form. Such qualities betray a more or less influential co-operation of the subjective factor. The subjective factor of sensation is essentially the same as in the other functions already spoken of. It is an unconscious disposition, which alters the sense-perception at its very source, thus depriving it of the character of a purely objective influence. In this case, sensation is related primarily to the subject, and only secondarily to the object. How extraordinarily strong the subjective factor can be is shown most clearly in art. The ascendancy of the subjective factor occasionally achieves a complete suppression of the mere influence of the object; but none the less sensation remains sensation, although it has come to be a perception of the subjective factor, and the effect of the object has sunk to the level of a mere stimulant. Introverted sensation develops in accordance with this subjective direction. A true sense-perception certainly exists, but it always looks as though objects were not so much forcing their way into the subject in their own right as that the subject were seeing things quite differently, or saw quite other things than the rest of mankind.

Sensation, by its very nature concerned with objects and objective stimuli, undergoes considerable modification in the introverted attitude. It too has a subjective factor: alongside the sensed object stands a sensing subject who contributes their subjective disposition to the objective stimulus. In the introverted attitude, sensation is primarily based on the subjective component of perception. Art provides the best illustration of what this means. When several painters attempt to faithfully reproduce the same landscape, each painting will differ from the others—not merely due to varying ability, but chiefly because of different vision. Some paintings will even show distinct psychological variation in overall mood and in their treatment of color and form. Such qualities reveal the influential involvement of the subjective factor. The subjective factor in sensation is essentially the same as in the other functions already discussed. It is an unconscious disposition that alters sense-perception at its very source, depriving it of purely objective character. In this case, sensation relates primarily to the subject and only secondarily to the object. Art shows most clearly how extraordinarily strong the subjective factor can be. The dominance of the subjective factor can sometimes completely suppress the mere influence of the object. Yet sensation remains sensation, even when it becomes a perception of the subjective factor and the object's effect has diminished to merely a stimulus. Introverted sensation develops along this subjective direction. True sense-perception certainly exists, but it always appears as though the subject sees things quite differently—or sees entirely different things—than other people do, rather than objects simply imposing themselves on the subject.

As a matter of fact, the subject perceives the same things as everybody else, only, he never stops at the purely objective effect, but concerns himself with the subjective perception released by the objective stimulus. Subjective perception differs remarkably from the objective. It is either not found at all in the object, or, at most, merely suggested by it; it can, however, be similar to the sensation of other men, although not immediately derived from the objective behaviour of things. It does not impress one as a mere product of consciousness -- it is too genuine for that.

The introverted sensation type perceives the same things as everyone else, but never stops at the purely objective effect. Instead, they focus on the subjective perception triggered by the objective stimulus. Subjective perception differs remarkably from objective perception. It either isn't found in the object at all, or is only hinted at by the object. This subjective perception can be similar to what other people sense, even though it's not directly derived from how things objectively behave. It doesn't feel like a mere product of consciousness—it's too genuine for that.

But it makes a definite psychic impression, since elements of a higher psychic order are perceptible to it. This order, however, does not coincide with the contents of consciousness. It is concerned with presuppositions, or dispositions of the collective unconscious, with mythological images, with primal possibilities of ideas. The character of significance and meaning clings to subjective perception. It says more than the mere image of the object, though naturally only to him for whom the subjective factor has some meaning. To another, a reproduced subjective impression seems to suffer from the defect of possessing insufficient similarity with the object; it seems, therefore, to have failed in its purpose.

But subjective perception does make a definite psychic impression, because it can perceive elements of a higher psychic order. This order, however, doesn't coincide with the contents of consciousness. It is concerned with predispositions of the collective unconscious—with mythological images and primordial archetypal forms. A quality of significance and meaning characterizes subjective perception. It conveys more than just the image of the object, though naturally only to those for whom the subjective factor has meaning. To others, a subjective impression seems flawed because it lacks sufficient similarity to the actual object, and therefore appears to have failed in its purpose.

Subjective sensation apprehends the background of the physical world rather than its surface. The decisive thing is not the reality of the object, but the reality of the subjective factor, i.e. the primordial images, which in their totality represent a psychic mirror-world. It is a mirror, however, with the peculiar capacity of representing the present contents of consciousness not in their known and customary form but in a certain sense sub specie aeternitatis, somewhat as a million-year old consciousness might see them. Such a consciousness would see the becoming and the passing of things beside their present and momentary existence, and not only that, but at the same time it would also see that Other, which was before their becoming and will be after their passing hence. To this consciousness the present moment is improbable. This is, of course, only a simile, of which, however, I had need to give some sort of illustration of the peculiar nature of introverted sensation.

Subjective sensation grasps the background of the physical world rather than its surface. What matters is not the reality of the object itself, but the reality of the subjective factor—the primordial images. Together, these images create a psychic mirror-world. This mirror has a unique capacity: it reflects the present contents of consciousness not in their familiar everyday form, but from the perspective of eternity—as a million-year-old consciousness might perceive them. Such a consciousness would see the becoming and passing of things alongside their present momentary existence. It would also see that Other which existed before things came into being and will remain after they pass away. To this consciousness, the present moment is improbable. This is only a comparison, but I needed it to illustrate the distinctive nature of introverted sensation.

Introverted sensation conveys an image whose effect is not so much to reproduce the object as to throw over it a wrapping whose lustre is derived from age-old subjective experience and the still unborn future event. Thus, mere sense impression develops into the depth of the meaningful, while extraverted sensation seizes only the momentary and manifest existence of things.

Introverted sensation conveys an image that doesn't simply reproduce the object but wraps it in a luster derived from age-old subjective experience and the still unborn future event. Thus, mere sensory impressions develop into the depth of the meaningful, while extraverted sensation seizes only the momentary and manifest existence of things.

The priority of introverted sensation produces a definite type, which is characterized by certain peculiarities. It is an irrational type, inasmuch as its selection among occurrences is not primarily rational, but is guided rather by what just happens. Whereas, the extraverted sensation-type is determined by the intensity of the objective influence, the introverted type is orientated by the intensity of the subjective sensation-constituent released by the objective stimulus. Obviously, therefore, no sort of proportional relation exists between object and sensation, but something that is apparently quite irregular and arbitrary. Judging from without, therefore, it is practically impossible to foretell what will make an impression and what will not. If there were present a capacity and readiness for expression in any way commensurate with the strength of sensation, the irrationality of this type would be extremely evident. This is the case, for instance, when the individual is a creative artist.

The dominance of introverted sensation creates a distinct personality type with specific characteristics. This is an irrational type, meaning their responses to events are not based on rational judgment but rather on what happens to trigger their inner sensory experience. While the extraverted sensation type responds based on the intensity of the external stimulus itself, the introverted type responds based on the intensity of their internal sensory response to that stimulus. Therefore, there is no predictable relationship between the external object and their response—it appears irregular and arbitrary. To outside observers, it is nearly impossible to predict what will make a strong impression on this type and what will not. If people of this type could express their sensations as intensely as they experience them, their irrational nature would be extremely obvious. This happens, for example, when the person is a creative artist.

But, since this is the exception, it usually happens that the characteristic introverted difficulty of expression also conceals his irrationality. On the contrary, he may actually stand out by the very calmness and passivity of his demeanour, or by his rational self-control. This peculiarity, which often leads the superficial judgment astray, is really due to his unrelatedness to objects. Normally the object is not consciously depreciated in the least, but its stimulus is removed from it, because it is immediately replaced by a subjective reaction, which is no longer related to the reality of the object. This, of course, has the same effect as a depreciation of the object. Such a type can easily make one question why one should exist at all; or why objects in general should have any right to existence, since everything essential happens without the object.

But since this is the exception, what usually happens is that the characteristic introverted difficulty of expression also conceals their irrationality. On the contrary, they may actually stand out through the calmness and passivity of their demeanor, or through their rational self-control. This peculiarity, which often misleads superficial judgment, is really due to their unrelatedness to objects. Normally the object is not consciously depreciated in the least. However, its stimulus is removed from it because it is immediately replaced by a subjective reaction that is no longer related to the reality of the object. This, of course, has the same effect as a depreciation of the object. Such a type can easily make one question why one should exist at all, or why objects in general should have any right to existence, since everything essential happens without the object.

This doubt may be justified in extreme cases, though not in the normal, since the objective stimulus is indispensable to his sensation, only it produces something different from what was to be surmised from the external state of affairs. Considered from without, it looks as though the effect of the object did not obtrude itself upon the subject. This impression is so far correct inasmuch as a subjective content does, in fact, intervene from the unconscious, thus snatching away the effect of the object. This intervention may be so abrupt that the individual appears to shield himself directly from any possible influence of the object. In any aggravated or well-marked case, such a protective guard is also actually present. Even with only a slight reinforcement of the unconscious, the subjective constituent of sensation becomes so alive that it almost completely obscures the objective influence. The results of this are, on the one hand, a feeling of complete depreciation on the part of the object, and, on the other, an illusory conception of reality on the part of the subject, which in morbid cases may even reach the point of a complete inability to discriminate between the real object and the subjective perception.

This doubt about connectedness may be justified in extreme cases, though not in normal ones. The objective stimulus is essential to their sensation, but it produces something different from what the external situation would suggest. From an outside perspective, it appears as though the object's effect does not register with the person. This impression is correct to the extent that subjective content does intervene from the unconscious, intercepting the object's effect. This intervention may be so abrupt that the individual appears to shield themselves directly from any possible influence of the object. In pronounced or extreme cases, such a protective guard is actually present. Even with slight strengthening of the unconscious, the subjective element of sensation becomes so dominant that it almost completely obscures the objective influence. This produces two results: on one hand, the object feels completely devalued, and on the other, the person develops a distorted sense of reality. In pathological cases, this may reach the point of complete inability to distinguish between the real object and their subjective perception.

Above all, his development estranges him from the reality of the object, handing him over to his subjective perceptions, which orientate his consciousness in accordance with an archaic reality, although his deficiency in comparative judgment keeps him wholly unaware of this fact. Actually he moves in a mythological world, where men animals, railways, houses, rivers, and mountains appear partly as benevolent deities and partly as malevolent demons. That thus they, appear to him never enters his mind, although their effect upon his judgments and acts can bear no other interpretation. He judges and acts as though he had such powers to deal with; but this begins to strike him only when he discovers that his sensations are totally different from reality. If his tendency is to reason objectively, he will sense this difference as morbid; but if, on the other hand, he remains faithful to his irrationality, and is prepared to grant his sensation reality value, the objective world will appear a mere make-belief and a comedy. Only in extreme cases, however, is this dilemma reached. As a rule, the individual acquiesces in his isolation and in the banality of the reality, which, however, he unconsciously treats archaically.

Above all, this development estranges them from objective reality, surrendering them to subjective perceptions that orient consciousness according to an archaic reality. Their lack of comparative judgment keeps them wholly unaware of this fact. In actuality, they move through a mythological world where people, animals, railways, houses, rivers, and mountains appear partly as benevolent deities and partly as malevolent demons. That objects appear this way never enters their mind, although the effect on their judgments and actions can bear no other interpretation. They judge and act as though dealing with such powers. This only begins to strike them when they discover their sensations are totally different from reality. If their tendency is to reason objectively, they will sense this difference as unhealthy. But if they remain faithful to their irrationality and grant their sensation reality value, the objective world will appear mere make-believe and comedy. Only in extreme cases, however, is this dilemma reached. As a rule, the individual accepts their isolation and the banality of external reality—which they nonetheless unconsciously treat archaically.

His unconscious is distinguished chiefly by the repression of intuition, which thereby acquires an extraverted and archaic character. Whereas true extraverted intuition has a characteristic resourcefulness, and a 'good nose' for every possibility in objective reality, this archaic, extraverted intuition has an amazing flair for every ambiguous, gloomy, dirty, and dangerous possibility in the background of reality. In the presence of this intuition the real and conscious intention of the object has no significance; it will peer behind every possible archaic antecedent of such an intention. It possesses, therefore, something dangerous, something actually undermining, which often stands in most vivid contrast to the gentle benevolence of consciousness. So long as the individual is not too aloof from the object, the unconscious intuition effects a wholesome compensation to the rather fantastic and over credulous attitude of consciousness. But as soon as the unconscious becomes antagonistic to consciousness, such intuitions come to the surface and expand their nefarious influence: they force themselves compellingly upon the individual, releasing compulsive ideas about objects of the most perverse kind. The neurosis arising from this sequence of events is usually a compulsion neurosis, in which the hysterical characters recede and are obscured by symptoms of exhaustion.

The unconscious is characterized primarily by repressed intuition, which takes on an extraverted and archaic character. True extraverted intuition shows resourcefulness and a keen sense for every possibility in objective reality. But this archaic, extraverted intuition has an uncanny ability to detect every ambiguous, dark, sordid, and dangerous possibility lurking beneath the surface of reality. In its presence, the actual conscious intention of the object means nothing—it peers behind every possible primitive origin of such an intention. This quality is inherently dangerous and undermining, often standing in stark contrast to the gentle benevolence of consciousness. As long as the person maintains adequate connection to the object, unconscious intuition provides healthy compensation for consciousness's somewhat naive and overly trusting attitude. But once the unconscious becomes antagonistic to consciousness, these intuitions surface and expand their destructive influence. They force themselves compulsively upon the individual, releasing obsessive ideas about objects of the most distorted kind. The psychological distress arising from this typically manifests as compulsive neurosis, in which anxiety symptoms recede and are overshadowed by symptoms of exhaustion.

Intuition, in the introverted attitude, is directed upon the inner object, a term we might justly apply to the elements of the unconscious. For the relation of inner objects to consciousness is entirely analogous to that of outer objects, although theirs is a psychological and not a physical reality. Inner objects appear to the intuitive perception as subjective images of things, which, though not met with in external experience, really determine the contents of the unconscious, i.e. the collective unconscious, in the last resort. Naturally, in their per se character, these contents are, not accessible to experience, a quality which they have in common with the outer object. For just as outer objects correspond only relatively with our perceptions of them, so the phenomenal forms of the inner object are also relative; products of their (to us) inaccessible essence and of the peculiar nature of the intuitive function. Like sensation, intuition also has its subjective factor, which is suppressed to the farthest limit in the extraverted intuition, but which becomes the decisive factor in the intuition of the introvert. Although this intuition may receive its impetus from outer objects, it is never arrested by the external possibilities, but stays with that factor which the outer object releases within.

In the introverted attitude, intuition is directed toward the inner object—a term we can apply to the elements of the unconscious. Inner objects relate to consciousness in the same way that outer objects do, except that their reality is psychological rather than physical. To intuitive perception, inner objects appear as subjective images of things that ultimately determine the contents of the collective unconscious, though these images are not found in external experience. Naturally, these contents are not directly accessible to experience in their essential nature—a quality they share with outer objects. Just as outer objects only partially correspond with our perceptions of them, the manifest forms of inner objects are also relative, being products of both their inaccessible essence and the particular nature of the intuitive function. Like sensation, intuition has a subjective factor that is suppressed to the maximum degree in extraverted intuition but becomes the determining factor in introverted intuition. Although introverted intuition may receive its initial impulse from outer objects, it never stops at the external possibilities but instead focuses on what the outer object triggers internally.

Whereas introverted sensation is mainly confined to the perception of particular innervation phenomena by way of the unconscious, and does not go beyond them, intuition represses this side of the subjective factor and perceives the image which has really occasioned the innervation. Supposing, for instance, a man is overtaken by a psychogenic attack of giddiness. Sensation is arrested by the peculiar character of this innervationdisturbance, perceiving all its qualities, its intensity, its transient course, the nature of its origin and disappearance in their every detail, without raising the smallest inquiry concerning the nature of the thing which produced the disturbance, or advancing anything as to its content. Intuition, on the other hand, receives from the sensation only the impetus to immediate activity; it peers behind the scenes, quickly perceiving the inner image that gave rise to the specific phenomenon, i.e. the attack of vertigo, in the present case. It sees the image of a tottering man pierced through the heart by an arrow.

Introverted sensation focuses mainly on perceiving specific physical symptoms emerging from the unconscious and doesn't go beyond them. Intuition, by contrast, suppresses this focus on bodily phenomena and instead perceives the inner image that actually caused those physical sensations. Suppose, for instance, someone experiences a psychogenic dizzy spell. Sensation gets absorbed by the peculiar character of this nervous disturbance—perceiving all its qualities, intensity, and transient course in every detail. It registers exactly how the disturbance begins and ends, without ever asking what caused it or what meaning it might contain. Intuition, on the other hand, takes the physical sensation only as a trigger for immediate activity. It peers behind the scenes, quickly perceiving the inner image that gave rise to the specific phenomenon—in this case, the attack of vertigo. It sees the image of a tottering man pierced through the heart by an arrow.

This image fascinates the intuitive activity; it is arrested by it, and seeks to explore every detail of it. It holds fast to the vision, observing with the liveliest interest how the picture changes, unfolds further, and finally fades. In this way introverted intuition perceives all the background processes of consciousness with almost the same distinctness as extraverted sensation senses outer objects. For intuition, therefore, the unconscious images attain to the dignity of things or objects. But, because intuition excludes the co-operation of sensation, it obtains either no knowledge at all or at the best a very inadequate awareness of the innervation-disturbances or of the physical effects produced by the unconscious images. Accordingly, the images appear as though detached from the subject, as though existing in themselves without relation to the person.

This image fascinates their intuition; it stops and seeks to explore every detail. They hold fast to the vision, observing with intense interest how the picture changes, unfolds further, and finally fades. In this way introverted intuition perceives all the background processes of consciousness with almost the same clarity as extraverted sensation perceives outer objects. For intuition, the unconscious images become as real as physical things or objects. But because intuition excludes the cooperation of sensation, it obtains either no knowledge at all or at best very inadequate awareness of the bodily disturbances or physical effects produced by the unconscious images. Accordingly, the images appear detached from the person, as though existing independently without relation to them.

Consequently, in the above-mentioned example, the introverted intuitive, when affected by the giddiness, would not imagine that the perceived image might also in some way refer to himself. Naturally, to one who is rationally orientated, such a thing seems almost unthinkable, but it is none the less a fact, and I have often experienced it in my dealings with this type.

In the example above, the introverted intuitive experiencing giddiness would not consider that the perceived image might refer to themselves. To someone with a rational orientation, this seems almost unthinkable, but it is nonetheless a fact I have often observed when working with this type.

The remarkable indifference of the extraverted intuitive in respect to outer objects is shared by the introverted intuitive in relation to the inner objects. Just as the extraverted intuitive is continually scenting out new possibilities, which he pursues with an equal unconcern both for his own welfare and for that of others, pressing on quite heedless of human considerations, tearing down what has only just been established in his everlasting search for change, so the introverted intuitive moves from image to image, chasing after every possibility in the teeming womb of the unconscious, without establishing any connection between the phenomenon and himself. Just as the world can never become a moral problem for the man who merely senses it, so the world of images is never a moral problem to the intuitive. To the one just as much as to the other, it is an aesthetic problem, a question of perception, a 'sensation'. In this way, the consciousness of his own bodily existence fades from the introverted intuitive's view, as does its effect upon others. The extraverted standpoint would say of him: 'Reality has no existence for him; he gives himself up to fruitless phantasies'. A perception of the unconscious images, produced in such inexhaustible abundance by the creative energy of life, is of course fruitless from the standpoint of immediate utility. But, since these images represent possible ways of viewing life, which in given circumstances have the power to provide a new energic potential, this function, which to the outer world is the strangest of all, is as indispensable to the total psychic economy as is the corresponding human type to the psychic life of a people. Had this type not existed, there would have been no prophets in Israel.

The remarkable indifference of the extraverted intuitive toward outer objects is shared by the introverted intuitive toward inner objects. The extraverted intuitive continually scents out new possibilities, pursuing them with equal unconcern for their own welfare and that of others. They press on heedless of human considerations, tearing down what has just been established in their everlasting search for change. Similarly, the introverted intuitive moves from image to image, chasing after every possibility in the teeming womb of the unconscious. They establish no connection between the phenomenon and themselves. Just as the world can never become a moral problem for the person who merely senses it, the world of images is never a moral problem to the intuitive. To both types, it is an aesthetic problem, a question of perception, a 'sensation'. In this way, consciousness of their own bodily existence fades from the introverted intuitive's view, as does its effect upon others. The extraverted standpoint would say of them: 'Reality has no existence for them; they give themselves up to fruitless fantasies'. Perceiving the unconscious images produced in such inexhaustible abundance by the creative energy of life is, of course, fruitless from the standpoint of immediate utility. But these images represent possible ways of viewing life. In given circumstances, they have the power to provide a new energetic potential. This function, which to the outer world is the strangest of all, is as indispensable to the total psychic economy as the corresponding human type is to the psychic life of a people. Had this type not existed, there would have been no prophets in Israel.

Introverted intuition apprehends the images which arise from the a priori, i.e. the inherited foundations of the unconscious mind. These archetypes, whose innermost nature is inaccessible to experience, represent the precipitate of psychic functioning of the whole ancestral line, i.e. the heaped-up, or pooled, experiences of organic existence in general, a million times repeated, and condensed into types. Hence, in these archetypes all experiences are represented which since primeval time have happened on this planet. Their archetypal distinctness is the more marked, the more frequently and intensely they have been experienced. The archetype would be -- to borrow from Kant -- the noumenon of the image which intuition perceives and, in perceiving, creates.

Introverted intuition apprehends the images that arise from the a priori—the inherited foundations of the unconscious mind. These archetypes, whose innermost nature is inaccessible to experience, represent the precipitate of psychic functioning of the whole ancestral line. They are the accumulated experiences of organic existence in general, repeated a million times and condensed into types. These archetypes represent all experiences that have happened on this planet since ancient times. The more frequently and intensely an experience has occurred, the more distinct the archetype becomes. The archetype would be—to borrow from Kant—the noumenon of the image which intuition perceives and, in perceiving, creates.

Since the unconscious is not just something that lies there, like a psychic caput mortuum, but is something that coexists and experiences inner transformations which are inherently related to general events, introverted intuition, through its perception of inner processes, gives certain data which may possess supreme importance for the comprehension of general occurrences: it can even foresee new possibilities in more or less clear outline, as well as the event which later actually transpires. Its prophetic prevision is to be explained from its relation to the archetypes which represent the law-determined course of all experienceable things.

The unconscious is not just inert residue lying dormant in the psyche. It actively coexists with consciousness and undergoes inner transformations that relate to events in the outer world. Through perceiving these inner processes, introverted intuition can provide data of supreme importance for understanding general occurrences. It can even foresee new possibilities in more or less clear outline, as well as events that later actually occur. This prophetic capacity comes from intuition's relationship to the archetypes, which represent the lawful patterns underlying all things that can be experienced.

The peculiar nature of introverted intuition, when given the priority, also produces a peculiar type of man, viz. the mystical dreamer and seer on the one hand, or the fantastical crank and artist on the other. The latter might be regarded as the normal case, since there is a general tendency of this type to confine himself to the perceptive character of intuition. As a rule, the intuitive stops at perception; perception is his principal problem, and -- in the case of a productive artist-the shaping of perception. But the crank contents himself with the intuition by which he himself is shaped and determined. Intensification of intuition naturally often results in an extraordinary aloofness of the individual from tangible reality; he may even become a complete enigma to his own immediate circle.

The peculiar nature of introverted intuition, when given priority, also produces a peculiar type of person: the mystical dreamer and seer on one hand, or the fantastical eccentric and artist on the other. The latter might be regarded as the normal case, since this type generally tends to confine themselves to the perceptive character of intuition. As a rule, the intuitive stops at perception. Perception is their principal problem, and—in the case of a productive artist—the shaping of perception. But the eccentric contents themselves with the intuition by which they are shaped and determined. Intensification of intuition naturally often results in an extraordinary detachment from tangible reality. They may even become a complete enigma to their own immediate circle.

If an artist, he reveals extraordinary, remote things in his art, which in iridescent profusion embrace both the significant and the banal, the lovely and the grotesque, the whimsical and the sublime. If not an artist, he is frequently an unappreciated genius, a great man 'gone wrong', a sort of wise simpleton, a figure for 'psychological' novels.

If an artist, they reveal extraordinary, remote things in their art, which in iridescent profusion embrace both the significant and the banal, the lovely and the grotesque, the whimsical and the sublime. If not an artist, they are frequently an unappreciated genius, a great person 'gone wrong', a sort of wise simpleton, a figure for 'psychological' novels.

Although it is not altogether in the line of the introverted intuitive type to make of perception a moral problem, since a certain reinforcement of the rational functions is required for this, yet even a relatively slight differentiation of judgment would suffice to transfer intuitive perception from the purely æsthetic into the moral sphere. A variety of this type is thus produced which differs essentially from its æsthetic form, although none the less characteristic of the introverted intuitive. The moral problem comes into being when the intuitive tries to relate himself to his vision, when he is no longer satisfied with mere perception and its æsthetic shaping and estimation, but confronts the question: What does this mean for me and for the world? What emerges from this vision in the way of a duty or task, either for me or for the world? The pure intuitive who represses judgment or possesses it only under the spell of perception never meets this question fundamentally, since his only problem is the How of perception. He, therefore, finds the moral problem unintelligible, even absurd, and as far as possible forbids his thoughts to dwell upon the disconcerting vision. It is different with the morally orientated intuitive. He concerns himself with the meaning of his vision; he troubles less about its further æsthetic possibilities than about the possible moral effects which emerge from its intrinsic significance. His judgment allows him to discern, though often only darkly, that he, as a man and as a totality, is in some way inter-related with his vision, that it is something which cannot just be perceived but which also would fain become the life of the subject. Through this realization he feels bound to transform his vision into his own life. But, since he tends to rely exclusively upon his vision, his moral effort becomes one-sided; he makes himself and his life symbolic, adapted, it is true, to the inner and eternal meaning of events, but unadapted to the actual present-day reality. Therewith he also deprives himself of any influence upon it, because he remains unintelligible. His language is not that which is commonly spoken -- it becomes too subjective. His argument lacks convincing reason. He can only confess or pronounce. His is the 'voice of one crying in the wilderness'.

Although it is not altogether characteristic of the introverted intuitive type to make perception a moral problem—since this requires a certain reinforcement of the rational functions—even a relatively slight differentiation of judgment would suffice to transfer intuitive perception from the purely aesthetic into the moral sphere. A variety of this type is thus produced which differs essentially from its aesthetic form, although it remains no less characteristic of the introverted intuitive. The moral problem comes into being when the intuitive tries to relate themselves to their vision. They are no longer satisfied with mere perception and its aesthetic shaping and estimation, but confront the question: What does this mean for me and for the world? What emerges from this vision in the way of a duty or task, either for me or for the world? The pure intuitive who represses judgment or possesses it only under the spell of perception never meets this question fundamentally. Their only problem is the How of perception. They therefore find the moral problem unintelligible, even absurd, and as far as possible forbid their thoughts to dwell upon the disconcerting vision. It is different with the morally oriented intuitive. They concern themselves with the meaning of their vision. They trouble less about its further aesthetic possibilities than about the possible moral effects which emerge from its intrinsic significance. Their judgment allows them to discern, though often only darkly, that they, as a person and as a totality, are in some way interrelated with their vision. It is something which cannot just be perceived but which also would become the life of the subject. Through this realization they feel bound to transform their vision into their own life. But since they tend to rely exclusively upon their vision, their moral effort becomes one-sided. They make themselves and their life symbolic, adapted to the inner and eternal meaning of events, but unadapted to actual present-day reality. They also thereby deprive themselves of any influence upon it, because they remain unintelligible. Their language is not that which is commonly spoken—it becomes too subjective. Their argument lacks convincing reason. They can only confess or pronounce. Theirs is the 'voice of one crying in the wilderness'.

The introverted intuitive's chief repression falls upon the sensation of the object. His unconscious is characterized by this fact. For we find in his unconscious a compensatory extraverted sensation function of an archaic character. The unconscious personality may, therefore, best be described as an extraverted sensation-type of a rather low and primitive order. Impulsiveness and unrestraint are the characters of this sensation, combined with an extraordinary dependence upon the sense impression. This latter quality is a compensation to the thin upper air of the conscious attitude, giving it a certain weight, so that complete 'sublimation' is prevented. But if, through a forced exaggeration of the conscious attitude, a complete subordination to the inner perception should develop, the unconscious becomes an opposition, giving rise to compulsive sensations whose excessive dependence upon the object is in frank conflict with the conscious attitude. The form of neurosis is a compulsion-neurosis, exhibiting symptoms that are partly hypochondriacal manifestations, partly hypersensibility of the sense organs and partly compulsive ties to definite persons or other objects.

The introverted intuitive's chief repression falls upon the sensation of the object. Their unconscious is characterized by this fact. For we find in their unconscious a compensatory extraverted sensation function of an archaic character. The unconscious personality may therefore best be described as an extraverted sensation type of a rather low and primitive order. Impulsiveness and unrestraint characterize this sensation, combined with an extraordinary dependence upon sense impressions. This latter quality compensates for the thin upper air of the conscious attitude, giving it a certain weight so that complete 'sublimation' is prevented. But if, through a forced exaggeration of the conscious attitude, a complete subordination to inner perception develops, the unconscious becomes an opposition. It gives rise to compulsive sensations whose excessive dependence upon the object frankly conflicts with the conscious attitude. The form of neurosis is an obsessive-compulsive disorder, exhibiting symptoms that are partly hypochondriacal manifestations, partly hypersensitivity of the sense organs, and partly compulsive attachments to definite persons or other objects.

The two types just depicted are almost inaccessible to external judgment. Because they are introverted and have in consequence a somewhat meagre capacity or willingness for expression, they offer but a frail handle for a telling criticism. Since their main activity is directed within, nothing is outwardly visible but reserve, secretiveness, lack of sympathy, or uncertainty, and an apparently groundless perplexity. When anything does come to the surface, it usually consists in indirect manifestations of inferior and relatively unconscious functions. Manifestations of such a nature naturally excite a certain environmental prejudice against these types. Accordingly they are mostly underestimated, or at least misunderstood. To the same degree as they fail to understand themselves -- because they very largely lack judgment -- they are also powerless to understand why they are so constantly undervalued by public opinion. They cannot see that their outward-going expression is, as a matter of fact, also of an inferior character. Their vision is enchanted by the abundance of subjective events. What happens there is so captivating, and of such inexhaustible attraction, that they do not appreciate the fact that their habitual communications to their circle express very, little of that real experience in which they themselves are, as it were, caught up. The fragmentary and, as a rule, quite episodic character of their communications make too great a demand upon the understanding and good will of their circle; furthermore, their mode of expression lacks that flowing warmth to the object which alone can have convincing force. On the contrary, these types show very often a brusque, repelling demeanour towards the outer world, although of this they are quite unaware, and have not the least intention of showing it. We shall form a fairer judgment of such men and grant them a greater indulgence, when we begin to realize how hard it is to translate into intelligible language what is perceived within. Yet this indulgence must not be so liberal as to exempt them altogether from the necessity of such expression. This could be only detrimental for such types. Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for other men, overwhelming external difficulties, which have a very sobering effect upon the intoxication of the inner vision. But frequently only an intense personal need can wring from them a human expression.

The two types just depicted are almost inaccessible to external judgment. Because they are introverted and consequently have a somewhat limited capacity or willingness for expression, they offer little basis for meaningful criticism. Since their main activity is directed within, nothing is outwardly visible but reserve, secretiveness, lack of sympathy, or uncertainty, and an apparently groundless perplexity. When anything does come to the surface, it usually consists in indirect manifestations of inferior and relatively unconscious functions. Manifestations of such a nature naturally excite a certain environmental prejudice against these types. Accordingly they are mostly underestimated, or at least misunderstood. To the same degree as they fail to understand themselves—because they very largely lack judgment—they are also powerless to understand why they are so constantly undervalued by public opinion. They cannot see that their outward expression is, as a matter of fact, also of an inferior character. Their vision is enchanted by the abundance of subjective events. What happens there is so captivating and of such inexhaustible attraction that they do not appreciate the fact that their habitual communications to their circle express very little of that real experience in which they themselves are caught up. The fragmentary and, as a rule, quite episodic character of their communications makes too great a demand upon the understanding and good will of their circle. Furthermore, their mode of expression lacks that flowing warmth toward the object which alone can have convincing force. On the contrary, these types very often show a brusque, repelling demeanor toward the outer world, although they are quite unaware of this and have not the least intention of showing it. We shall form a fairer judgment of such people and grant them greater indulgence when we begin to realize how hard it is to translate into intelligible language what is perceived within. Yet this indulgence must not be so liberal as to exempt them altogether from the necessity of such expression. This could only be detrimental for such types. Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for others, overwhelming external difficulties which have a very sobering effect upon the intoxication of the inner vision. But frequently only an intense personal need can wring from them a human expression.

From an extraverted and rationalistic standpoint, such types are indeed the most fruitless of men. But, viewed from a higher standpoint, such men are living evidence of the fact that this rich and varied world with its overflowing and intoxicating life is not purely external, but also exists within. These types are admittedly one sided demonstrations of Nature, but they are an educational experience for the man who refuses to be blinded by the intellectual mode of the day. In their own way, men with such an attitude are educators and promoters of culture. Their life teaches more than their words. From their lives, and not the least from what is just their greatest fault, viz. their incommunicability, we may understand one of the greatest errors of our civilization, that is, the superstitious belief in statement and presentation, the immoderate overprizing of instruction by means of word and method. A child certainly allows himself to be impressed by the grand talk of its parents. But is it really imagined that the child is thereby educated? Actually it is the parents' lives that educate the child -- what they add thereto by word and gesture at best serves only to confuse him. The same holds good for the teacher. But we have such a belief in method that, if only the method be good, the practice of it seems to hallow the teacher. An inferior man is never. a good teacher. But he can conceal his injurious inferiority, which secretly poisons the pupil, behind an excellent method or, an equally brilliant intellectual capacity. Naturally the pupil of riper years desires nothing better than the knowledge of useful methods, because he is already defeated by the general attitude, which believes in the victorious method. He has already learnt that the emptiest head, correctly echoing a method, is the best pupil. His whole environment not only urges but exemplifies the doctrine that all success and happiness are external, and that only the right method is needed to attain the haven of one's desires. Or is the life of his religious instructor likely to demonstrate that happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner vision? The irrational introverted types are certainly no instructors of a more complete humanity. They lack reason and the ethics of reason, but their lives teach the other possibility, in which our civilization is so deplorably wanting.

From an extraverted and rationalistic standpoint, such types are indeed the most fruitless of people. But viewed from a higher standpoint, such people are living evidence of the fact that this rich and varied world with its overflowing and intoxicating life is not purely external, but also exists within. These types are admittedly one-sided demonstrations of Nature, but they are an educational experience for those who refuse to be blinded by the intellectual mode of the day. In their own way, people with such an attitude are educators and promoters of culture. Their life teaches more than their words. From their lives, and not least from what is their greatest fault—namely their inability to communicate—we may understand one of the greatest errors of our civilization: the superstitious belief in statement and presentation, the immoderate overvaluing of instruction by means of word and method. A child certainly allows themselves to be impressed by the grand talk of their parents. But is it really imagined that the child is thereby educated? Actually it is the parents' lives that educate the child. What they add through word and gesture at best serves only to confuse them. The same holds good for the teacher. But we have such a belief in method that, if only the method is good, the practice of it seems to sanctify the teacher. An inferior person is never a good teacher. But they can conceal their injurious inferiority, which secretly poisons the student, behind an excellent method or an equally brilliant intellectual capacity. Naturally the student of riper years desires nothing better than the knowledge of useful methods, because they are already defeated by the general attitude which believes in the victorious method. They have already learned that the emptiest head, correctly echoing a method, is the best student. Their whole environment not only urges but exemplifies the doctrine that all success and happiness are external, and that only the right method is needed to attain the haven of one's desires. Or is the life of their religious instructor likely to demonstrate that happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner vision? The irrational introverted types are certainly not instructors of a more complete humanity. They lack reason and the ethics of reason, but their lives teach the other possibility in which our civilization is so deplorably wanting.

In the foregoing descriptions I have no desire to give my readers the impression that such pure types occur at all frequently in actual practice. The are, as it were, only Galtonesque family-portraits, which sum up in a cumulative image the common and therefore typical characters, stressing these disproportionately, while the individual features are just as disproportionately effaced. Accurate investigation of the individual case consistently reveals the fact that, in conjunction with the most differentiated function, another function of secondary importance, and therefore of inferior differentiation in consciousness, is constantly present, and is a -- relatively determining factor.

In the foregoing descriptions I have no desire to give my readers the impression that such pure types occur at all frequently in actual practice. They are, as it were, only Galtonian composite portraits, which sum up in a cumulative image the common and therefore typical characteristics, stressing these disproportionately, while the individual features are just as disproportionately obscured. Accurate investigation of the individual case consistently reveals the fact that, in conjunction with the most differentiated function, another function of secondary importance—and therefore of inferior differentiation in consciousness—is constantly present and is a relatively determining factor.

For the sake of clarity let us again recapitulate: The products of all the functions can be conscious, but we speak of the consciousness of a function only when not merely its application is at the disposal of the will, but when at the same time its principle is decisive for the orientation of consciousness. The latter event is true when, for instance, thinking is not a mere esprit de l'escalier, or rumination, but when its decisions possess an absolute validity, so that the logical conclusion in a given case holds good, whether as motive or as guarantee of practical action, without the backing of any further evidence. This absolute sovereignty always belongs, empirically, to one function alone, and can belong only to one function, since the equally independent intervention of another function would necessarily yield a different orientation, which would at least partially contradict the first. But, since it is a vital condition for the conscious adaptation-process that constantly clear and unambiguous aims should be in evidence, the presence of a second function of equivalent power is naturally forbidden' This other function, therefore, can have only a secondary importance, a fact which is also established empirically. Its secondary importance consists in the fact that, in a given case, it is not valid in its own right, as is the primary function, as an absolutely reliable and decisive factor, but comes into play more as an auxiliary or complementary function. Naturally only those functions can appear as auxiliary whose nature is not opposed to the leading function. For instance, feeling can never act as the second function by the side of thinking, because its nature stands in too strong a contrast to thinking. Thinking, if it is to be real thinking and true to its own principle, must scrupulously exclude feeling. This, of course, does not exclude the fact that individuals certainly exist in whom thinking and feeling stand upon the same level, whereby both have equal motive power in con~sdousness. But, in such a case, there is also no question of a differentiated type, but merely of a relatively undeveloped thinking and feeling. Uniform consciousness and unconsciousness of functions is, therefore, a distinguishing mark of a primitive mentality.

For the sake of clarity let us again recapitulate: The products of all the functions can be conscious, but we speak of the consciousness of a function only when not merely its application is at the disposal of the will, but when at the same time its principle is decisive for the orientation of consciousness. The latter is true when, for instance, thinking is not mere afterthought or rumination, but when its decisions possess an absolute validity. The logical conclusion in a given case holds good, whether as motive or as guarantee of practical action, without the backing of any further evidence. This absolute sovereignty always belongs, empirically, to one function alone, and can belong only to one function. The equally independent intervention of another function would necessarily yield a different orientation, which would at least partially contradict the first. But since it is a vital condition for the conscious adaptation process that constantly clear and unambiguous aims should be in evidence, the presence of a second function of equivalent power is naturally forbidden. This other function can therefore have only a secondary importance, a fact which is also established empirically. Its secondary importance consists in the fact that, in a given case, it is not valid in its own right as an absolutely reliable and decisive factor, as is the primary function, but comes into play more as an auxiliary or complementary function. Naturally only those functions can appear as auxiliary whose nature is not opposed to the leading function. For instance, feeling can never act as the second function alongside thinking, because its nature stands in too strong a contrast to thinking. Thinking, if it is to be real thinking and true to its own principle, must scrupulously exclude feeling. This, of course, does not exclude the fact that individuals certainly exist in whom thinking and feeling stand upon the same level, whereby both have equal motivating power in consciousness. But in such a case, there is also no question of a differentiated type, but merely of a relatively undeveloped thinking and feeling. Uniform consciousness and unconsciousness of functions is therefore a distinguishing mark of a primitive mentality.

Experience shows that the secondary function is always one whose nature is different from, though not antagonistic to, the leading function : thus, for example, thinking, as primary function, can readily pair with intuition as auxiliary, or indeed equally well with sensation, but, as already observed, never with feeling. Neither intuition nor sensation are antagonistic to thinking, i.e. they have not to be unconditionally excluded, since they are not, like feeling, of similar nature, though of opposite purpose, to thinking -- for as a judging function feeling successfully competes with thinking -- but are functions of perception, affording welcome assistance to thought. As soon as they reached the same level of differentiation as thinking, they would cause a change of attitude, which would contradict the tendency of thinking. For they would convert the judging attitude into a perceiving one; whereupon the principle of rationality indispensable to thought would be suppressed in favour of the irrationality of mere perception. Hence the auxiliary function is possible and useful only in so far as it serves the leading function, without making any claim to the autonomy of its own principle.

Experience shows that the secondary function is always different from the leading function, though not antagonistic to it. For example, thinking as the primary function can readily pair with intuition or sensation as auxiliary, but never with feeling. Neither intuition nor sensation are antagonistic to thinking. They don't need to be completely excluded, since they aren't like feeling, which has a similar nature but opposite purpose. As a judging function, feeling directly competes with thinking. But intuition and sensation are functions of perception that offer valuable assistance to thought. As soon as they reach the same level of differentiation as thinking, they would cause a change of attitude that contradicts the tendency of thinking. They would convert the judging attitude into a perceiving one. The principle of rationality indispensable to thought would then be suppressed in favor of the irrationality of mere perception. The auxiliary function is therefore possible and useful only insofar as it serves the leading function, without claiming autonomy for its own principle.

For all the types appearing in practice, the principle holds good that besides the conscious main function there is also a relatively unconscious, auxiliary function which is in every respect different from the nature of the main function. From these combinations well-known pictures arise, the practical intellect for instance paired with sensation, the speculative intellect breaking through with intuition, the artistic intuition which selects and presents its images by means of feeling judgment, the philosophical intuition which, in league with a vigorous intellect, translates its vision into the sphere of comprehensible thought, and so forth.

For all types appearing in practice, the principle holds that besides the conscious main function, there is also a relatively unconscious auxiliary function. This auxiliary function is in every respect different from the nature of the main function. From these combinations arise familiar patterns: the practical intellect paired with sensation, the speculative intellect breaking through with intuition, the artistic intuition that selects and presents its images through feeling judgment, the philosophical intuition that translates its vision into comprehensible thought through alliance with a vigorous intellect, and so forth.

A grouping of the unconscious functions also takes place in accordance with the relationship of the conscious functions. Thus, for instance, an unconscious intuitive feeling attitude may correspond with a conscious practical intellect, whereby the function of feeling suffers a relatively stronger inhibition than intuition. This peculiarity, however, is of interest only for one who is concerned with the practical psychological treatment of such cases. But for such a man it is important to know about it. For I have frequently observed the way in which a physician, in the case for instance of an exclusively intellectual subject, will do his utmost to develop the feeling function directly out of the unconscious. This attempt must always come to grief, since it involves too great a violation of the conscious standpoint. Should such a violation succeed, there ensues a really compulsive dependence of the patient upon the physician, a 'transference' which can be amputated only by brutality, because such a violation robs the patient of a standpoint -- his physician becomes his standpoint. But the approach to the unconscious and to the most repressed function is disclosed, as it were, of itself, and with more adequate protection of the conscious standpoint, when the way of development is via the secondary function-thus in the case of a rational type by way of the irrational function. For this lends the conscious standpoint such a range and prospect over what is possible and imminent that consciousness gains an adequate protection against the destructive effect of the unconscious. Conversely, an irrational type demands a stronger development of the rational auxiliary function represented in consciousness, in order to be sufficiently prepared to receive the impact of the unconscious.

The unconscious functions also group themselves according to the relationship of the conscious functions. For instance, an unconscious intuitive-feeling attitude may correspond with a conscious practical intellect. In this case, the feeling function suffers relatively stronger inhibition than intuition. This peculiarity is of interest primarily to those concerned with the practical psychological treatment of such cases. But for such therapists, it is important to understand. I have frequently observed therapists who, when treating exclusively intellectual patients, do their utmost to develop the feeling function directly out of the unconscious. This attempt must always fail, since it involves too great a violation of the conscious standpoint. Should such a violation succeed, a compulsive dependence of the patient upon the therapist ensues. This creates a 'transference' that can be broken only by brutal means, because the violation robs patients of their standpoint. Their therapist becomes their standpoint. But the approach to the unconscious and to the most repressed function discloses itself naturally, with more adequate protection of the conscious standpoint, when development proceeds via the secondary function. Thus for a rational type, development should proceed by way of the irrational function. This lends the conscious standpoint such range and perspective over what is possible and imminent that consciousness gains adequate protection against the destructive effect of the unconscious. Conversely, an irrational type requires stronger development of the rational auxiliary function in consciousness, to be sufficiently prepared to receive the impact of the unconscious.

The unconscious functions are in an archaic, animal state. Their symbolical appearances in dreams and phantasies usually represent the battle or coming encounter of two animals or monsters.

The unconscious functions exist in an archaic, animal state. Their symbolic appearances in dreams and fantasies usually represent the battle or coming encounter of two animals or monsters.