Toward a New Imagination by Murray Stein

"Gestaltung, Umgestaltung, des ewigen Sinnes ewige Unterhaltung"

(Formation, transformation. The mind’s eternal recreation.)

~Goethe, Faust, Part II

Introduction

In his essay “Transformation Symbolism in the Mass,” which is based on his Eranos lecture of 1941, Jung writes: “the alchemical sword brings about the solutio or separatio of the elements, thereby restoring the original condition of chaos, so that a new and more perfect body can be produced by a new impressio formae, or by a ‘new imagination’” (para.357). The discerning mind— “a penetrating spirit”—dismantles existing mental structures of thought and belief, reducing them to their original formless state of “chaos,” so that a more integrated or complete mental attitude can emerge through a “new imagination.” The emerging attitude is impressed upon the mind (impressio formae) by that very act of imagination. This implies not only a new form but also a new or transformed creator—one who wields the sword and initiates creation anew. That new creator is the individual. Following his Red Book experiment, Jung came to regard this act of new creation the product of “active imagination”—a co-creative process involving the conscious and unconscious, ego and Self.

It is my contention that this is precisely what Jung undertook with regard to his own religious tradition of Protestant Christianity. He engaged the dominant symbols of that tradition through active imagination and thereby dismantled the inherited structures passed down from his parents and early spiritual ancestors, reducing them to their original, chaotic state. Active imagination then reworked these elements in the cauldron of the alchemical furnace, and this process gave rise to a new form of spirituality, suitable for the modern individual. The emerging spirituality valued wholeness over perfection and the integration of logos and eros (i.e., masculine and feminine) over one-sidedness, be that matriarchal or patriarchal. It was a spirituality that arose from human nature itself—from the psyche—through the opus of individuation, rather than being imposed from above by authoritative predecessors. It was individual, not collective. It was what Jung would call the realization of the Self in the life of the individual. Such a realization stands at the very heart of the opus of individuation. Jung undertook this work for himself, as we see in The Red Book and other writings, and he demonstrated that it holds relevance as a method for others, as well. In my opinion, this is the centerpiece of Jung’s legacy.

Jung’s Struggle with Jesus Christ in Liber Novus

In Liber Novus, we find Jung continuously engaged in what could be called an Auseinandersetzung (“confrontation”) with Christian concepts, dogmas, writings, and sacred images, including that of Jesus Christ. Here, I will focus on several key instances of his struggle with Christ.

The first occurs in Chapters IX, X, and XI of Liber Primus, specifically in Chapter XI, titled “Resolution.” In the preceding chapters, “Mysterium. Encounter” and “Teaching,” the narrator recounts his discovery of, and conversations with, Elijah and Solome. He also observes, with some anxiety, the constant presence of a black serpent accompanying them. This inaugurates the solutio phase in his Auseinandersetzung with traditional Christian doctrines and practices. Following these initial encounters, he confesses: “I held to the sanctified form, and didn’t want to allow the chaos to break through its dams. I believed in the order of the world and hated everything disorganized and unformed.” However, he then admits, “as the God developed in me, I thought he was a part of my self. I thought that my ‘I’ included him and therefore I took him for my thought” (p.191). At this point, he becomes disoriented. Chaos looms, the familiar dissolves, and unfamiliar thoughts begin to surface. Within this muddled and turbulent state of mind, he undergoes an important numinous experience, beginning with a dramatic moment of participation mystique with the Crucified Christ.

The narrator—that is, Jung—finds himself gazing up at “the green mountain, the cross of Christ on it, and a stream of blood flowing from the summit of the mountain” (p.197). He finds this vision unbearable and turns away. Then, he becomes a participant in the crucifixion. I quote from the original text in The Black Books: “I feel that the serpent of the prophet has wound itself around my feet and ties itself up tightly. The prophet looks at me with fiery gaze. I am contained and I spread my arms wide as if spellbound. Salome draws near from the right. The serpent has wound itself around my whole body and it seems to me as if my countenance is that of a lion” (Vol.2, p.195). In this moment of participation mystique with the Crucified, a new form is suddenly impressed on him—an image of the Mithraic God Aion, in place of Christ. What Jung’s “new imagination” produces here is a synthetic amalgamation of Christian, Mithraic (i.e., solar), and Orphic imagery. This was not original to Jung. Rather, the identification of Jesus with Mithras has a long history, with both figures traditionally being celebrated on December 25—the very date of Jung’s mystical experience in 1913, Jung was aware of this association from his earlier studies, as evidenced in Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido (translated as The Psychology of the Unconscious), published a year before his vision was recorded in The Black Books.

This powerful experience left a deep imprint on Jung’s consciousness, as he later attested in his 1925 lectures at the Psychology Club in Zurich. There, he referred to it as a “deification mystery.” Speaking to his close associates and students, he remarked: “Anybody could be caught by these things and lost in them – some throw the experience away saying it is all nonsense, and thereby losing their best value, for these are the creative images” (Analytic Psychology, p.99). For Jung, this was a numinous encounter that played an important role in his individuation process, offering him a personal experience of the ancient initiation mysteries. It also signified a step toward his revision of Christianity from an institutional framework to one rooted in individual spirituality.

The moment represented a phase in the solutio process, which Jung described as “primitive”—a term he frequently used in his lectures and writing to denote an archaic level of consciousness. This “primitiveness” is a key feature of the dissolution of structured thought and attitude, or descent into the original “chaos,” the psychological point of origin from which new psychic structures may later arise. Jung often emphasized this descent to the primitive in his accounts of the individuation process, as seen in his analyses of Christiana Morgan’s visions (Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930–1932) and Wolfgang Pauli’s dreams and visual impressions in Psychology and Alchemy. I cite the chapters from Liber Secundus titled “Divine Folly” (XIV), “Nox secunda” (XV), “Nox tertia” (XVI), and “Nox quarta” (XVII). Jung’s confrontation with the figure of Christ in Liber Novus reaches a pivotal moment as he grapples with the meaning and implications of imitatio Christi, or the imitation of Christ. This theme emerges powerfully in the subsequent episode, where Jung’s interior journey leads him from mystical visions into a more grounded engagement with religious tradition. Here, the act of imitation is not simply a matter of following prescribed doctrine or external example; rather, Jung begins to perceive it as a deeply personal and psychological process that must address the entirety of human experience, including those elements often neglected or suppressed by conventional religious practice. These episodes, recorded in The Black Books approximately three weeks after the vision cited above, have a somewhat comedic and theatrical tone. At the outset, Jung enters a library and asks the old librarian for a copy of The Imitation of Christ, a famous late medieval devotional text attributed to the monk Thomas à Kempis. He subsequently engages in a debate with the librarian about the value of this rarely requested book. The librarian dismisses it as old fashioned and irrelevant, but Jung demurs: “You know that I value science extraordinarily highly, but there are actually moments in life where science also leaves us empty and sick. In such moments a book like Thomas’s means very much to me since it is written from the soul” (The Red Book, p. 329). We can see in many of Jung’s other writings, seminar discussions, and correspondences that the theme of imitatio Christi occupied him deeply. He eventually developed a highly original interpretation, clearly distinct from the conventional understanding. Here, however, Jung reaches back to an earlier era of Christian piety, one promising contact with the “soul”—the very dimension of life he set out to discover at the beginning of his journey with the Spirit of the Depths. In the ensuing exchange, Jung and the librarian debate Nietzsche’s relevance to the modern spirit. Jung concludes: “We fought against Christ, we deposed him, and we seemed to be conquerors. But he remained in us and mastered us…. You can certainly leave Christianity but it does not leave you. Our liberation from it is a delusion. Christ is the way” (p.331).

Having checked out Thomas’s book from the library, Jung now finds himself in an adjoining kitchen. In conversation with the cook, he learns that she, too, values The Imitation of Christ, which she inherited from her mother and regards as a source of solace and comfort. At a certain moment in the discussion, the air suddenly fills with spirits, and a group of long-deceased Anabaptists enters noisily into the room. They are on their way to the holy sites in Jerusalem. Jung questions them, and in the exchange with their spokesman, Ezekiel, he begins to uncover a fundamental problem with Thomas’s (and the broader tradition’s) understanding of imitatio Christi.

          Jung: “Why are you wandering?”

          Ezekiel: “We cannot stop, but must make a pilgrimage to all the holy places.”

          Jung: “What drives you to this?”

          Ezekiel: “I don’t know. But it seems that we still have no peace, although we died in true belief.”

           Jung: “Why do you not have peace if you died in true belief?”

           Ezekiel: “It always seems to me as if we had not come to a proper end with life.”

Here, the problem with the conventional practice of imitatio Christi is identified: it does not lead one to “a proper end with life.” Ezekiel continues:

           Ezekiel: “It seems to me that we forgot something important that should also have been

lived.”

            Jung: “And what was that?”

            Ezekiel: “Would you happen to know?”

With these words he reaches out greedily and uncannily toward me, his eyes shining as if from inner heat.

            Jung: “Let go, daimon, you did not live your animal” (p.335).

The pious Christians lived their lives according to ideals and, in doing so, missed their wholeness, which necessarily includes their “animal” nature. Body and instinct were excluded, cast into the shadows. As Jung meditates further on this issue in “Nox secunda,” he writes: “A new salvation is always a restoring of the previously lost” (p.335). Such a restoration requires a new synthesis—one that integrates the animal aspect.

As we can see, Jung’s “new imagination” led him into chaotic regions of the psyche. This deconstruction of the known and familiar forms and dogmas, a radical reduction to primal origins, was a necessary precondition for the possibility of a “new salvation.”

Jung later shared his revised notion of imitatio Christi with an audience of analysts and students in New York in 1937, at what turned out to be his “last supper” in America. Asked to say a few words that evening, he confessed that he was tired of speaking. He had just delivered his Terry Lectures at Yale University, titled “Psychology and Religion,” and had given an extensive seminar on Wolfgang Pauli’s dreams and visual impressions—material that would later become Part II of Psychology and Alchemy. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to make some spontaneous remarks as he stood before his attentive audience. Reflecting on the life of Jesus, Jung observed that the remarkable thing about this man—born without a father to a young girl of modest means—was that he found his myth and lived it fully to the end. Jung invited his listeners to do the same (Jung Speaking, pp. 94-98).

We all must do just what Christ did. We must make our experiment. We must make mistakes.

We must live out our own vision of life. And there will be error. If you avoid error you do not live; in a sense even it may be said that every life is a mistake, for no one has found the truth. When we live like this we know Christ as a brother, and God indeed becomes man (p.98).

This was, for Jung, the true imitatio Christi.

Two decades later, when Jung took up his pen to write the Prologue to Memories, Dreams, Reflections, he explained: “My life is a story of the self-realization of the unconscious.” In that work, he writes that he sought “to tell my personal myth” (p.3)—a myth he had discovered by engaging in active imagination and carefully attending to his dreams and by attempting to live his life in accordance with those visions. The book is Jung’s account of his life as an imitatio Christi. It is individual, it is personal, it is shared with others, and it is suited to the modern individual—one who is no longer held firmly within, or dogmatically guided by, a collectively shared myth.

Inclusion of the “animal” is not the final word in Jung’s reconstruction of traditional Christian thought and practice. This is because it does not address the “problem of evil.” The “animal” is not evil—though it has been consigned to the shadow by Christian teaching. It is simply a part of nature, intrinsic to the reality of the human condition. The problem of evil reaches deeper into the psyche, to its very center, to the Self. This issue is addressed most succinctly in the final scene of The Red Book, once again in an encounter with Jesus Christ.

Throughout The Red Book, Jung confronts the problem of evil in various forms. It becomes obvious that evil cannot be eliminated or overcome through denial of its reality, as formulated in the Christian doctrine of evil as privatio boni (“the absence of good”). In his practice of active imagination, Jung experienced evil as an active, autonomous agent within the psyche. At times, it appears as humorous or seemingly benign; at other times it manifests as cold, hateful, and destructive. But it is anything but “an absence.” Rather, it is persistent and ever present. This is the conclusion drawn in the final scene of “Scrutinies” (Prüfungen), the third part of The Red Book, and recorded in The Black Books on June 6, 1916.

The setting is Jung’s garden at noon. Taking a break from his practice, he goes out for a walk among the flowers and trees. There, he writes, “I met Philemon strolling in the fragrant grass. But when I sought to approach him, a blue shade came from the other side, and when Philemon saw him, he said, ‘I find you in the garden, beloved. The sins of the world have conferred beauty upon your countenance” (The Red Book, pp. 551–52). The blue shade is Christ. Philemon and Christ continue their conversation, and Philemon tells Christ that humans nowadays “grant hospitality to the Gods. Your brother came before you… the terrible worm, whom you dismissed, when he came to give you clever counsel in the desert with a tempting voice…. He found a place with us. But where he is, you will be also, since he is your immortal brother.” In the original German: “Wo er aber ist, da wirrst Du auch sein, denn er ist Dein unsterblicher Bruder.” (The Black Books, Vol. 6, p. 246). This declaration of brotherhood between Christ and Satan proves decisive for Jung’s reformulation of the God-image. And as Jung continues to develop his personal myth, Satan, the worm, becomes included in his concept of the Self.

The final statement in The Red Book belongs to Christ: “I bring you the beauty of suffering. That is what is needed by whoever hosts the worm” (p.553). (“Ich bringe Dir die Schönheit des Leidens. Das ist, wessen Du bedarf, des ein Gastgeber des Wurmes ist.” The Black Books, Vol. 6, p.92). This astonishing comment stands in stark contrast to the “good news” of the New Testament, which celebrates Christ’s victory over death in the Gospels and the triumph of the Lord over Satan in the Book of Revelation. In Jung’s version, the opposites—good and evil—are brought into a dynamic relationship. Neither negates the other, and the task is not to choose one and reject (repress) the other. Rather, both are included within the overarching transcendent concept of the Self—that is, wholeness. This is the message conveyed by the “new imagination,” which envisions a new “salvation.” It addresses the “problem of evil” not through denial or repression, but by bringing dark and light energies into contact and thereby forming a polarity housed within the Self.

When Jung wrote theoretically about the Self in Aion and developed his schema of four stacked quaternios, he presented both Christ and Satan at the intermediate level, with Christ on the right and Satan on the left:

Their presence is represented at the level of Serpens, reflecting the duality of the serpent symbol as both Christus and Diabolus. Jung identified the serpent in alchemy as the figure Mercurius, the spirit of the unconscious, who is notoriously duplex. This is the unconscious as Daimon.

In 1950, during a burst of creative insight, Jung further developed these ideas in Answer to Job, offering his unique interpretation of the Bible. There, he introduces the concept of the “Christification of many” (para.758). In Christ, Jung writes, “God wanted to become man, and still wants to” (para.739; italics in original). As he explores the relationship between God and humanity, Jung seeks to overcome the historical metaphysical divide. This, he believes, will relieve humanity of the crushing burden of carrying responsibility for evil alone, with God remaining exempt. If an individual becomes “Christified”—that is, if God fully incarnates within them—then the individual must carry both bonum and malem and must assume responsibility for both. The danger in this is inflation—namely, that one will become overly identified with the Self and lose one’s awareness of personal limitations, history, and finitude. In his conclusion to the essay, Jung offers this poetic reflection: “…even the enlightened person remains what he is, and is never more than his own limited ego before the One who dwells within him, whose form has no knowable boundaries, who encompasses him on all sides, fathomless as the abyss of the earth and vast as the sky” (para.758). Contained in this complex statement lies the core of Jung’s transformation of the traditional Christian Weltanschauung: the One dwells within the individual. The entire drama of salvation (i.e., individuation) unfolds within the psyche of the individual, manifesting in dreams and experiences of the “new imagination.”

The Quest for the Grail

Jung’s personal experience of the individuation process, as described in The Red Book and many of his other writings, was something he felt obliged to share with the collective. This sense of obligation was placed on him, he confessed, by his withdrawal from the collective to pursue his inner work: “The individual is obliged by the collective demands to purchase his individuation at the cost of the equivalent work for the benefit of society. So far as this is possible, individuation is possible” (Adaptation, Individuation, Collectivity, para.1099). Jung made this statement to members of the Psychology Club in 1916 in the midst of his Red Book experiment. It seems that he felt the need to justify his prolonged absences from social life, perhaps driven by a sense of guilt for having devoted so much of his available time and energy to his “experiment.” Jung felt a deep responsibility to the world around him—to the social order, to the tradition that had nurtured him, and to his patients. Later, he was guided in this mission, as he had been on his inner journey, by his dreams.

In 1938, during his trip to India, Jung found himself preoccupied, as he later wrote, with the “problematic nature of evil. I had been very much impressed by the way this problem is integrated in Indian spiritual life” (Memories Dreams, Reflections, p.275). After visiting numerous shrines and engaging in conversations with a wide range of scholars and teachers, he had an unexpected dream—not of India, but of Europe and Christianity. This dream had the effect of redirecting his attention toward his own religious tradition, and it helped set the course for much of his remaining life’s work. It marked the beginning of what would become his major contribution to Christianity, which he viewed as a declining tradition in need of therapeutic intervention. The dream centered on the recovery of the Holy Grail and its return to the Grail castle for a special celebration. The Grail was still missing, and Jung was given the task of swimming across a channel to retrieve it and bring it home. The dream ends with Jung preparing to dive into the cold waters. He writes: “It was as though the dream were asking me, ‘What are you doing in India?’ Rather seek for yourself and your fellows the healing vessel, the servitor mundi, which you urgently need, for your state is perilous, you are all in imminent danger of destroying all that centuries have built up” (pp.282-283). The soul is in danger of being lost in the confusion of modernity. What followed, upon Jung’s return to Europe, were his major works on Western alchemy and Christian thought, ritual, and history. In these writings, he sought to offer therapeutic assistance to the ailing Christian collective—to restore the “healing vessel, the servitor mundi,” as I have discussed in my book, Jung’s Treatment of Christianity. The psyche would become the Holy Grail, the container of the process and the goal of the process at once.

The Grail legend had taken deep root in Jung’s thinking long before his Grail dream in India in 1938. In the chapter “Nox quarta” of The Red Book, which is based on an entry dated January 19, 1914, in The Black Books (The Black Books, Vol.4, pp.218ff), Jung’s active imagination takes him into a theater in which Parsifal, Richard Wagner’s opera about the Holy Grail, is being performed. The setting is somewhat comical, as the performance takes place just next door to the kitchen in which Jung had been speaking with the cook about The Imitation of Christ. Both the cook (in the role of the seductive Kundry) and the librarian (in the role of the evil Klingsor) appear as actors in the opera—alongside Jung, himself, who, over the course of the performance, assumes the roles of all the dramatis personae, as well as the audience. He is the opera entire.

Wagner’s Parsifal tells the story of the hero retrieving the sacred spear from the sorcerer Klingsor, who has stolen it and used it to wound Amfortas, the king’s son. Only this spear can heal him. In Jung’s imagination, however, the spear is replaced with the feather (pen) the librarian keeps behind his ear. Jung is identified both as Klingsor and Parsifal (evil and good), and when Klingsor hurls the feather at Parsifal, he effortlessly catches it—just as Parsifal, in Wagner’s opera, intercepts the sacred spear. At the climax of Jung’s active imagination, he steps fully into the role of Parsifal:

He is I. I take off my armor layered with history and my chimerical decoration and go to the spring wearing a white penitent’s shirt where I wash my feet and hands without the help of a stranger. Then I take off my penitent’s shirt and put on my civilian clothes. I walk out of the scene and approach myself – I who am still kneeling down in prayer as the audience. I rise and become one with myself (The Red Book, p.304).

The Red Book continues with an extended reflection on Jung’s realization that he is both himself and the other—both ego and the unconscious in all its complexity. He realizes that he embodies all the characters in the theatrical drama, both good and evil. This insight becomes his solution to the problem of evil: it must be held in tension with the good, not rejected or repressed.

An interesting back-story to this episode in Jung’s active imagination is that some nine months earlier Wagner’s Parsifal was first performed in Zurich, on April 13, 1913. It is not known if Jung attended this performance, but it has been confirmed that he saw the opera in New York during his visit there in 1912 (private communication by Jung family archivist). On May 16, 1913, Otto Mensendieck delivered a lecture on “The Grail-Parsifal Saga” to the Zurich Psychoanalytical Society. In the discussion that followed, Jung remarked: “Wagner’s exhaustive treatment of the legend of the Holy Grail and Parsifal would need to be supplemented with the synthetic view that the various figures correspond to various artistic aspirations – the incest barrier will not serve to explain that Kundry’s ensnarement fails, instead this has to do with the activity of the psyche to elevate human aspirations ever higher” (The Black Books, Vol.4, p.210, ftn.70. Quoted from the minutes of the Zurich Psychological Society by the editors.). This statement reflects Jung’s departure from Freud’s theories of sexuality and the incest taboo. Such explanations, he felt, could not account for authentic spiritual development beyond the instinctual.

In Jung’s extensive reflection on libido flow and symbolic formations in Psychological Types (1921), the Grail symbol is placed in an ancient Gnostic context. Jung writes:

The non-Christian or Gnostic character of the Grail symbol takes us back to the early Christian heresies, those germinating points in which a whole world of audacious and brilliant ideas lay hidden. In Gnosticism we see man’s unconscious psychology in full flower, almost perverse in its luxuriance; it contained the very thing that most strongly resisted the regula fidei, that Promethean and creative spirit which will bow only to the individual soul and to no collective ruling (para. 409).

The Grail is a vessel that contains the vital essence of the Christ symbol, namely the supreme value of the human soul. In his later work, Jung uses his theory as the container in which he dissolves many Christian symbols, returning them to their historical and psychological prima materia. In this alchemical process, he reduces established dogmatic doctrines, such as God as Trinity, fixed symbols, such as the divine child and holy Mother, and traditional rituals, such as the Mass and baptism, to their underlying archetypal motifs and patterns. These motifs can then be brought into contact with contemporary psychological experience and reflection. Jung displays this alchemical process in his commentary of Wolfgang Pauli’s dreams and visual impressions, for instance. In his essays on Christian doctrines and symbols, we find him dissolving them (reduction) to the prima materia of their origins in the collective unconscious and connecting them to their archetypal roots, from which they can be newly configured as symbols for our time (synthesis). In this way, the essence of the Christian message can again become numinous and life-giving for the modern individual. This is the “new salvation.” The psyche’s soulful numinous symbols are contained in individual consciousness (the Grail) and not in cults or other organizational structures.

In Conclusion

If we ask what Jung’s legacy is for us today and for the future, we must, without question, include his gift of a path to spirituality suited to modern, secular individuals across all cultures. Jung burst the bubble of Freudian and neurological materialist psychology, opening the doors and windows of depth psychology to the spiritual dimension of psychic reality. His mission was, first and foremost, to find a personal myth for himself. But in undertaking this agonistic task—at great personal cost—he cleared a path for others facing the same dilemma he encountered when asking himself, “What myth do you live by?” and found no ready answer. Through the practice of “new imagination,” Jung allowed spirituality to emerge spontaneously from the depths of the psyche. Later, using the sharp sword of his intellect, he was able to break down the inherited structures of belief and practice of his Christian background. The process was not one of simply rejecting the inherited symbols as Nietzsche did, nor of finding substitutes in other spiritual traditions as others like Rudoph Steiner did, but rather of putting them through the alchemical process of dissolution (solutio) to the original massa confusa out of which they were constructed from the chaos of the pleroma (collective unconscious). Using “new imagination,” he discovered the wellspring of spirituality in the depths of the individual soul out of which all religious dogma and ritual and symbol originated. There, he had a direct experience of the numinous symbols in a fluid state, which became the prima materia for the gradual formulation of a personal myth to live by. He reached his goal.

Jung would advise modern secular individuals from all cultural backgrounds to undertake this same journey of individuation. The details of the journey will of course be unique to each person. It involves the creation of a personal myth to live by. Jung’s discovery of a natural way to live a deeply spiritual life within the context of modernity’s superficial materialism is a precious gift to all who are willing and able to receive it. It is up to the individual to make use of it and to share its benefits with others.

References

Jung, C.G. The Psychology of the Unconscious. Supplementary Volume B of Collected Works. Translated by Beatrice Hinckle. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1912/1916/1991.

_____. “Adaptation, Individuation, Collectivity.” In Collected Works, Vol. 18. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1916, 1976.

_____. Psychological Types. Collected Works, Vol. 6. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1921, 1971.

_____. “Is Analytical Psychology a Religion?” In C.G. Jung Speaking: Interviews and Encounters. Edited by W. McGuire and R.F.C. Hull. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1937, 1977.

_____. “Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy.” In Psychology and Alchemy. Collected Works, Vol. 12. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1944, 1968.

_____. Answer to Job. In Collected Works, Vol. 11. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1942, 1959.

_____. “Transformation Symbolism in the Mass.” In Collected Works, Vol. 11. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1954, 1968.

_____.“Das Wandlungsymbol in der Messe.” In Gesammelte Werke, Vol. 11. Solothurn und Düsseldorf: Walter-Verlag, 1954, 1995.

_____. Analytical Psychology. Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925. Edited by William McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989.

_____. Visions. Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930–1934. Edited by Claire Douglas. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997.

_____. The Red Book. Liber Novus. A Reader’s Edition. Edited by Sonu Shamdasani. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company. 2009.

_____. Dream Symbols of the Individuation Process. Notes of C.G. Jung’s Seminars on Wolfgang Pauli’s Dreams. Edited by Suzanne Gieser. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2019.

_____. The Black Books. Edited by Sonu Shamdasani. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2020.

_____. Stein, M. Jung’s Treatment of Christianity. Asheville, NC: Chiron Publications, 1985.